Entries in Relationships (112)


Buenas noches mi dulce pup. Quisiera besarte.


Sometimes when Mrs. G's dog Chewie sidles up to her bed while she is reading and rests his furry mug on her mattress, she ignores him.


When he covertly inches further up the side of bed upon which he is not allowed, his snout casually moving closer and closer, Mrs. G. puts down the book she is reading and looks squarely at the loyal, lively, merry little bastard giving her the eyes. The eyes. 


And then Mrs. G. leans over and kisses him right smack on his lips.



Two Things That Happended At Starbucks Last Friday (With Text)


Before Mrs. G. tells you about the two things that happened to her at Starbucks last Friday, she has to tell you about the two recurring nightmares she has suffered for a good chunk of her life. The first, which plagued Mrs. G. for most of her twenties and half of her thirties, is commonplace—the being-stalked-by-a-serial killer-and-unable-to run-or-scream-just-seconds-before-being-strangled/stabbed/set-on-fire nightmare. The second, which has plagued Mrs. G. for half of her thirties until this very day, she suspects is somewhat more peculiar: Just seconds before she is strangled/stabbed/set on fire, she grabs her cell phone to call for help and is unable to successfully dial 911. She frantically continues trying to dial 9 and 1 and 1 (991! 999! 199! 119!) over and over again but the cell phone buttons are too small and her fingers are too big. When she finally manages to hit the winning numbers and hears the briiiing confirming help is on the way, she is strangled/stabbed/set on fire. Mrs. G. calls this nightmare One More Occasion Where Technology Fails Her or Sausage Fingers, for short.

The first thing that happened to Mrs. G. at Starbucks last Friday is she was sitting in a comfortable chair, reading and minding her own business when only weeks after writing about her, Spaceship Annie walks in and sits in the chair right beside her. If you’ll recall, Mrs. G. said if she ever ran into Annie again she would give her the what for, read her the riot act for being such a relentless bully. And Mrs. G. would have done that if she hadn’t slumped in her chair, shaking, doing everything she could to conceal her face with her hair while frantically texting her friend Jane :


But Mrs. G’s prevailing nightmare kicked in during the broad light of day and she spent ten minutes ineffectively pushing the tiny elfish cell phone buttons with her sausage fingers…

Is rabucks INNie re

IN buKrast aN !!


Mrs. G. continued to sausage finger it until Annie finally left. Mrs. G. showed her.

Shut up.

….(forty minutes later)

The second thing that happened to Mrs. G. at Starbucks last Friday is she was sitting in a comfortable chair, pitting out and recovering from a minor heart attack and a major loss of face when she attempted to go back to reading her book. It was 88 degrees in Seattle and she was doing everything she could to stay out of her not air conditioned house. She was trying to concentrate on her book even though Barbra Streisand was blaring from the Starbucks’ speakers. The more Mrs. G. tried to concentrate, the louder Barbara Streisand got.  Finally, Mrs.  G. cracked. She looked at the guy next in the chair next to her and said, “Enough with the Streisand, right?”

The guy looked at her and said, “Mmmmm” in manner that suggested Mrs. G. was invading his space or, maybe, crazy.

Mrs. G. quickly looked away, disheartened by an obvious failure to connect. She frequently feels misunderstood, certain that meaningful human kinship is rapidly disintegrating.

Then the guy’s phone rang and he answered it. As Mrs. G. listened to him talking, she eventually noticed he was speaking German and decided he was definitely not bilingual this explained his failure to connect over earsplitting Streisand, his noncommittal “Mmmmm”.

The day was salvaged. Humanity saved.


A Mrs. G. Social Inquiry: From the Fully Disclosed, Repeatedly Confirmed but CLUELESS Files of Mr. G's Spousal Insight

Mr. G. detests yogurt, eggplant, Nick Nolte, ice cream with nuts, fabric softener, deli turkey, Diane Keaton, smoothies, white bread, sunscreen, yellow squash, cranberry sauce, shrimp...the list goes on and on and Mrs. G. is intimately familiar with it. Occasionally, she feels like she is more familiar with what he doesn't like than what she does.

Most everyone knows Mrs. G. as issues with enemas and, really, any infringement or violation of her ass, but the only foods she truly detests enough that the mere smell of them make her gag are black licorice and root beer. That's it. And of course she has mentioned this a few hundred times over the last 22 years.

Last night, she and Mr. G. were hanging out watching The Godfather. When he got up go get a snack, he asked her if she wanted a root beer.

Mrs. G. just said, "no thanks." She didn't even have the energy to protest.

Is she alone? She doubts it.

Please fill out the following sentence:

Even though I've made it graciously and perfectly clear to __________ that I dislike __________, he or she never seems to care remember.

If this is not an issue for you, consider yourself lucky!


All's Well That Ends Well or The 2011 Lowes Peace Summit

Mutual absolution granted in aisle one at Lowes.



