Touchiness

I really wish I could thicken my skin. I really do.

I admit, I am touchy. This is why I never got on stage more than three times to do stand-up comedy. I have no patience for hecklers, or worrying about what people will think of my jokes.

I have the same problem with blogging. I couldn’t tell you how many times I have either heavily edited my posts, or not even posted at all, on certain ideas or subjects that I find humorous or thought-provoking, sometimes by their very offensiveness. But I have a severe aversion to getting flak if my humor falls flat, that people will dissect my every word and bitch me out by telling me what an asshole I am. Hence why I have dubbed the blogosphere the “bickersphere.” I take criticism too personally, and this needs to stop. All successful creative types (writers, filmmakers, comedians) are hated as much as they are loved. Everyone has critics and gets nasty reviews. They ignore it and keep doing what they DO. They have their fans, the people who GET them, and they don’t get where they are by running off to lick their wounds every time someone is mean to them.

I have friends that just go balls-out and dare to cross the line, and I admire that. Real comedy goes into dark, uncomfortable places that make you squirm. My favorite comedians employ insults, nastiness, ignorant-sounding blanket statements, and even stereotypes — and they work, in the context of comedy, because they make you look at yourself and admit that, deep down, you have thought all of these things yourself. It’s a button the comedian pushes — to be cliche, the “envelope.” And it’s comedy because it isn’t serious. A comedian speaks from a place of persona. S/he isn’t always like that. These jokes, if spoken in a context of seriousness, are no longer jokes. If they are, then you are an asshole. One of my longtime friends, dare I say a mentor of sorts, has always spewed some of the most vitriolic statements I’ve ever read. But, that’s his schtick. In person, he’s the most polite gentleman you’ll ever meet.

“But you can’t joke about this — this is serious! You can’t say, ‘oh, it’s just a joke.’” But when I start analyzing my every word, my every thought, and worry about who it might piss off, I chicken out and just keep my mouth shut. For fear of people not liking me, I suppose. For fear of my words coming back to haunt me. For going too far and having it all just bite me in the ass. That the “wrong” people will read it and I’ll get dooced.

I really wish I could overcome this fear. Because if people decide they don’t like me after knowing what insanity lurks in the dark recesses of my mind, then they probably shouldn’t be my friends anyway. Why should I have to pretend to be someone I’m not and walk on eggshells for people to find me acceptable. I’m beginning to tire of my own inauthenticity. I feel I have to go through life with my head down and tow the line. I’m afraid to really be myself. I admit it.

Forbidden fruit

Well, looks like it’s goodnight for Sweet Dreams …

Death by vanilla!

Eh, I probably shouldn’t be smoking anyway. At all.

BUT … this new imperial, fiat-from-on-high ban on candy and fruit-flavored cigarettes is pissing me off.

Before I get into this, I want to say that I actually like some aspects of this bill. It’s nigh time that the tobacco companies reveal just what the hell kinds of chemicals they put into those things. The chemicals are why, when I choose to smoke, I do not smoke Marlboros or Camels or any other gas-station garbage. The chemicals are the reason those are the most popular brands, because they are the most addictive.

So here’s my spiel on flavored cigarettes:

They are being banned because they encourage the children to take up smoking because the flavors “sweeten the poison.” My ass. That argument could probably be used for cloves, which I don’t think are covered by the ban, but I could be wrong.

But among my smoker friends, not a one of them smokes cherry or vanilla-flavored cigarettes. When I whip them out at a bar or party, no one’s ever even seen them before. They always ask if they can bum one. Then they ask, “where do you get these?”

