From The Davenport Of Mrs. G.

Mrs. G. was going to title this “From the Desk of Mrs. G” but then she remembered that she has not sat at a desk since she was in grade school. Even when teaching, she sat at tables with her students.  At home, her desk is the dining room table. Plus, she fancies the word davenport. It’s solid, sturdy, substantial and evokes the olden days of watching re-runs of Cagney & Lacey in her grandparents' den and the more recent days of lounging on her own couch watching reruns of Law & Order.

Hey, Sisters, what do you say we reach across the aisle?

It has been a crazy two weeks at the Colony. Mrs. G. has read the emails, she has read the comments, she has studied the polls and she has been in the awkward position of acting as editor to a group of writers she genuinely likes and respects…awkward because she has zero experience as an editor. Trust her, Reader, trust her...if the Women’s Colony was always in the key of Mrs. G, the vibe of the Colony would get as old and worn as your favorite pair of sweatpants: comfortable but boring.

Mrs. G. is going to start with the good news: the Women’s Colony is growing, readership is on the rise each and every day, and that is good news for a number of reasons.

1) There will be more coolers of beer and vats of margaritas brought to our first Colony gathering (more on that later...not a joke).

2) Ad revenue is decent and the likelihood of paying writers seems more like reality rather than a pipe dream. Speaking of pipe, Mrs. G. could have used one this week if you know what she is saying.

3) As our numbers grow, this gives the Women’s Colony the opportunity to draw a wider variety of readers and writers who have a wider variety of values and opinions.

4) All the work involved in running the site gives Mrs. G. a well-founded and sanctioned excuse for not cleaning house or taking care of the general needs of her family. Cook your own dinner...I'm working for humanity here.

5) Mrs. G. has been forced to practice her October risk: deal head on with conflict.

Now Mrs. G. is going to give you the bad news: the Women’s Colony is growing, readership is on the rise each and every day, and that is not so good for a number of reasons:

1) Johnny Depp’s island and Oprah’s Hawaiian Paradise might not be big enough to hold us all.

2) As our numbers grow, this gives the Women’s Colony the opportunity to draw a wider variety of readers and writers who have a wider variety of values and opinions.

3) Mrs. G. has been forced to practice her October risk: deal head on with conflict

So the tribe has spoken and the “c” word has been voted off the island. You might be interested to know that this discussion was as intense among regular Women's Colony contributors as it was with you readers. You might also be interested to know that Mrs. G. prefers to refer to her private parts as baked goods. No, she will not go there with you...she's trying to deliver a public apology. OK, cookie is one of them.

For more than a few readers, Aaryn Belfer’s Wal-Mart piece went over like a lead balloon boy. Many of you found it insulting and ripped Aaryn a new one because you felt she had ripped you a new one and then she ripped you a newer one because she felt you had ripped her a newer one. It was a mess, in Mrs. G’s mind, a circular mess. But the buck stops with Mrs. G. She chose to publish the piece (against Aaryn's better judgement) and that’s that. She had no idea that it would be so offensive to some readers. Mrs. G. sincerely apologizes for any hurt feelings. Now she is afraid to write about her impatience with Whole Foods and mock its $11 organic cotton balls. And to those of you who urged Mrs. G. to enter the comment fray, deem Aaryn whatever, Mrs G. can only say this: Aaryn is Aaryn. She's been with us since week one. Shrinking violet? Negatory, but come hell, high-water or a half-empty bottle of gin, Mrs. G. will stand by the Colony's writers. She might not agree with them, she might not publish them, she might flick them in the back of the head, but she will stand by them. And if you write a piece for the Women's Colony, she will offer you the same courtesy, she will have your back. Mrs. G. has a pretty liberal publishing policy. Is it well written? Does it make her laugh? Does she think it will make you laugh. Does it make her think? Does she think it will make you think? Does she like it? Does she think you will like it. Truly, she mainly goes with her gut. Does she always hit a home run? Nah. And speaking of Mrs. G's liberal policy, some of you have commented that you would like to see more conservative issues addressed here at the Colony. All Mrs. G. can do to meet that need is urge you to write and submit work. Only one politically conservative piece has ever shown up in her “in” box and she published it.

And this leads Mrs. G. to the real reason she is writing this letter to all of you on a Friday night when she would normally be knitting a scarf out of shed cat hair out living large. Her vision in starting the Women’s Colony was to create a space where women from all over the world with differing opinions could come together, learn about each other, learn from each other and embrace the differences and contradictions we all possess.  But, most of all, Mrs. G. wanted to create a spot where we can unhook our bras, unsnap our jeans, prop up our feet and take a load off. As one regular contributor put it when we were discussing the Women’s Colony’s mission statement: let’s be the nice girls on the internet. And Mrs. G. thought, YES! Let's be affirming and kind. Backbiting, drama and contempt are amply represented on the internet.