The Fight in Aisle Seven


A week or so ago Mr. and Mrs. G. decided to go to Home Depot to look for a full length mirror and buy five bags of mulch. After that, they were going to swing by the grocery store and pick up a few things for dinner. They got in the car and everything was fine. They might have even looked in each other's eyes and smiled lovingly at one another before Mr. G. started the car but probably not. Still, all marital systems were good to go.

Twenty minutes later, Mr. and Mrs. G. were in the store looking at full length mirrors. As luck would not have it, Home Depot was having a sale on full length mirrors. The mirrors were $4.99, which was really reasonable considering they were maybe six inches wide, flexible and framed in what appeared to be baby blue Styrofoam. To Mr. G, a full length mirror is a full length mirror. To Mrs. G, a full length mirror should be wide enough to reflect her entire body without backing up all the way to Vermont and not buckle when you breathe on it. Already slightly annoyed with each other, they walked over to aisle seven to look in the "official" Home Depot mirror section--the $4.99 baby blues were with all the other loss leaders in the front of the store. The only other full length mirror the store had in stock was a perfectly fine full length mirror, a foot wide, unyielding and framed in a pleasant pewter painted wood. It was $29.97. Did it wow Mrs. G.? No, but it fit the bill without breaking the bank, and she was tired of jumping up and down in front of the bathroom mirror to see her full self. Mr. G. balked--in his defense (and because he just walked by her and she told him what she was writing about and he told her she'd better be fair)...so, in his defense-- he balked fairly mildly, but sighed in exasperation--in Mrs. G's defense (because he just walked by and she told him what she was writing about and she is the only one who has a blog)...so, in her defense-- he sighed in exasperation one too many times.

"Let's look somewhere else," Mr. G. said.

"Now?" Mrs. G. asked.

"No, not tonight," he said back, which is long-married translation for we will look for a full length mirror again possibly never.

"Is it really a priority?" he went on.

As a matter of fact, it was a priority and at that exact moment, it became the highest priority in Mrs. G's 44 years of living, which is long-married translation for the ride back home is going to be a living hell.

Now fully pissed at each other, they bought the five bags of mulch and bypassed the trip to the grocery store for the greater good.

Five minutes into the ride home, Mrs. G. decided it was time to discuss every real and imagined flaw in their relationship.

Her: "How come we can never go anywhere together and have fun?"

Him: "What are you talking about? We have fun together all the time."

Her: "I don't think so."

Him: "Do we really have to talk about this now?"

Her: "Now is good for me."

Him: "I have nothing to say."

Her: "Well, I do..."

Which brings Mrs. G. to what she suspects is a primordial difference between men and women: what's what.

The following is a conversation that has played out in Mr. and Mrs. G's marriage no less than... 

168 occasions:

Her: "We need to talk about our relationship."

Him: "Do we have to talk about this now?"

Her: "Now is good. Tell me what I can do to improve this relationship for you?"

Him: "I have nothing to say. I'm good."

Her (suddenly feeling guilty and scratching two things he could do off her list of ten): "Well, I do..."

Please tell Mrs. G. this is a primordial difference between men and women or she is going to have to contemplate the notion that she is a black-hearted bitch.

When Mr. and Mrs. G. got home from Home Depot, they ate popcorn for dinner and watched a movie.

OK, ok, it was fun.


Hard Thing #1

Woman working on an airplane motor at North American Aviation, Inc., plant in Calif. (LOC)

Today is Thursday and Mrs. G. feels like it is a good day to ease on out of her comfort zone. Feeling gutsy? Even just a teeny-weeny bit brave? Join her. Today, consider doing one thing that is hard for you, big or small, and report back here when you've successfully completed your mission.

Mrs. G. isn't just talking the talk. Today she has a job interview and she is doubling the hourly rate she usually requests. Doubling. Mrs. G. has never successfully asked for/received a raise, so for her this is risk-ay. She'll let you know if she gets the job. She should know in a week.

So stand up and shake it out. Push yourself to finally paint that wall or make that call or change up the part in your hair or cross a couple things off your to-do list and sit down and honestly check in with yourself. You know the kind of thing Mrs. G. is talking about.

One hard thing. That's it.


British mancake to follow shortly.


Toads with Brickbats

Many years ago, Mrs. G. became friends with the mother of one of her kids' friends. Other than the bond between their children, Mrs. G. was initially attracted to this mom, Annie, because she wore a snappy red beret. Mrs. G. has always appreciated people who wear hats, any hat really, because she doesn’t have the confidence to wear them and the few times she has, she feels like a poser—someone literally posing in a hat. She is aware she is wearing one every second it is on her freakishly large head. So she applauds you bold, nervy hat wearers and while she’s on the subject of bold and nervy, she shares similar awe and respect for women who, to hell with you face, pencil on their own beauty marks.

