Entries in Relationships (112)


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.


A Little Night Magic


Photo by Nick K.

It's 1:40am and Mrs. G. just woke up because she needed to pee. While she was simultaneously rousing herself awake and persuading herself she didn't really need to leave the warmth of her bed, she could surely hold it until morning, she heard Chewie pad over to the bedroom door, which is his unwaivering signal that he needs to go.

Mrs. G. laid in the bed a minute considering the following:

1) Chewie can read her mind.

2) Chewie is her spirit animal

3) Chewie is so selfless he spontaneously wakes up to pee in solidarity.

4) Chewie was trying to soft soap Mrs. G. into thinking it was morning so he could get an early start on breakfast.

They both did their business. Chewie ambled back to bed and Mrs. G. felt the need to document this moment before she goes back to sleep and it floats away by morning.

Miracle? No. Worth scribbling about in the wee hours of the morning? Questionable. Dotty thinking? Maybe.

But she thought it was sweet.



Can't Turn Me Around, Nothing


This is hard question to ask. Please be honest (sign in anonymously if you like).


Mrs. G. recently read two books where both of the female protagonists were obese and their obesity (along with other, fairly standard relationship bullshit) was slowing unraveling their marriages. Mrs. G. didn't seek out these books. She unwittingly plucked them off the "new arrivals" library shelf. The similar subjects (though very different books) were a coincidence. Both books were difficult to read, and Mrs. G. had to put one of them down, she couldn't bear the obvious Eliza Doolittle-fication ending unfolding (more on that in a later post).

The question:

Do you feel a spouse/partner is justified in leaving his spouse/partner because she's become overweight, let herself go?

Mrs.  G. uses the female pronoun because she can't recall a novel where an overweight man was just seconds from getting his ass kicked to the curb. Nah, the John Goodmans, Tony Sopranos, Zach Galifianakises' are charming, fun and desirable to many.

HP Portrait Studiozach

In one of the books she read, this passage extinguished Mrs. G's beating heart for few seconds.

He'd (husband) omitted that on some deep level he wished she'd (wife) remain fat, because part of him--a small, black, ugly little part--he knew that he made her grateful for as little or as much as was convenient to give...she'd never have the confidence to leave him. He'd always be the center of her world--the only person she'd think loved her and thus all she'd ever know of love."

...if she wanted to have sex, she'd need to have it with herself. Not his fault. He was taken care of. She'd given him permission.

The cruelty (and staggering honesty) still make her shudder.

This post isn't a passive aggressive attempt to get Mr. G's attention--Mr. and Mrs. G. have these sorts of conversations (the hard ones that require brutal honesty) not all the time, but often enough to keep the relationship cranking. Mrs. G. is trying to figure out the motivation, courage and, more so, emotions of such a woman packing up her bags and heading to the Colony, to join the twelve other women Mrs. G. has placed there with her pen and paper.

Anyway, back to the original hard question:

Do you feel a spouse/partner is justified in leaving his spouse/partner because she's become overweight, let herself go? Speak from your heart and don't go all politically correct on Mrs. G.

And then there is this:


What Say We Get a Little Nervy in 2012?

salty cat

"Salty Cat" by hidden side

Mrs. G. has celebrated enough New Year's Eves to be wary of blanket yearly resolutions, unconvinced of  their staying power once the month of January is flipped to February in the that new Thomas Kinkade Gardens of Grace/Just Kittens and Puppies/1,000 Places to See Before You Die/The World's Great Wine Grapes/Bachelor Farmers of Ireland calendar someone gave us for Christmas.

This year rather than swear to lose weight, become more organized, keep a cleaner house, dig out those fancy running shoes she bought in 2006 to run that 5k she has been intending to run since 1993, Mrs. G. is scrapping the official list of New Year's Resolutions, what, for her, has been an annual exercise in tried to (a little) and couldn't, a guaranteed recipe for "God I suck!" failure.

No, this year, Mrs. G. is going to focus less on lofty, broken down GOALS and more on unpredictable but attainable goalettes. She's going to focus less on virtue and more on pleasure. She plans to set two goalettes a month and actually attempt to achieve them...because they will be enjoyable, no hair shirt required.

Mrs. G. plans to unveil her two goalettes at the beginning of each month and report back on her success at the end of of each month. Care to join her? At the close of each month Mrs. G. can highlight willing participants monthly intentions and provide space for updates. We can cheer each other on in achieving goalettes, big or small.

Wanna play? It's this easy.


In January in I would like to try _________ and _________.


Mrs. G. will include hers in the comments. Happy New Year, Friends!


Two Quick Things

1) The Surgery: The doctor who told Mrs. G. she needed gallbladder surgery assured her there was no easier surgery in terms of recovery. "I had one patient," the doctor said, "who was back working in his dental practice the very next day." Not one to ignore a challenge, Mrs. G. took him at his word and 24 hours after surgery, she was back in full swing: shopping, decorating, baking, preparing for her daughter's arrival and the big holiday. Less than 48 hours later, she was back at the hospital with a fever, receiving antibiotics through an IV, her ass officially slowed down. She first felt human the day her parents arrived and she and her family spent a lovely, low key holiday hanging around, playing games and hanging around some more. It was intimate, merry and without incident. Mrs. G. hopes you all can say the same! Trust her, she thought of you. 