The answer is, I have to go out of my way to get them. The only places that sell them are a few out-of-the-way, mom-and-pop Pakistani-run gas stations that also sell knives and bongs in glass cases and keep a few video poker machines in the back (pardon my racist stereotyping, but I think you know the kind of stores I’m talking about) (clarification — post edited 6-14-09 to remove my suggestion that these kinds of stores necessarily operate illegal gambling operations; that’s kind of an unfair accusation); specialty cigar shops; and maybe a few head shops. But even in the last category, I never see them at Galaxy; the place to get them is This That and the Other in Smyrna. But anyway, it’s not like there’s a Marlboro man in a van tempting children with candy cigarettes. You pretty much have to be an aficionado to even know of their existence, much less to go to the trouble to get them.

True smoker smokers smoke whatever they can get their hands on fast and conveniently. And true smoker smokers smoke a pack a day because their crap Camel cigarettes burn fast and deliver crack-like, spiked nicotine levels even faster.

I know the difference between “mainstream” cigarettes and specialty tobacco because, well, I’m my own guinea pig. If I go for awhile without smoking, I can smoke five Sweet Dreams at night and not crave them the next day (it’s smoking them for a couple of days in a row that gets the cravings going). BUT if I bum one Marlboro off of someone, I immediately want one the moment I wake up the next day. My sick little habit is, I’ll smoke when I drink and/or on weekends, and on Monday I will slap on a nicotine patch so I don’t smoke during the week. Not that I do this week-in, week-out, BUT it’s something I can do.

But real smoker smokers can’t do this. Their addictions are so strong that if they put on a nicotine patch, they’ll smoke anyway.

When the cherries and vanillas are banned, I probably won’t smoke at all, unless I pick up some Nat Shermans or, gad, if I’m desperate, American Spirits. I guess I can thank the nanny state for my newfound cigarette sobriety.

BUT, fuck you nanny state. Why don’t you just make cigarettes $10 or $15 a pack??? As little as I smoke, I’d fork over $10 or $15 for a pack of Sweet Dreams. That’s less than I make in one hour and I’d have the cigs all week. I’d savor the luxury. But NOW I won’t even have the choice.

Adam Lambert Superstar

Adam Lambert is supposedly giving Rolling Stone a “scoop” with a cover story where he “comes out” as gay.

Well DUH … I mean, a man that beautiful and talented who sings like a dark angel from heaven *can’t* play for our team.

But, regardless ..

I’m a 31-year-old straight (OK – hetero) female and if he’s gay, that makes him even sexier to me. I have an Oscar Wilde fetish like you wouldn’t believe. And my very first favorite alternative band was the B-52’s, and all but one of them is gay. I grew up fundamentalist Christian so I have heard plenty of gay bashing my entire life, but my God, this boy can SING and his raw talent just lights up the stage wherever he goes.

Besides, it’s bogus to ask if America is ready for a “gay idol.” Let’s see, what other gay performers do even the most “conservative” of Americans adore and welcome into their homes by way of their stereo systems … Elton John. Freddie Mercury. Boy George. George Michael. Michael Stipe. Clay Aiken. Ricky Martin. Liberace. Little Richard. And David Bowie and Mick Jagger, who are, by many reports, bisexual.

Bash my pop culture worship all you want, but Adam Lambert is at the very least a fascinating study in gender/queer studies and American culture.

By the way, I’ve had a fetish for “guyliner” for quite awhile (with the exception of Pete Wentz).

Behold: Damon Albarn …

And of course, Billie Joe Armstrong …

And our newest comer to the “metrosexual” pack, a crush that makes me feel like the molester I am … Zac Efron …

And last but not least, Nick Simmons …

How to get out of traffic tickets

(Christ, has it been a whole month since my last post?)

A couple of times lately, over drinks, the topic of my numerous roadway run-ins with the cops and their affinity for writing me tickets has come up. The first reaction was “Gah, I’m never going to ride with you! How do you still have your license?” When I was really looking for, “Wow, that’s clever how you wormed your way around so many of those tickets!”