But a snappy red beret can only carry you so far when, deep down, you are entirely confident you are the most enlightened, exceptional, wise woman to walk God’s green earth.

"And speaking of God," Annie spouted to anyone who possessed ears, "only the brainless, simpleminded masses buy into that fabricated folk tale, that mythos."

No, Buddhism, according to Annie, was the only path to becoming a sentient being.  Buddhism was the only path to liberation and in Annie’s case, a certain path to douchedom. Karma? Whatever. What goes around, evaporates.

But Mrs. G, you might be thinking, you are being so bitter, so strident all these years later. What gives? What gave is Mrs. G’s crushing fear of Annie. Mrs. G. silently stood by as Annie mocked and demeaned one person after another. Mrs. G. listened endlessly to Annie’s one conspiracy theory after another. Annie’s conspiracy theories had conspiracy theories. At one point, she told an entire roomful of people George Bush was a robot with a microchip in his back that was controlled by the CIA. Not one person said a word because Annie was a bully, and when she decided to let you have it, she opened her mouth and toads hopped out, toads carrying brickbats and copies of the Dhammapada to beat some sense into your thick skull. Everyone was afraid of Annie and her stupid ass, ridiculous, stupid ass red beret.

The only person Mrs. G. ever heard Annie talk about positively was Noam Chomsky. Mrs. G. pretended to know who he was.

Chickenshit for sure, Mrs. G. just tried to avoid Annie until one fateful day.

Mrs. G’s phone rang one afternoon and it was Annie calling to tell Mrs. G. she really wanted her to come over and meet her friend, Joan.

“Here,” Annie said, “I’m putting her on the phone.”

Joan got on the phone and immediately launched into a tirade about living in Utah, where the Mormons were trying to kill her, sneaking-onto-her-property-and-leaving-footprints-and-shotgun-shells trying to kill her. Then she moved on to her recent abduction by aliens. Actually her sixth abduction by aliens. After at least ten minutes of listening to Joan manically go on and on and on, Mrs. G. asked her to put Annie back on the phone.

“Isn’t she something else?” Annie asked.

Mrs. G. cut to, what to her, was the obvious chase:

“Is she schizophrenic or bipolar or is it drugs?” Mrs. G. has been diagnosed as mentally iffy by paid professsionals. She may not know who Noam Chomsky is but she owns her own dog eared copy of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders—it’s her version of a Beach Read.

Annie laughed. “Just come on over. She really needs someone to talk to.”

Mrs. G. drove over ready to stage an intervention.

When she walked in the door, the first thing Joan said to Mrs. G. was, “So Annie tells me you think I’m schizophrenic or bipolar or on drugs.”

Motherfucking toad with a brickbat.

Mrs. G. turned to Annie, who shrugged her shoulders and said, “Some of us just can’t comprehend the impossible. It takes a big mind to recognize visionaries.”

And then Joan launched, once more, into her story about being abducted by aliens and even showed Mrs. G. the key to the space ship, which looked similar to a cocktail fork wrapped in floral wire. When Joan started in on being probed, Mrs. G. grabbed her purse and stood up. Just as her mind was too small to recognize visionaries, it also contains an impenetrable deadbolt permanently thrown against any discussion of ass violation. No exceptions.

Mrs. G. walked out the door—she’s not even sure Joan noticed since she still hadn’t shut up. She called Annie later that night, and thanked her for the ambush and told her that she never wanted to speak to her again. And she hasn’t.

She still thinks of Joan and hopes she got some help of the terrestrial kind.

Mrs. G. can befriend stable, unstable, serene, angst-ridden, left, right, optimism, pessimism, straitlaced, out there but, anymore, she has no truck with mean, and she’s not scared of it anymore.


Nathaniel Hawthorne, You Are Full of Shit!

What a happy and holy fashion it is that those who love one another should rest on the same pillow.  ~Nathaniel Hawthorne

It is 3:21 am and Mrs. G. went to bed a couple of hours earlier only to toss and turn, swear under her breath and, finally, just crawl out of bed and wander the house like Lady Macbeth searching for a place to sleep. Yes, Mr. G. is snoring and the feelings that course through her mind as she lies in their marital bed are, well, conflicating. One minute she puts her hand on his shoulder and tries to coordinate her breathing with the snuffles and snorts, trying to appreciate his life force as he saws some serious wood. The next minute she wants to body slam him while screaming, "EVEN WHEN YOU'RE UNCONSCIOUS, IT'S ALL ABOUT YOU!" And then she remembers he is unconscious and kindhearted and she feels crushing love laced with unpardonable guilt, so she puts her hand on his shoulder and tries to coordinate her breathing with the snuffles and snorts, trying to appreciate his life force even as he saws some serious wood.

It's 3:47 and she's going to sign off and give sleep another go. Because that's love, right? Giving and giving and giving it another go.

That's a rhetorical question because Mrs. G, as the giving giver and the giving receiver, knows it absolutely is. Most nights.