Betty White in Person Page 10

Our son David and his wife Kathleen were visiting, and Sarah, our youngest, was still living at home. I can remember where we were sitting, what we were wearing . . . practically even what we’d had for dinner . . . I just don’t remember the subject we were discussing. Minor detail. The following is an excerpt from two pages that I had written later that night . . . obviously still in temper.

  “I have no platform from which to speak. I am uninformed. I am not really very bright. Granted, I am very emotional. But I am no more uninformed than those who are sounding off the loudest. I am every bit as bright, by nature, and certainly a lot wiser by experience, than some of the loud voices of authority to which I have been subjected of late. And as for being emotional . . . we are suddenly in a whole new dimension in this type of exchange, where emotion equates with violence, sanity equates with ‘I think,’ and judgment equates with really nothing at all!”

  Well!!! I hope I felt better after that outburst. Glad nobody saw it. It sure could use a rewrite.

  The point is, however, I didn’t (hopefully) say it where it would have thrown more fuel on what was already a pretty good fire. It must also be remembered that I was, in fact, a protagonist once-removed . . . I was a stepmother!

  The kids and I have enjoyed a good relationship, and sparks that were struck on occasion would have happened if we were blood kin. But in this particular type of exchange . . . (what was the subject that night!) . . . Allen had a logical, if disconcerting, tendency to get defensive. If I charged in too hard . . . even to defend his argument . . . he would switch sides suddenly, and it became three against one. I tried to learn when backing off was the better part of valor.

  Ah . . . maybe that’s why I saved those pages! Because handling an argument in that sensible way was not the norm for me, but rather the exception. Most of the time I jump in, shoot from the hip, and wind up losing the point I am trying to make. Those pages better go in “The Box.” They could be a collector’s item.

  Needless to say, all of the above is totally unrelated to a civilized entry in a nightly journal to record the events of the day . . . and is only to be used as a last resort to ward off a potential explosion.

  Writing is also said to be great therapy in trying to cope with grief. Again and again, I have heard and read that when the lava dome begins to build up in your chest to the point of being unbearable, it can relieve the pressure if you write down the memories that threaten to overwhelm you. Not to worry if they aren’t in any particular order, or if they are good memories, or bad memories, or even whether they are factually correct. You aren’t even bound to read back what you have written. It is the simple act of writing it that is supposed to bring relief . . . breaking that downward emotional spiral.

  To me that makes great sense. I’m sure it should help . . . it’s the same ploy as my venting anger by trying to articulate ideas that wind up in “The Drawer.”

  Yet isn’t it strange . . . when it might have helped the most, I couldn’t bear to pick up a pencil.

  On Anger

  Anger tears me up inside . . . My own . . . or anyone else’s.

  How often I have heard people say, “I really blew my stack! It made me feel so much better!” Though I’ve never had the guts to ask, I wonder each time if they had any kind of emotional hangover afterward.

  I have learned the hard way, that for the momentary satisfaction I may get from a flare-up, there will be a heavy price to pay in the sleepless replays that inevitably follow. Sorry to say, this does not preclude my getting mad . . . I have inherited what my mother used to call her Greek Temper . . . but, with rare, painful exceptions, I usually manage to keep the steam within . . . until I can get away by myself for a primal scream or two . . . At least, by so doing, there are no lethal words left hanging forever in the air.

  There is rarely, if ever, a winner in any heated verbal exchange. No one’s opinion is altered . . . probably only reinforced . . . and so much more is dredged up than the issue of the moment. Don’t be too quick to congratulate yourself on your wondrous restraint, at those times when you stopped short of saying something devastating and held your tongue. Rest assured that, down the line, the first time you really lose it . . . out it will pour.

  Other people’s anger I find devastating, as well. Strangers screaming anonymously at each other can trigger an anxiety in me that is very hard to shake off. When it is someone known and cared for, it is almost unbearable.

  As a child, I can remember hearing my parents quarrel. They used to have some real barn-raisers . . . probably because they were very much in love, not just tolerating each other. However, I would be shattered. The moment either one would become aware of this, the fight would come to an abrupt stop . . . but I could still feel the lingering anger there.

  It was only after they had kissed and really made up that I could draw a deep breath again.

  Isn’t it strange . . . I haven’t thought of that in years.

  Because anger, in general, is such a personal trauma, I have tried to find ways around it. Surprisingly, this gets a little easier with each year that passes. I am finally convinced, at this late date, that smiling and shrugging takes a lot less out of you than fury. Especially concerning the little things that don’t really matter. It may be momentarily frustrating to your opponent . . . but by the time the subject comes up again at some later date, your differences may have dissolved completely.

  One would assume that this behavior would lead to all sorts of deep frustrations . . . even total psychological disaster. I’m sure those who are supposed to know about these things would be horrified. But remember, all I’m doing, for the moment, is simply turning my back on what upset me . . . not putting a lid on it. If the anger doesn’t dissipate rapidly, believe me, the volcano will blow.

  I don’t consider this being a wimp, but rather someone interested in the conservation of energy. Also, it saves the big artillery for a battle that really matters.