I think much of the problem for the longest time was my white-person fetish of plastering my car with bumper stickers, from the time I was 16 til about … oh lord, about 25. And not of the political type, unless you count my middle finger to vegans “Meat is Dinner” sticker. Haha, I got a chuckle out of that one. Oh, and the “ALL People Suck” one. But, as a rule, lots of stickers, especially in a small town, is a fuzz magnet. They can keep a better eye on you on the interstate too as you weave around all the other cars. And, in a heavily Christian area, they’re not too fond of Jesus fishes that say “N’Chips” inside them.

1. Can’t remember if this was my 1st ticket or not, but it was about 1996 and I was heading down I-85, pre-HOV lanes, in a white 1990 Toyota Camry V6, plastered with glitter cat head stickers and 3-D Virgin Mary postcards taped in the rear window. So I’m flying down the left lane, probably was passing everyone else (but hey, it WAS the fast lane), and here come the blue lights behind me. So I pull over into the left emergency lane. Which the cop told me was NOT technically legal, that I’m supposed to always pull off onto the right side of the road. Which would have meant weaving my way back across 5 lanes of traffic. Which would have looked like eluding if you ask me. So anyway he tells me that I was going 80 in a 65 (or something) and that he clocked me by way of his calibrated speedometer. I argued with him, saying something like I had it on cruise control so I KNOW I was only going 75. So when I went to traffic court, I told the judge the same thing I told the cop (shortly before he wrote me the ticket). “Well, it just seems logical that he had to speed up to catch me, which means he would of course be going faster than me.” The judge knocked $12 off my ticket.

2. It was a rainy afternoon and I was on an on-ramp near the connector, getting onto 75/85 north. The guy in front of me began to pull off onto the interstate, so I followed behind him. He then slammed on the brakes, and I slid right into him. I did no damage, not even a scratch. But he told me he worked in insurance and that he knew there could be damage underneath, and also his wife was pregnant. So I had to wait there for at least an hour in the rain, and be late for work, waiting on an Atlanta cop to tear himself away from a narcotics bust to come out and write me a piddling traffic ticket, for something that really wasn’t my fault. Think I was cited for following too closely. Well christ, I was right behind him because we were on a freakin’ interstate on ramp! So I went to Atlanta city traffic court, still defiant that I did nothing wrong and that I could get out of it. When they called me up I pled not guilty, so they set a court date for a month later for my trial. When I came back, the cop didn’t show up and the guy I “tapped” didn’t show up. The judge asked the prosecutor if the state had prepared its case against me, and she said “No your honor.” The judge said “dismissed.”

3. Some guy in a red pickup truck sideswiped me once while passing me on the left while I had my left blinker on and was making a left turn into a shopping center. The cop sided with the other guy, saying that I was illegally turning across two lanes. I thought, what lanes? At least a 1/4 mile was just solid, unpainted blacktop from a recent sewer digging project. So I went back the next day and took several photographs of the spot, so I could plead not guilty and show the judge my pictures if I went back for a trial. So I went to traffic court (DeKalb County) and it was packed. It was kind of late in the afternoon and the judge just sat there and made a face, then said, “I really want to get on out of here, so if you all just pay your tickets today you won’t get any points on your license.” Fair enough, I said, and promptly went to the ATM and came back to pay my ticket before 5. Hey, I don’t mind coughing up the money if I have to, it’s the dings on your license that get you.

4. I was on my way home from my wedding shower, leaving my grandfather’s house and making my way back to Atlanta. I wasn’t even two miles away when a cop pulled me over for supposedly going 60 in a 45. He was like, where are you going in such a hurry? I told him I had just left my wedding shower and that I was heading home. He still wrote me a ticket (must’ve been that uppity Dekalb County tag). So when I got home I called around to see if anyone knew the cop, and I’ll be darned, my aunt used to go to church with him. So they talked to him and he knocked it down to 56 in a 45, so I wouldn’t get any points. Boo-ya! (Yes, I still had to pay full price, but … no points!)

