She came upon him at the marsh’s edge. He knelt in high grass, binoculars trained on white specks sitting on the water far away down the shoreline. He was absorbed and happy, his face relaxed in an unguarded smile. The sun was at his back: his smile was real. He smiled at what he saw, and with simple momentary pleasure in the warm morning of a false spring. He was an optimist, like Charlie and her father, but with a rare intelligence somewhere at the source of his durable hope. She knelt beside him, silent, on fire, and he turned to her for a brief look, smiling, agreeable, put the binoculars in her hands, saying, “Look over here. Egrets. Is that possible this time of year?” And at his touch she broke, came sweetly apart, staring down at a velvet oval of forest-star moss, a bright green constellation in miniature; and she leaned lightly against his shoulder for support, to steady her rocking, while he scanned the shoreline, unaware; and after a time she raised the glasses to her eyes, to search with him for what could only, after all, be herring gulls.
The Best of Betty
Dear Betty:
I’m only forty-two years old and already going through the Change. I tried for twenty years to get pregnant and now I never will. Also, I get horrible cluster migraines now. The worst ones feel like a huge tarantula is clamped to my head with his legs sticking into my eyes and ears, and I have to scream with the pain. Next Tuesday I’m going to have all my teeth pulled, because the hormones have rotted my gums. I’m forty-two years old and for the rest of my life I’m going to sleep with my teeth in a glass by the bed. I hate being a woman. I hate my life. I hate Iowa. If I didn’t believe in hell I’d kill myself.
Hopeless in the Heartland
Dear Hopeless:
What’s the question?
Sorry, Readers. It’s broken record time again. (1) Seek the aid of a competent therapist or clergyman; (2) Keep busy; (3) Above all, don’t think about yourself so much; because (4) WHINING DOESNT ADVANCE THE BALL.
For starters, Hopeless, why don’t you rewrite this letter; only instead of cataloguing your complaints, include everything you have to be grateful for. You’ll be amazed at how well this works.
Dear Betty:
Calling all Tooth Fairies! Don’t throw away your kids’ teeth! Save them up until you have a good third cupful, then scatter them around your tulip beds come spring, and you won’t lose one bulb to marauding squirrels. Scares the dickens out of them, I guess!
Petunia
Dear Petunia:
I guess it would! Thanks for another of your timely and original gardening tips.
Dear Betty:
Lately, at parties, my husband has started calling me “Lard-bottom.” I know he loves me, and he says he doesn’t mean anything by it, but he hurts me terribly. Last night, at the bowling alley with some of his trucker buddies, he kept referring to me as “Wide Load.” Betty, I cried all night.
We’re both big fans of yours. Would you comment on his cruel behavior? He’d pay attention to you. Tell him that I may have put on weight, but I’m still a
Human Being
Dear Human:
Yes, a human being with an enormous behind. Sorry, Toots. If I read correctly between the lines, hubby’s worried sick about your health. Try a little self-control. Quit stuffing your face.
Dear Betty:
Last winter my sister and I moved out here to Drygulch, Arizona, for her health. She’s doing well, but I’ve developed tic douloureux, of all things, and the spasms are unpredictable and agonizing. Our nearest doctor is fifty miles away, as is, for that matter, our nearest neighbor. I can’t help feeling I’d be better off in Tucson or Phoenix, near a large medical center, but my sister, who’s quite reclusive, says that if we moved her emphysema would just kick up again. Should we split up? Do I have the right to leave her, on account of a disease which, though painful, is not life-threatening?
Dolorous in Drygulch
Dear Dolorous:
Why not join a tic douloureux support group? If there isn’t already one in the area, why not start one? (The company might bring Sis out of her shell!)
Dear Betty:
Isn’t it about time for a rerun of “Betty Believes”? I’d love to get a new copy laminated for my niece.
Happiness Is
Dear Happiness:
Of course. Here goes:
Betty Believes
That everything has a funny side to it.
That whining doesn’t advance the ball.
That there’s always somebody worse off than you.
That there’s such a thing as being too smart for your own good.
That there are worse things in the world than ignorance and mediocrity.
That it takes all kinds.
That nobody’s opinion is worth more than anybody else’s.
That the more things stay the same, the better.
That everything happens for a good reason.
That no one ever died from an insult to the intelligence.
Dear Betty:
My Grandma Claire used to read your column every morning with her first cup of coffee and cigarette of the day. She called “Ask Betty” the real news. She said that following the progress of your career over the years was her only truly wicked pleasure, and that it was like watching a massacre through a telescope. What did she mean by that? She got throat cancer and died, and the last thing she said to me was, “There are too atheists in fox-holes.” My mom says she was out of her mind. What do you think?
Fourteen and Wondering
Dear Wondering:
That your Grandma Claire will not have died in vain if you will heed the lesson of her life: Don’t smoke.
CONFIDENTIAL to First Person Singular:
Is it worth it, kid? Is it really?
Sure, on the one side you have money—obscene amounts of money—not to mention job security, reputation, celebrity. But…what about the numbing boredom? What about self-respect? What about, you should pardon the expression, honor? Huh, Toots?
I mean, who’s really contemptible here? Them, or you?
Hint: Who’s got the ulcer?
Who’s got the whim-whams?
Who’s got the blues in the night?
Dear Betty:
This is going to sound ridiculous, but hear me out. My husband smacks his lips in his sleep and it’s driving me batty. If he were only snoring or gnashing his teeth, but this is a licking sound, a lapping, sipping, slurping sound, like a huge baby gumming pureed peas in the dark, and it makes my flesh crawl. I’ve tried nudging him awake, but he just looks at me so pitifully, and then I feel guilty. Imagine how he’d feel if I told him what I really want, which is my own bed in my own separate bedroom! Help!
