To Sag or Not to Sag

Hello, lovelies!

Hey, y’all may not know this, but the movie actors have a union and it’s called, of all things, SAG.


Now, the folks at Mean Mama Dog have had to decide what to do about SAG with regards to making this movie about my life (which is so going to totally rock, by the way). They wanted to know what I thought about SAG. They are in favor of it, but I’m against it, y’all. Real-real.

I’ve grappled with a debilitating gravity allergy my whole life, and I’ve been able to keep the gravity pretty much at bay. So far. So I’ll be darned if I’m going to let anyone force me to sag.

Screen acting celebrities like Nancy Grace, and Oprah Winfrey, and Christian Bale may have the luxury of sitting around sagging all day, what with every plastic surgeon and Tai-Bo instructor in L.A. at their becks and their calls, but not me. I can’t afford a Brazilian Wax (see?), much less a facelift, or a tummy tuck, or even botox. I simply must remain tight and high all on my own. Drambuie-tinis help with the high part, so I’m half way there.


Anyway, lovelies, take it from me. The Gild Sue Rosenstern Computer Internet Show movie is well under way, and there’s not one bit of sagging in it.


Stay tuned for updates, y’all. And spread the word!


Here’s to the Holidays! (or Bat Mitzvah Blues.)

Hello, lovelies!

I hope y’all had a great Thanksgiving. I know you ate too much turkey and dressing on Thursday night. I sure did. And like everyone else, I’ll bet you ate much too much gefilte fish and grits Friday morning during the Christian Bale movie marathon! Tradition!

But y’all, as much fun as the weekend was, the Rosenstern family Thanksgiving dinner was marked with a sort of revelation this year which has firmly lodged a pickle right into the middle of my spiritual life.

First, are y’all familiar with The Age of Accountability? It’s the age at which a child becomes accountable for her sins. It’s a sad time for most children, I’m sure, and I always considered myself real-real lucky in that I’d managed to put off my own personal Age of Accountability. Or so I thought.

See, much to Mama’s chagrin, in spite of her nightly bible readings, I was never technically “saved,” so I was never baptized. AND, as Daddy has lamented for years, I never had a Bat Mitzvah. Well, I had HALF a Bat Mitzvah when I was 12, but it was cut short when the Blonsky twins flushed three firecrackers and a roman candle down the boy‘s bathroom toilet. Y’all, Rabbi Spiderman wore an eye patch for a whole year after that, but secretly, I’ve been grateful to those girls ever since for allowing me to put off my Age of Accountability all this time, which is definitely as much fun as it sounds.

BUT, at Thanksgiving dinner this year, Mama’s mama, Granny O’Donahue (the Catholic Granny who never approved of Mama‘s becoming a Protestant, long before she DID approve of Mama’s NOT becoming a Jew) confessed to being worried about my salvation and not wanting to wait for me to be “saved” (or “convicted,” as the Baptists say), so she snuck me off to Our Lady of Perpetual Scandal when I was a baby and had me sprinkled while Mama and Daddy thought she was taking me to see the Pinocchio movie. So, now it appears that I actually HAVE been accountable for myself all this time. I KNOW!

I told her I really wish she’d given me a heads-up. Oy! Now I have to figure out what to do about what my Mama loves to call my “shameful teenage years,” and what my Aunt Eolavelle loves to call my “shameLESS teenage years.” I don’t know what to call them, but I know shame is supposed to be in there somewhere.

It‘s tricky, though, especially since I don’t do Yom Kippur. I mean afflicting my soul just isn’t my style, y’all. Plus, I assumed I was exempt, what with not being actually accountable for myself and all.

Anyway, y’all, be sure to get on my mailing list here if you want an invitation to my Half Mitzvah. No reason to not finish it now, right? To make sure even my Christian half is covered, we’re doing a Christian Bale theme. (I KNOW!) It’s going to rock!

Gilda Sue’s Mail Bag! (Does Someone Need A Vacation?)

Hello, lovelies.

Here are all of this week’s queries. The whole kit and kaboodle. All three:

“Dear Gilda Sue,
Will Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie EVER get married? They are AMERICA’S! SWEETHEARTS!”

That’s from Nikki.

Nikki, hon, when I first started reading your hand-written letter, I found myself wondering, “Who on Earth actually gives a hoot about those two shlubs?” But by the time I got to your signature, with the little red and pink hearts dotting both of the I’s in your name, it all made sense. Jeez-Louise, Nikki! Is this how you sign all your missives? How long does that take you? And how old are you anyway, thirteen? (Christian Bale, by the way, is totally married.)

“Dear Gilda Sue,
What time is it?”

I’d say it’s time to stop being such a smarty-panties, Mr. Smarty-Panties McGhee. Oy!

“Dear Gilda Sue,
I just don’t understand PEOPLE!”

That’s from Jiminy in Hollywood, California.

Jiminy, honey, judging from the tone of frustration in your words, my guess is that you do understand people. You see people for the bunch of ignoble and facile schmucks they really are: ingrates, opportunists, phoney-baloneys, and lemmings. You just need to face the fact that you don’t like people all that much. And who can blame you?

So that’s it. That’s all the mail I got this week. Jeez. Can we step it up a tad, y’all?


See more It’s Gilda Sue’s Mail Bag! on The Bleu Stockings, y’all!