Four more for the “Stuff White People Like” list

Ooh ooh, before I forget them again — If the SWPL blog steals my ideas, they can have at ‘em …

1. The ’50s. I can’t tell you how many times I have had a fellow white person say to me how they “wish it was still the ’50s” or how “everything was so great in the ’50s.” For the record, I am not a big fan of the 50s, aside from Bettie Page (but I mean Bettie Page as in who she was [good Baptist bad girl], not as in a done-to-death rockabilly chick/Coop icon). I just can’t imagine black people being too fond of the ’50s either. “Gosh, remember that time when we had our very own water fountains?” (Hubby’s crack, so I’ll give him credit.)

2. Rockabilly. While I’m on the subject. Hot rods and rockabilly. All those chicks at the Star Bar (in Atlanta) who have the Bettie Page hairdos and the pale skin and the tattoos — the “death Betties.” Sorry, Rev. Horton Heat is just Brian Setzer on black beauties. And all that music sounds exactly the same — like Brian Setzer on black beauties. I dunno, it bores me.

3. Burning Man. I was flipping through channels the other day and stopped on Current TV for a few minutes. They were talking about the “spiritual” temple at Burning Man, and the segment kicked off with an image of a skinny white hippie sitting on a rock and playing a goddamn didgeridoo. Ugggghhh why do white hippies love to adopt aboriginal instruments? Then, when the temple was shown, it was swarming with a bunch of white people. The kind of white people you’d imagine. Girls with pink hair and belly button rings wearing halter tops and long skirts, unbathed white guys wtih dreads, and lots of Teva sandals. There was a time a few years ago when I wanted to go to Burning Man, but that was during a more “pagan” phase. All-night drum circles — and didgeridoo jam sessions — are NOT my idea of a good time.

4. Current TV itself. Ooh, it’s so hip and ironic and devoted to a higher cause. You can tell by the “intimate” concerts of Sigur Rios and Death Cab for Cutie they air.

Getting away with murder?

“Getting away with Murder is Technically Impossible” – Forensic Files, TruTV

Bullshit.

According to the most recent U.S. Department of Justice statistics I could find, in 2005, only 62% of all homicides were solved.

Even though the site also says that “homicide has the highest clearance rate of all serious crimes,” still … 62%? In school-grade terms, that’s a D. In restaurant health inspection score terms, that’s getting your restaurant shut down. In real terms, that means that approximately 1 in 3 murderers get away with it. This is unsettling to me, knowing that there are murderers walking in our midst. Maybe they watch as many forensics shows as I do.

For the record, I watch WAY too many forensics shows. But, now that it’s pretty weather outside, I’m starting to find them too depressing. I can’t deal with a steady stream of rape, murder, and shallow graves by the river when the azeleas are ablaze with (blood) red blossoms and the birds are orgiastically chirping while feasting on fresh, fat, (corpse-fed) worms.

I think I hit my rape-n-murder show limit a few weeks ago when I got home from work and clicked on Cold Case Files. I’m trying to eat my dinner and this police detective comes on talking about his interview with a man convicted of raping and killing three women, who enjoyed having sex with his victims AFTER he killed them. “I asked this monster to tell me, on a scale of 1 to 10, how good the sex was with a dead girl, and he said 14,” said the detective. “This guy is a monster.”

Yeah, and that little detail made me lose my appetite.

I also watched, Dateline I think it was, a couple weeks ago about this 13-year-old girl who was raped and murdered by a pedophile in 1986 after meeting her at Dairy Queen and promising to drive her to his son’s birthday party. It was the saddest thing. They found some mix tapes in her purse when they dug up her body. Mix tapes she’d made for the son, her crush. That detail just wrenched me, and I cried my eyes out.

For some reason, I have been super depressed lately. So I have taken to watching SpongeBob and American Idol.

