Roxy

When Mrs. G. loaded up her '67 red VW Bug to head to college, she took along her high school boyfriend, Eric, and her goldfish, Roxy. Both of them were unfailingly loyal. Eric held Roxy in her glass bowl as they hurtled down I-5 from Portland to Eugene.

One of the conditions of Mrs. G's parents paying for college was Mrs. G. giving the Greek system a try. Mrs. G's stepfather had fond memories of his fraternity days and he wanted Mrs. G. to create some of her own. So, in pursuit of higher education, Mrs. G. reluctantly played along and was invited to join the Delta Gamma house at the University of Oregon. One of the most "popular" sororities on campus, it was also referred to as Delta Glamma because it was chock full of fake-tanned blondes dressed like the Kennedys at a clam bake in Hyannisport and The White House because several members had an eager affection for Blow. As you can imagine, Mrs. G. fit right in.

Since Mrs. G. was a pledge, she shared a room with her sorority Big Sister. Mrs. G's portion of the room included two drawers and a quarter of a closet. She never fully unpacked her suitcase. No one slept in their rooms but rather in a "sleeping porch," which was simply a large room filled with bunk beds where 45 girls crashed. The sleeping porch was Mrs. G's nightmare. She couldn't sleep with all snoring, lip smacking and narcissistic consumption of her air. She would lie in bed and imagine all the hot breath permeating the room. It was paradise...for Ted Bundy.

Because of her lack of personal space, Eric agreed to keep Roxy at his place. He, too, was living in a fraternity, a more civilized space where you got your own room with your own bed in it. Roxy lived on Eric's dresser and Mrs. G. would come over daily to feed her and make out with Eric. It worked for all involved.

As hell week approached, the weekly ceremony where you commit to being a full fledged member of the sorority, Mrs. G. started secretly looking for studio apartments. She'd heard rumors that hell week included nudity, blindfolds, car trunks, sketchy second locations and beer bongs. Though only nineteen, Mrs. G. was actually born a 36-year-old, leery of horseplay, monkey business and local law enforcement. Hell week? Uh uh. She wasn't having it. She wasn't having any of it. She broke the news to her parents and sorority sisters and moved out.

Her boyfriend Eric chose to go through hell week and other than being hung over and exhausted, he seemed none the worse for wear. Mrs. G. pressed him for details of his hazing but he kept his fraternity oath and refused to share even one detail of the most chaste depravity. When Mrs. G. headed to the stairs to feed Roxy (and make out), Eric stopped her and told her he had some bad news: Roxy had inexplicably died.

Mrs. G. gasped. Roxy was relatively young in goldfish years. It was an untimely death. And then it hit Mrs. G. like a two ton truck. Hell week.

"Did you eat Roxy?" Mrs. G. screamed.

Eric insisted he had not.

"Just tell me," Mrs. G. lied, "If they made you eat my goldfish, I will understand. I know the demands of hell week can be excruciating. Just tell me the truth and we can put it behind us."

"I swear I didn't eat Roxy," Eric said, "She just died."

Mrs. G. let it rest.

But just for a bit.

Nothing was ever the same for she and Eric. She didn't trust him as far as she could throw him. When he kissed her, she tasted aquarium.

Three weeks later Mrs. G. called it quits. It's impossible to devote yourself to someone who might have eaten your pet.

Mrs. G. will never really know without actual proof if Eric ate Roxy but, frankly, Mrs. G. doesn't need proof. Judge and jury, she knows the bastard did it.

Mrs. G. has forgiven Eric but she can't speak for Roxy, who, sadly, is unable to speak for herself, her life cut so wretchedly short. But if there are goldfish in the afterlife, Eric had better watch his sorry ass.

Starry-Eyed

In 1979, Mrs. G. was thirteen and at her first girl/boy party. The party was in the basement of her friend Lisa Street's house, where Lisa's mom showcased her vintage collection of Avon perfume bottles, the sweet scent of Moon Wind and Hawaiian White Ginger hovered above the sweaty, adolescent air. The lava lamps smoldered...

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7 Lies Mrs. G. Is Currently Telling Herself

Lie #1: Mr. and Mrs. G. started the South Beach Diet over three weeks ago and Mrs. G. spends at least an hour a day convincing herself she does not miss sugar, white flour or alcohol. They both have lost weight and feel better, but Mrs. G. still finds herself thinking of Snickers and Chardonnay. The other day she bought a new kind of shampoo simply because it smelled like Fruit Loops.