  There is just one minor detail I haven’t quite got worked out as yet. That is how to instantly make the distinction between what is trivial, as opposed to what is worth fighting for . . . all within a second, when your emotions are just this side of flash point. Aside from that, the system works swell.

  Where I find the smile-and-shrug approach particularly useful is in coping with the myriad of unimportant irritants that daily threaten to send one over the edge.

  Take driving, for example . . . the perfect barometer by which to gauge how uptight one is without knowing it. If I am in an especially acute state of hassle . . . with twice as many things to do than time in which to do them . . . I make a conscious effort to relax completely as I get behind the wheel. It’s almost like fastening an emotional seat belt. For one thing, it keeps me from carrying the pressures on to the next stop. More importantly, it makes driving a helluva lot safer . . . even enjoyable.

  When the tension is more than skin-deep, nothing will make it surface faster than having some idiot in front of you wait to put his left turn signal on until the light changes . . . or park and swing his door open to get out, just as you are passing. It is at times like this that I let fly with a somewhat creative verbal barrage . . . then pray no one can lipread. Unfortunately, this fails to serve as the tension release it should be. I wind up feeling foolish . . . while the joker goes his way, completely unaware that I even exist.

  What finally percolated through this thick skull of mine is that all this is a tremendous waste of time. If I don’t feel better for getting mad, why do it? I now try very hard to grin and give way. On those occasions when it is really warranted . . . let’s say some cretin runs the yellow as it’s turning red . . . I may allow myself the luxury of a resigned little shake of the head. My rage I save for bigger things.

  All of this could sound as if I am the one who is generally put upon, and that I never make a dumb mistake. Which, of course, is true.

  On Jealousy

  How do you describe jealousy? In what way do you define that ugly emotion? I though
t it would be one of the easy ones to pin down, but when I try, it keeps dodging away. That’s what makes it so insidious . . . It won’t come out in the open . . . it likes dark places.

  In the interest of being totally honest, I must say that I have never been jealous of things. As far back as I can remember, if someone had something we couldn’t afford, which happened a lot, it didn’t occur to me to be jealous of the fact. If I was in contention for something and lost out, I would feel bad . . . for myself, because I had wanted to be chosen for whatever it was . . . but that didn’t make me jealous of whoever won. It wasn’t the winner’s fault that I wasn’t good enough to make it.

  Perhaps that’s where envy fits in the scheme of things. I could, and did, envy girls who had lovely hair . . . but that wasn’t something to be jealous of . . . they didn’t do it on purpose.

  Sounds very noble so far, right? Now we get to relationships, which get much more complicated . . . and I don’t come out ahead.

  As I remember . . . and I’m the first to admit that priorities have undergone drastic changes in the interim . . . in school, it was usually around the fourth or fifth grades when “best friend”-ships started to form. The group of friends was still intact, but within the group, pairs of closest friends began to evolve. These were very important attachments, and you pledged to be inseparable forever . . . or at least through the next semester or two. Even back then, should my first best buddy, Peggy Hall, spend too much time with Margaret Miller without dealing me in too, I began to feel shut out, and a little sick inside.

  Certainly that nasty feeling is left behind in childhood, as one grows older and wiser. Like hell. About now, boys come into the picture!

  As I grew up, and romance became an increasingly important part of my existence, this same unpleasant sensation would rear its ugly head from time to time, and I was forced to recognize the green-eyed monster. Jealousy.

  Jealousy hurts just as bad, whether it is warranted or merely a figment of your own vivid imagination. That’s probably the reason I have never been attracted to the popular hunk who is driving all the other females crazy. Even if he should favor me with his attention momentarily, I know there is no way I could deal with all that competition. This is, no doubt, some form of twisted insecurity, but knowing what it might be doesn’t make it one bit more handleable . . . nor admirable.

  Even in situations when I know for a positive fact that there is no cause for jealousy whatsoever . . . I am not proof against it. I have a remarkably clear recollection of a pool party that Allen and I gave, when we were living in Chappaqua, New York. It was a lot of fun, until I began to notice that one of the girls present found my husband terribly attractive. The fact that she was right didn’t make me feel any better.

  In all fairness, Allen was so busy being a good host, he was more or less an innocent bystander . . . but wherever he was, somehow she was there too . . . laughing inordinately at whatever he said. As per usual, for me, the madder I got inside, the more outgoing and “charming” I became, and Allen knew something was up. It was a little subplot going that none of the guests would ever have suspected. They wouldn’t even have noticed the lady’s (see how “charming”?) preoccupation because they weren’t infected by the jealousy virus. Even Allen didn’t know what was bugging me, but he knew his girl well enough to know that something was.

  The evening was a success, the guests went home happy . . . one, I’m glad to say, not quite as happy as she may have had in mind. Together, Allen and I began straightening up the usual party debris, as we always did, rather than face it next morning. I gradually became aware of the fact that I was flitting around picking stuff up, while Allen was standing quietly in the middle of the floor, just watching . . . waiting for me to wind down. When I did, he took me by the shoulders, and said gently, “Now, are you going to tell me what you’re so mad at me about?”