But yes, I bet these murderers who get away with it watch a lot of forensics shows too. They’re practically a primer on what NOT to to. I could write you a list of things I’ve learned from the show, but I don’t have the balls to post it for fear I’d be the target of an investigation and/or I’d give some criminals some ideas. I rattled off the list to two fellow forensics aficianados (both women) over drinks a few months ago and the guys at the table next to us heard us freaked out. “I’m about to get married in a week, but now I’m not so sure!” he said.

For those 38% of murderers who get away with it, I am nearly 100% certain that someone knows they did it, but are too terrified to talk. I wish I were truly a clairvoyant, so I could achieve my lifelong dream of becoming a psychic detective.

Oh, and I’m not joking.

Rediscovering my Inner Prude

As I’ve gotten older (yipes — turning 31 in a month) I have noticed more and more that, deep down, I may be much more of a prude than I like to admit.

I remember first feeling this way when I was standing in line at a Moe’s restaurant (”Welcome to …” STFU!) a few years ago and overheard the strains of the Grateful Dead’s Casey Jones drifting out of the ceiling speakers …

Drivin’ that train … high on cocaine …

Then I noticed signs suggesting that you have your children’s parties at Moe’s.

“Daddy, what’s cocaine?”

God, I suddenly felt like a prude for knee-jerkingly finding myself offended by the playing of a rock song glorifying drug culture in a family environment.

You can take the girl out of the Baptists …

What got me thinking about all this is that new Sir Mix-a-Lot SpongeBob/Burger King commercial:

FYI? I love this commercial. I love Sir Mix-a-Lot. I was kind of confused the first time I saw it, though, and it does strike me as a somewhat inappropriate way to advertise food and toys to children. And what goes through my head? “Gosh, when *I* was a kid they didn’t have commercials like that, this is pretty dirty …”

But then I asked H., “Gosh, I wonder what Sir Mix-a-Lot’s other songs sound like?” Because I had never heard any. On that note, one reason I admire Mr. Mix-a-Lot is because he has gotten so much mileage out of that one song, which is damn near 20 years old, and he is proud of it and will pimp it out in every way he can. He’s not ashamed of being the Ass Man. I know, I saw him say so on VH1. Plus I have a soft spot for sellouts — “whores” as some of you may say. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that!

But did you know that Sir Mix-a-Lot also is a tit man? This video made my day when H. pulled it up for me on YouTube:

Yes sir, Put ‘Em on the GLASS!

Now, what did my Inner Prude have to say about this one?

“Wow, this probably seemed so dirty in the early ’90s, but now it almost seems so innocent. Gosh, he doesn’t even refer to women as ‘bitches’ or ‘hoes’ even once! Wow, what a stand-up guy, that Sir Mix-a-Lot!”

Which is probably why he got this deal with SpongeBob and BK. I mean, openly declaring your love for tits and ass in humorous rhyme seems kind of … wholesome and “sex positive” dare I say in comparison to much more recent misogynist fare.

OK so speaking of misogyny … Hardee’s wants us to know that their new bacon burger, as well as their new spokeswoman Padma Lakshmi (who I didn’t even know before seeing this), is “more than just a piece of meat.”

My Inner Prude immediately reacted to this one with “God, that’s sexist!” The burger looks pretty nasty; Ms. Lakshmi definitely does NOT. I’m not one of those types who is easily offended … but this commercial still rubs me the wrong way on some level. (Huh huh … rub … meat …) Regardless, this commercial annoys me, Sir Mix-a-Lot’s amuses me.

And speaking of rubbing meat? Another reason I am getting tired of the tube is all the damn erectile dysfunction drug commercials. During prime time. Yes, my Inner Prude is annoyed that they air them before 10 p.m. “Gosh, when *I* was a kid they didn’t show this stuff on TV … ” Plus, the mental image of a shrively old man with a 4-hour hard on is just something I don’t want to think about while I’m trying to watch the World News …

OK, this isn’t from my Inner Prude, but when did they start showing commercials *10 freakin’ minutes* into a movie??? They used to wait until 30 minutes in! Do you know how annoying it was trying to watch The Shining on the Bio channel??? A commercial break before they even get to the hotel? And every 10 minutes afterward?