Breaking news: nice girls can be bad. Very bad.

News flash: nice girls aren’t always boring.

Headlines at eleven: boring has its place.

Fresh off the AP wire:  excitement ain’t all it’s cracked up to be.

It’s all about balance. You might have been Cagney. Mrs. G. was Lacey. You might wear heels. Mrs. G. wears clogs. We both walk upright

So, as Mrs. G. sits here on her couch, braless, in her cotton nightshirt adorned with garden gnomes with her feet in Mr. G’s lap, she asks you to bring it, bring it all to the table. Because as women—daughters, sisters, friends, partners, mothers, neighbors, co-workers, earthlings—we are all important.

But as one of Mrs. G’s friend’s mom likes to say: it’s nice to be important but it’s important to be nice.

Love,

Mrs. G. Heather

Tales From Assisted Living: Dadonna (by Mrs. G.)

Mrs. G. was wheeling her aunt into the dining room of her assisted living facility when she saw Mrs. G's aunt's friend, Dadonna, wheeling herself out of the dining room. Mrs. G's aunt rolls by chair, Dadonna rolls by scooter.

Dadonna is thin, so not a natural redhead and has a lead foot. She has a handwritten sign on the back of her motorized scooter that states: lead, follow or get the eff out of my way. Mrs. G. and her aunt heed Dadonna's command. When they see the red of her scooter rounding a corner, Mrs. G's heart stops for a second and her aunt whispers, "Sweet Jesus, the eagle has landed...gird my loins."

Knock on wood, there has never been a collision.

Dadonna has had several strokes and while they have wreaked havoc on her congnitive functions and slurred her speech, they have not dulled her sense of humor or oomph for life. During one visit Dadonna's daughter leaned over and quietly told Mrs. G. that the strokes have inexplicably turned Dadonna from a fairly accommodating, quiet bank teller into something of a bad ass.

So, anyway, back to the beginning of this story. Mrs. G. was wheeling her aunt into the dining room as Dadonna was barreling out of the dining room on three wheels.

Dadonna stopped to say hello to Mrs. G. and her aunt and after visiting a few minutes, she looked at them and said, "Well, what are we waiting for? Let's eat!"

"But Dadonnna," Mrs. G's aunt said, "you just left the dining room. Didn't you just eat?"

Dadonna looked puzzled. She actually stared silently into herself for a few seconds.

"Did I?" Dadonna asked Mrs. G, Mrs. G's aunt and herself.

Mrs. G. and her aunt just looked at Dadonna, not sure what to say. They knew she'd already eaten, but, well, you know...right? You get it.

"I'll be GD if I remember if I ate or not!" Dadonna declared more forcefully. Dadonna only swears by abbreviation or acronym.

Dadonna's eyes brightened, an internal verdict had been made. "I have decided that I have not eaten," she said. So Dadonna turned her red scooter around and rolled right back into the dining room.

Mrs. G. and her aunt followed.

gypsies, tramps and a polyester half slip (by Mrs. G.)

Mrs. G. has been sitting in her chair trying to think of a clever Halloween story from her past to share, but trust her when she tells you that nothing remarkable came to mind. So she took a hot bath and realized she was mentally blocked because recalling Halloweens past required revisiting the childhood indignity of dressing up as a gypsy. Eight years in a row.

Mrs. G's mother didn't believe in store bought costumes. Mrs. G's mother didn't believe in sewing. She believed in a tube of red lipstick, a bandanna, a see through peasant blouse, a polyester half slip, hoop earrings and a pillow case. She believed in six-year-old girls dressing up like two cent gutter sluts.

Candy gained. Innocence lost.

And who, who did Mrs. G. want to dress up as year after year after year?

Sweet, little, foppish Raggedy Ann (and being Catholic and trained to inhibit desire and just make do, she would have settled for dressing up as her second-rate brother, Andy)

Raggedy Ann? Mrs. G's mother would scoff, But she's so blah, so boring. Now go get my half slip and make-up bag. We'll do you up right.

And each year, Mrs. G. left the house as a gypsy to work the streets.

But bygones are bygones and Mrs. G. remains grateful for two things:

1) She grew up in the technically deprived seventies and...

2) her mom had no access to the internet.

Because the woman had a thing for platform shoes.

Mrs. G. is a regular WC contributor. You can read more about her here.