Lie #2: "You will not fall!" Mrs. G. tells herself before she goes out walk/jogging each day. She has only fallen once (on grass) and that doesn't count, right?

Lie #3: For at least the last four years, Mrs. G's son has expressed a desire to write for television. He spent most of high school taking every opportunity to act, write or do both simultaneously. Thursday, he received an acceptance letter from New York University's Tisch School of Dramatic Writing, his dream school, his dream period. Mr. and Mrs. G. are pretending they can afford it, because denial and loans have fulfilled many a longing. Retirement who? In the meantime, when they are alone, Mr. and Mrs. G. sing songs from Les Misérables to prepare themselves for debtor's prison.

Lie #4: Mrs. G. likes to spend her time figuring out what state doesn't have an E in it on Facebook.

Lie #5: Mrs. G. is willing to read any novel that has a high heel, beach bag or an Amish woman on the cover.

Lie #6: Laura Linney is going to play the role of Mrs. G. in the A&E movie, not Heather Locklear.

Lie #7: This is not a subpar post.

good (but sad) shit: saying goodbye to the woman you should have married

"I don’t care. I’ll start my own group. Rejection from society is what created X-Men!”~Liz Lemon

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A Place Called Hope or Kitchen Sink Marital Counseling or a Man Who Never Quits Dreaming

Yesterday, Mr. G. came home from work and told Mrs. G. he'd heard a story on the radio about Norway (or one of the other Nordic countries that make Americans look like cave-dwelling hayseeds who eat Crisco right out of the can with their bearish paws). Apparently, Mr. G. went on, couples who split up household chores equally have a fifty percent higher rate of divorce.

"So are you suggesting if we split household chores down the middle, our marriage is as risk?" asked Mrs. G.

"I'm not suggesting anything. I'm just reporting a scientific study I heard today on National Public Radio."

"Well this presents a problem. Who can cook tonight without doing irreparable harm to our relationship," asked Mrs. G.

"Good question"

"I can pull out that can of Crisco from the pantry," Mrs. G. suggested.

"You know, I think it's a pizza night," said Mr. G. solving the problem and likely saving the marriage

They kissed each other kindly and went about their business.

We know some things here, Norway...or wherever the study was based.

May

Mrs. G's grandparents had a neighbor named May who lived five houses down from their brick ranch in Frayser. May was thin, brittle thin, and wore a troubling, roaming wig that was the same color as her skittish dog Cappy. Cappy was a Schipperke, a breed...

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clint eastwood might have saved mrs. g's marriage

Warning: this post discusses marriage and chairs.

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fair and balanced reporting of the last five vacuous "disagreements" that have gone down in this house

1) Whether a door propped open about 1 foot with a bar stool provides more fresh, cool air than a door propped open about three feet with a card table. Mrs. G. isn't going to say who tried to inject physics and meteorology into the heated discussion, because she isn't that kind of spouse, and because she thinks the probability is fairly high that most of you know who in this marriage frequently just makes shit up.

2) Whether a six foot cardboard Johnny Depp cut out belongs in the vacant corner in their dining room. Mr. G. says no. Mrs. G. swore on metaphorical stack of bibles that the six foot cardboard Johnny Depp cut out would, beyond question, inspire her to cook more often..

Mr. G: So, you're telling me putting this six foot cardboard cut out of Johnny Depp in our dining room would inspire you to cook more?

Mrs. G: That's exactly what I'm telling you.

Mr. G: You are a liar.

Mrs. G: I know, but I still think it would look really good there.

3) How come it's OK to complain about the rain but not OK to complain about the heat. This one is still ongoing. It is difficult living with the arbiter of legitimate, benign complaints, the ruling umpire of bona fide laments. Ongoing.

4) Whether it is a moral failure to scrape the gross remains on your plate into the sink and not follow through by shoving them down the down the garbage disposal, so the next person who comes along doesn't have to. It is.

5) Whether a belt is a utilitarian tool or an instrument of fashion.

Mr. and Mrs. G...just sitting here on the couch waiting for a couple of those Genius Grants.