“Wendy, give me the goddamn bat!“

Cut to  –

“Do you have ED?”

Why I would NOT want to live in the Middle Ages, or any other pre-20th century era

Why? Because I like living in the modern world. (OK, make that the modern, developed Western world.) It’s not perfect, but it seems to suck less than all previous ages. There is nothing “romantic” about the good old days. It was mostly death and heartache and filth and ignorance.

• Up until, oh, about a good third of the way into the 20th century, there was a pretty sizeable chance that either the mother or her infant would die in childbirth. If the baby made it past obstacle #1, it had a good chance of dying of pretty banal things by today’s standards, like dysentery. Or cholera or yellow fever or rubella or you name it. Or getting polio. And if they made it past that, there was a good chance they’d never go past 1st grade and would spend their childhoods tilling fields and milking cows or putting their nimble little fingers to work on looms or in sawmills.
• I think the Internet and recorded music and the radio and movies and TV and all our fancy-schmancy dancing sounds and lights and other information that travels across various wires and mediums to our brains are just fantastic. You know how shows like I Love Lucy just aren’t all that hilarious by today’s standards, but they were huge hits back then? That’s because they were the only shows on TV, so there wasn’t much competition. So when you think about it, that’s why the Bible got so popular. It was pretty much the only book in town, b/c the monks were the only literate people, so they had a monopoly on the information. The Gutenberg press gave direct rise to the Protestant Reformation. Suddenly, printed Bibles made their way into people’s hands, they started reading them, and were like “whoa whoa whoa, *that’s* not in there!” So, more info = more freedom.
• Back to diseases. Today, we have toothpaste. Back then, you had pliers. The barber *doubled* as the dentist. Today, we have anesthesia. Back then, you had a stick to bite on (if you still had teeth). Today, we have sterile surgical instruments. Back then, you had hammers and chisels. Today, we have pharmaceuticals and chemotherapy. Back then, you had leeches and basins to catch the siphoned blood in.
• Mental health treatment? Not perfect, but at least I can just take pills and go on my way, as opposed to being tied to a wooden stake and either being burned, or having the townspeople standing on the shore to see whether I sank or floated, or having some priest trying to beat the demons out of me with a mace.
• Women’s rights? Sexual freedom? In a previous era I would already be lying under a pile of rocks in a public square, if I weren’t already dead from giving birth to a child. Better yet, a child that resulted from a rape, which wouldn’t be prosecuted because I’m a whore because I’m no longer a virgin, because duh, I had already had sex, because I had been raped! Better still, this guy would be my husband now, because I would *have* to marry him by law! Because it’s in the Bible! Don’t believe me? I’ll find the verse if you’re interested.
• OK, the whole plumbing/clean drinking water/sanitation thing. Back then? If you were lucky you lived in the clean country and got to piss and shit outside. If you were an urban dweller, you dumped your chamber pot out the window, onto the sidewalks, maybe onto people’s heads. And if you were on said sidewalk, you got to walk in it. Like Bourbon Street the day after Mardi Gras, times 10, day in, day out! While dodging plague-carrying rats the whole while! You know why they invented perfume in Paris? Because you had to soak a hanky with it and stick it over your nose just to walk around outdoors!
• Water? Ha, drink beer or wine or mead. Or die. Plumbing? The Romans mastered it. Too bad they drank out of lead pipes. And then along came Nero …
• Food? Like most people you may have been a farmer and did nothing but till and milk and scratch together your sustenance by the sweat of your brow, all day, every day, from before the crack of dawn. Now? We have a grocery store every half mile that contains more fresh, safe, delicious food than many third world villages may see in a month. And I’m grateful for it. I always get a rush every time I walk into a Publix or a Target or a Wal-Mart and see the vast array of choices, of any kind of food I could ever want, of ready-made clothes that I don’t have to weave myself, of vacuum cleaners and microwaves and computers and toys and movies and people so prosperous, by many many standards, that even in their lower middle class-ness, more of them than not are lugging around an extra 50 pounds. And, well, it kicks ass.

