Monthly Archives: July 2011

It’s Gilda Sue’s Mail Bag! “The Pokey is For Suckers!”

Hello, lovelies! Here’s this week’s missive. It’s anonymous.

“So, Gilda Sue, my daddy calls our female British African-American mail deliverer ‘the colored lady mail man,’ which I’ve told him is practically illegal, but he won’t listen to me. What do I do?”

Well, hon, this is complicated, for sure. Acknowledging the sex parts of a federal worker can be fun, though confusing, but is really playing with fire. And referring to the racial heritage of a federal worker, especially one (even one?) with a foreign accent is even more fun and confusing, but you are correct. It’s totally illegal. Isn’t it?  Well, it almost is. Anyway, do whatever you can to get your daddy to avoid the problem of sex, and nationality all together (and race a little bit) by training himself to say “Mail Person of color.” It’s practically the same thing, but, oddly enough, it won’t lead to you visiting him in the pokey. At least, I don’t think. Not yet. And the pokey is for suckers. Trust me. Good luck!

I look forward to hearing more from y’all! Don’t be strangers!

Visit me at GildaSueRosenstern.com, y’all!

It’s Gilda Sue’s Mail Bag! “Passion is For Suckers!”

Y’all, we have another return visitor here on Gilda Sue’s Mail Bag. It’s Frimunt! Hey, Frimunt!

Frimunt writes:

“Dear Gilda Sue, your response to my letter helped, but only for a minute. You made death seem less scary, but, honestly, I don’t really want to die. Not yet. It’s just that the bullcrap of life just keeps piling on. One of my very best friends has turned out to be about as deep as a post-it-note, the career I’ve worked so hard for is not what I hoped it would be, and my marriage to the love of my life is falling apart. I’m a mess over it all. What do I do? Help! Oh God!”

First, let’s be honest about this word,”friend.” You likely only have one, hon, and it’s probably not the one you spend most of your energy on. Tell the last person who showed enthusiasm for whatever it is you’re up to how much she rocks, and redefine “best friend.”

Second, careers are for suckers. Do what you love and do your best to pay the bills. Everything else is damn icing on the cake.

Third, the married folks I know say that marriage is fraught with ups and downs. Most say it’s got more downs than ups. If your marriage is having more downs than ups, congratulations, bubbee! You’re on the right track!

But, honestly, hon, all this pain is your own fault, and it can be avoided if you just cared a little less. Really. All that fiery passion is the source of all your heartache, and you’d do well to snuff that out. Just snuff it!

Now, have a super short cry. Then push it down, bottle it up, and keep moving.

Good luck!

Thanks, y’all. I’m looking forward to the next inquisitor! Find me here, on the Facebook, or at GildaSueRosenstern.com!

Cheers!

It’s Gilda Sue’s Mail Bag! “Midgets, Idiots, and Speaking in Tongues.”

Hello, lovelies.

Welcome back to Gilda Sue’s Mail Bag. This week, I have another letter from our old pal, Father Patrick Fitzpatrick of the Sister Mary Frances School for Underage And Guileless Boys in Pawhuska, Oklahoma. Hey, Father Pat! The Father writes,

“Gilda Sue. I always wanted to learn to speak in tongues, but there’s not even an elective for that in Catholic Priesting School. Do you know where I can take a class?”

Well, hon, wouldn’t learning to speak in tongues be like learning to be a midgets, or an idiot savant, or a CNN legal commentator/television hostess with over-large nostrils, and a permanent scowl born of self-righteous indignation, a fixation on celebrity lawsuits, and a passion for hearing yourself talk (in tongues or otherwise)? Even if you could actually learn such a thing, you might find it’s not as much fun as it sounds.

Once I had nothing better to do to fill the void in a super-long, hot summer (which is the very predicament in which you seem to have found yourself, Father) and I took some Continuing Ed classes at the Lake Tar Monkey Community College. Their Language Arts Department offered up what looked like a rockin’ “Yiddish for Gentiles” class. (Not as easy as it sounded. I got a C). And The Home Ec Department teamed up with the Psych Department to offer “Mixology as Fixology” which was a sort of group therapy in the kitchen.  As it turns out, being creative and busy (not to mention tipsy!) did help some folks take their minds off of their troubles, like  rocky marriages,  abusive childhoods, or frowned-upon sexual urges that they still can’t “pray away” even after all those beatings by nuns and years of boring Seminary. I actually didn’t really need the therapy part.  I was just bored and thirsty, which is not a real-real good combo, by the way. (Grade-schmade! I just remember that that class was the birth place of the “Chicken Salad-infused Drambuie-tini,” and that it was a damn blast. I’m now also remembering that I was escorted off campus grounds on more than one occasion during that class, but for the life of me, I can’t remember why. Or by whom. Or to where.) Anyway,  maybe the Pawhuska Community College offers up something similar.

Good luck, Father Pat! And let us know how that goes.

Bye, now. Keep those cards and letters coming!

It’s Gilda Sue’s Mail Bag! “Free Bird!”

Hello, lovelies.

This week’s query is from The Love of Pete. But don’t be fooled by the “Pete” part. There’s no way this was written by a man. Oy!

The Love of Pete writes:

“Gilda Sue, my brother needs me to help him with his marriage, but I’m too busy with my own marriage and my kids to help. How do I tell him to stop drinking and get a damn job already without hurting his feelings?!”

Hon, though the truth can be real-real hurtful, sometimes we just need to say it. “The truth shall set them free,” as Lynyrd Skynyrd says.

There’s an old adage that tells us, “if you can’t say something nice, then don’t say anything at all.” But my bobeshi taught me that that is for suckers. She always told me, “if you can’t say what you mean and mean what you say, then don’t say anything at all.”

And Pete, here’s something that only you (and maybe Sherlock Holmes, or even Dr. Phil) can ever know for sure, but it’s worth investigating: Is it possible that your concern over hurting your brother’s feelings is just a disguise for your fear of being vilified by him, or being disliked? Being disliked isn’t as bad as you might think, by the way. I find it’s often way better than the alternative, especially if that alternative involves keeping my mouth shut (as you might well imagine). And, anyway, to quote another great Skynyrd tune, you might ask that schmendrik brother of yours, “what have you done for me lately?”

Now, shouldn’t you be changing a diaper, Sherlock Holmes-ing what the heck your family wants for supper, or Dr. Phil-ing the corn out of someone’s nose? Pour yourself a double tall Drambuie-tini (light on the vermouth, heavy on the tini).  Block/hide that brother on your facebook. Then text him to stop drinking and get a damn job, already.

Thanks for you letters, y’all. Keep them coming! You can find me here, on the facebook, or at Gilda Sue Rosenstern.com!

Cheers!