2) The Cards: When Mr. G. brought in the first batch of mail a couple of days after Mrs. G. asked readers to send her a card, he was floored. "You what?!" he asked. "Mom, I thought that was kind of lame," Mrs. G's daughter admitted. Mrs. G's son had no opinion as he hasn't read her blog in four years. Mrs. will admit that she was only hours out of general anesthesia when that brilliant idea came to her, but she has no regrets. Your cards and notes have been a sure slant of light, a genuine bright spot (pictures to follow) during her hours on the couch, proof positive that while many question the nature and legitimacy of online relationships, they mean something to her because in her mind, connection is connection. Mrs. G. would have responded sooner, but her laptop mysteriously disappeared until her last pain pill was consumed. She suspects her family was trying to save her from herself.

Oh what the hell...

3) The New Year: Mrs. G. has high hopes and optimism for the coming year. She is full on excited for 2012 and what it will bring. She hopes many of you readers stick around, willing to share and experience another run on her crazy train. See you in 2012. Much love, Mrs. G.


Positive Christmas Post, Day 5!


Yesterday, Mr. G. was what he would call ribbing Mrs. G. but what Mrs. G. would call badgering her. It was really a day of unprovoked spousal harassment. Mr. G. was unaware she was creating a critical, meaningful Rick Perry Corn Dog Movie piece of art, so he kept asking her if she was going to the grocery store, if she ever planned on closing her laptop, if she knew where the clean towels were and if she was aware Chewie was dragging three pair of her underpants around the house.

Mrs. G. can't say she responded maturely. She ignored most of his questions and even suggested that he stop talking to her. He did stop literally talking to her, but every time he passed through the living room where she was dicking around working, she could hear him talking to her in his head, and she didn't like what he was saying.

In a few months, Mr. and Mrs. G. will have been together 22 years and depending on the moment, that's a magically short time or a fuckingly long time. There's no sugar coating the occasional snippy minute, hour, day, week, month. Even when wearing her rose colored glasses, Mrs. G. has a clear visual that marriage is easy, hard, hot, cold, sustaining and maddening.

Late, late in the night, Mrs. G. crawled into bed next to her sleeping husband. She slid into the warmth of his body and gently wrapped her arm around his waist. She whispered I love you three times in a row, because in this dark, quiet, dreamy refuge, it was never more true.

Love, the heart's perennial quicksilver.


Two Things Buzzing Around Mrs. G's Brain Like a Yellow Jacket on a Coke Can

It's not like she was buying this housecoat and support hose.

1) Monday night the checker at an unnamed store rang up Mrs. G’s purchase of a fleece robe, a dog brush and the new Stephen King book. When she gave Mrs. G. the total, she asked Mrs. G. if she would like the senior’s discount, the senior’s discount for people born before the year 1950?

Mrs. G. quietly declined, hoping the people in line behind her might not have to become involved in this festival of indignity. She was born in 1967.

Mrs. G. called a friend before she was even out of the store who talked Mrs. G. down from the ledge. Then Mrs. G. went and sat in her car and combed her hair with the dog brush to sooth herself until she was capable of driving home.



2) Mrs. G. is doing some tutoring these days and she is studying early American Lit with one student. The last couple of weeks, they have been discussing Walt Whitman and working through his poem, Song of Myself. Mrs. G. has always had a fondness for Whitman, his earnest enthusiasm in recognizing his (our) relation to all humanity, his vagabond lifestyle, his unshakeable faith in the importance of his writing despite cutting criticism and crushing reviews. It is impossible to read Song of Myself and not discuss the sexuality dripping from nearly every page. Walt was passionate about passion.

The smoke of my own breath,
Echos, ripples, and buzzed whispers . . . . loveroot, silkthread, crotch and vine…

You sea! I resign myself to you also . . . . I guess what you mean,
I behold from the beach your crooked inviting fingers,
I believe you refuse to go back without feeling of me;
We must have a turn together . . . . I undress . . . . hurry me out of sight of the land,
Cushion me soft . . . . rock me in billowy drowse,
Dash me with amorous wet . . . . I can repay you.

I am the poet of the Body; And I am the poet of the Soul. The pleasures of heaven are with me, and the the pains of hell are with me; The first I graft and increase upon myself--the latter I translate into a new tongue.

"Man, this guy was horny!" Mrs. G's student noted.

"Yes, in one sense he is clearly expressing desire, but it goes much, much deeper than that," Mrs. G. countered. "He celebrated life literally and metaphorically, the beautiful and the ugly. He ate life up.Walt Whitman was horny for the world."

"Horny for the World. Maybe that should be the title of a future Whitman biography," Mrs. G. laughed.

"Yeah, I think it would fly off the shelves," her student agreed.

When the mother of Mrs. G's student arrived to pick him up, he cheerfully relayed their discussion of book titles to her. It was clear the humor was lost on her--she was definitely not rocking in Whitman's billowy drowse. Mrs. G. keeps waiting for the phone to ring and her services to no longer be required. She won't apologize. She really, really likes the kid (he's 17) but when it comes to Walt Whitman (and American Lit banter), Mrs. G's willing to take one for the team.