Epilogue

I think those who lived in the clean country, with clean air and water, and could live off the land, probably had it best of all those who lived “back then.” As far ago as, well, my grandfather, who was born in 1921. Of course, it still wasn’t all that great. Again, the whole previously mentioned lack of medicine stuff. That, and nothing much social going on but your cousins and church. (Of course someone is going to make a crack about the South still being like that … and you may not be far off, haha, though we *do* have cities here too.) My grandpa was so frustrated with being stuck on a farm that he lied about his age to join the army and go fight WWII.If you have the ability to live off the land, the bad economy won’t affect you a whit. Lose your job? What job? Your job is surviving. There is something to be said for the message of Hank Williams Jr. and his ballad of the country boy making his own way by hunting, fishing, and farming. The reason the “bad economy” is so bad is because we are all so vulnerable. If the jobs and the technology and the infrastructure and the electricity and the fuel that propels the machines were to be suddenly wiped away, most of us coddled Westerners would be in a world of hurt. We get our food from the grocery store and wouldn’t know how to grow it if, well, our lives depended on it. Many *would* survive the transition back to rural life/third world conditions, but many would perish under the weight of their own, well, wussiness.Which is why this coddled wuss is going to enjoy our marvelous modern world while it lasts, before the nukes/terrorists/global warming/rapture/armageddon blows it all to kingdom come.

Not really maintaining right now …

I’m not going away, and I haven’t forgotten about my blog … I just don’t have the time to maintain it right now. Too much going on. If you don’t like quasi-active blogs on your blogroll then I suppose this is my way of saying, don’t expect much activity from me any time in the near future …

Cheers!
xoxoxox
Blanche D.

I am … Jezebel!

[Stolen from Ms. Rhea ]

Your result for Are You a Jackie or a Marilyn? Or Someone Else? Mad Men-era Female Icon Quiz…

You Are a Bette!

You are a Bette — “I must be strong”

Bettes are direct, self-reliant, self-confident, and protective.

How to Get Along with Me

• * Stand up for yourself… and me.
• * Be confident, strong, and direct.
• * Don’t gossip about me or betray my trust.
• * Be vulnerable and share your feelings. See and acknowledge my tender, vulnerable side.
• * Give me space to be alone.
• * Acknowledge the contributions I make, but don’t flatter me.
• * I often speak in an assertive way. Don’t automatically assume it’s a personal attack.
• * When I scream, curse, and stomp around, try to remember that’s just the way I am.

What I Like About Being a Bette

• * being independent and self-reliant
• * being able to take charge and meet challenges head on
• * being courageous, straightforward, and honest
• * getting all the enjoyment I can out of life
• * supporting, empowering, and protecting those close to me
• * upholding just causes

What’s Hard About Being a Bette

• * overwhelming people with my bluntness; scaring them away when I don’t intend to
• * being restless and impatient with others’ incompetence
• * sticking my neck out for people and receiving no appreciation for it
• * never forgetting injuries or injustices
• * putting too much pressure on myself
• * getting high blood pressure when people don’t obey the rules or when things don’t go right

Bettes as Children Often

• * are independent; have an inner strength and a fighting spirit
• * are sometimes loners
• * seize control so they won’t be controlled
• * figure out others’ weaknesses
• * attack verbally or physically when provoked
• * take charge in the family because they perceive themselves as the strongest, or grow up in difficult or abusive surroundings

Bettes as Parents

• * are often loyal, caring, involved, and devoted
• * are sometimes overprotective
• * can be demanding, controlling, and rigid

Take Are You a Jackie or a Marilyn? Or Someone Else? Mad Men-era Female Icon Quiz at HelloQuizzy