  Direct questions like that are really unfair! They require an answer in kind . . . direct, quiet, well-stated . . . and I was in no mood for that nonsense. Whatever I might have come up with would have sounded like the petulant, jealous witch that I was feeling at the moment . . . so I did what any red-blooded American wife would do under the circumstances . . . I said, “Nothing!!!” Allen, however, was never lacking in persistence. (Or I wouldn’t have married him, wouldn’t be standing there feeling foolish . . . That almost made me mad all over again.) So, with a few bitchy asides from me, we eventually talked it out.

  In the course of the conversation, he pointed out that I was, innately, an incorrigible flirt, whether I was aware of it or not, and though he had seen it, he knew it was a sort of reflex action that didn’t mean anything. While he didn’t like it a lot, he wasn’t bothered by it because he was secure in knowing I loved him, and he trusted me completely.

  Well, try and win an argument with someone unfair enough to use logic against you. Bluster as I might, I knew he was absolutely right. I was a flirt . . . though I thought of it as harmless party badinage. Could it be that I had spotted our overly attentive guest earlier, because I recognized the symptoms? I wasn’t about to admit such a thing, of course, but I did gain a new perspective from that conversation. For the first time, I realized that Allen actually didn’t understand what jealousy felt like . . . it simply wasn’t in his lexicon. He was too smart to give it houseroom.

  I should have been grateful for that, and I was.

  Did I take it as a learning experience? Nope.

  With all my heart, I wish they had picked some other color besides green for such a vicious emotion. Hopefully it is only by coincidence, but green happens to be my absolute favorite color of all.

  In any event, it’s too late to do anything about it now. It would be awkward to say, “I turned puce with jealousy!”

  On Guilt

  The guilt trip is one we all take in one form or another. For some, it’s more a way of life than a journey.

  So many ethnic groups claim guilt as their private prerogative . . . it’s almost like a school tie. But perhaps it’s not an accident of birth, so much, as the nature of the individual beast. I’ll match my WASP guilt with any challengers.

  Obviously, we are not talking heavy guilt here . . . just the ordinary everyday garden variety through which we wade on a daily basis. Try as we may, some of us still screw up.

  If you don’t do something you think you should do . . . you feel guilty.

  If you do something you think you shouldn’t . . . it’s even worse.

  If you say you’ll do something and then you don’t do it . . . well! . . . you might as well pack it in.

  Actually . . . taken in moderation, a little guilt never hurt anybody. Through my growing up years, it certainly helped this child separate right from wrong. Sure, I made big mistakes . . . but at least I knew the difference.

  My folks used the system of positive reinforcement on me, as a kid . . . the same method that good dog trainers use successfully today. They would praise me for what I did right . . . then, when I did something wrong, they didn’t actually punish me, but, oh boy, I knew I had made them unhappy! That hurt more than anything, because I was really anxious to please . . . as my dogs are today. Child psychologists may be turning purple, but it worked. Mom and Dad had me paper-trained in no time!

  Squaring up . . . what it did do was set a pattern that has stayed with me all my life. Tell me I’m doing okay and I will break my neck to do better. Tell me I’m rotten, and that is exactly how I will be, no matter how hard I try. Admittedly, I don’t have a corner on that market . . . it works that way for most on the receiving end. It would be nice if more of those dishing it out were aware of the fact.

  Don’t misunderstand. My folks corrected and criticized a lot, and I was never allowed to “get by” with anything . . . but they laced it all with enough approbation to keep me interested and trying. (Sometimes very trying!) The result was I never had that negative feeling of “I can’t do anything right.”

  Whether or not it was justified, I
can’t say, but so many of my friends seemed to make a hobby of bad-mouthing their parents. At a given age, I realize, that is par for the course . . . but some never outgrew it.

  In the context of present-day complexities and problems and fragmented family life, or lack thereof . . . parent/child relationships of fifty years ago don’t seem very pertinent. But buried in there somewhere is a core of love and mutual respect that could be of value even today.

  Probably having something to do with being an only offspring, I don’t think I ever let off steam about my parents to anyone on the outside. When I was mad at my folks, I didn’t take out an ad in the school paper. I either blew up at them, and we talked it out, or it all sorted itself out and went away. Somewhere along the way I skipped “rebel.” It never occurred to me to disagree with my parents just because they said something . . . only if I disagreed with what they said.

  I am not saying this is good or bad . . . it’s simply the way it was.

  My mother clued me in very early on the fact that no matter how many people you think you can fool . . . or lie to . . . the only one on this earth who won’t hold still for it is the individual looking back at you in the mirror.

  You know me well enough by now to know that, with my hyper imagination, it didn’t take long before that mirror image became another person to me . . . one who could bring me up short, and force me to stop and think. More than once in my life, I have found myself trying to avoid the eyes in that reflection . . . and I realized I was in big trouble. Take it from me, it is not easy to comb your hair, or put on your makeup under these circumstances. That other person simply will not go away. You know that, sooner or later, the two of you are going to have to address what is on your mind.