Nauseous in Nashville
Dear Nauseous:
Sounds like hubby has some deep dark cravings, or so my sleep disorder experts tell me. Why not fix him up a yummy bowl of butterscotch pudding (from scratch) just before bedtime?
By the way…you mean “nauseated,” dear.
Dear Betty:
You want to know what burns me up? Inconsiderate bozos who jam up the speedy checkout line with grocery carts loaded to the brim, and moronic bimbos who let their children rip open bags of candy and cereal boxes and knock over jelly jars, and don’t even have the decency to tell the stockboy to clean up their disgusting mess. I just got back from two hours at the grocery store and my new pumps are covered with mincemeat. What do you think of these lunkheads?
Burned Up
Dear Burned:
These people are not bozos, bimbos, or lunkheads. They are trash.
Dear Betty:
I am 135 pounds of screaming muscle in crepe-soled shoes. I groan under enormous trays laden with exotic delicacies I shall never taste, as they are beyond my meager economic means. Having seen your face once I am able to connect it with the food and drink of your choice. I smile when you are rude to me and apologize when the fault lies in the kitchen. I walk the equivalent of five miles each night on throbbing feet to satisfy your every wh
im, and when you are stuffed and have no further need of me, I act grateful for a sub-standard tip, if at all. I am
Your Waitress
Dear Waitress:
Thank you.
What’s the question?
Dear Betty:
You hear from so many unfortunates with serious problems that I feel a bit ashamed to take up your time this way. I am an attractive woman of 59; my thighs are perfectly smooth, my waist unthickened, I still have both my breasts and all my teeth; in fact I am two dress sizes smaller than I was at eighteen. My three grown daughters are intelligent, healthy, and independent. My husband and I are as much in love as when we first were married, despite the depth of our familiarity, and the, by now, considerable conflation of our tastes, political beliefs, preferences in music and art, and, of course, memories. He still interests and pleasures me; miraculously our sexual life remains joyous, inventive, and mutually fulfilling. I continue to adore the challenge and variety of my career as an ethnic dance therapist. We have never had to worry about money. Our country home is lovely, and very old, and solidly set down in a place of incomparable, ever shifting beauty; our many friends, old and new, are delightful people, amusing and wise, and every one of them honorable and a source of strength to us.
And yet, with all of this, and more, I am frequently very sad, and cannot rid myself of a growing, formless, yet very real sense of devastating loss, no less hideous for its utter irrationality. Forgive me, but does this make any sense to you?
Niobe
Dear Niobe:
Certainly. You’re lying about the sex.
Dear Betty:
Why not scissor the cups out of your old brassieres and set them out in your annual garden as little domes to protect fragile seedlings? It looks wacky but it sure does the trick!
Petunia
Dear Petunia:
Why the heck not? And hey, don’t throw away those brassiere straps! Kids love to carry their schoolbooks in them, especially once you’ve disguised their embarrassing identity with precision-cut strips of silver mylar cemented front and back with epoxy, then adorned with tiny hand-sewn appliques in animal or rock-star designs. Use your imagination!
CONFIDENTIAL to Smarting and Smiling:
What you describe is not a “richly deserved comeuppance” but a sexual perversion, which, aside from being your own business and none of mine, is harmless enough and, if I read accurately between the lines, apparently works well for both of you.
You might just try these thought experiments, though: Imagine the effect upon your sex life of: a business failure; the birth of a child; rheumatoid arthritis (his); a positive biopsy (yours); the death of a child; a sudden terrifying sense of vastation that comes to either of you at three in the morning; a Conelrad Alert. In what ways would it differ from the experience of a couple for whom the concepts of integrity, maturity, valor and dignity retained actual relevance and power?
Dear Betty:
You deserve a swift kick in the pants for your bum advice to Fretting in Spokane. Where do you get off telling that lady to iron her dustcloths? Dollars to doughnuts you’ve got a maid to keep your rags shipshape, but most of us aren’t so lucky.
And another thing. These days there’s getting to be a snotty, know-it-all, lah-dee-dah, cynical tone to your column. I can’t put my finger on it, but I’m not the only one who thinks you’re getting “too big for your britches.” Don’t kid yourself. You need us more than we need you. So bend over, Betty, if you know what’s good for you, and get ready for a
Washington Wallop
Dear Wallop:
For what it’s worth, I agree with you about the dustcloths. But I sincerely regret having ever unwittingly encouraged your brand of coarse familiarity. And may I suggest that you take yourself to the nearest dictionary—you can find one in any public library—and “put your finger” on the distinction between cynicism and irony. Think about it, Wallop. And tell me how it turns out.
Dear Betty:
Many years ago you ran a column that started off “The Other Woman is a sponging parasitic succubus….” I clipped it and kept it magnetized to my freezer, but it finally fell apart. Do you know the one I mean? Would you mind running it again?
Sister Sue
Dear Sis:
Not at all. Here goes:
“The Other Woman is a sponging parasitic succubus, a proper role model for young people, a vacuous nitwit, a manic-depressive, a Republican, a good mother, an international terrorist, or what-have-you, depending, of course, upon the facts of her particular character and life.
“Though this much should be obvious, there are those who believe that any woman sexually involved with a man she is not married to can be, for social and moral purposes, reduced to a cheap stereotype. This is dangerous nonsense. This is a terrible habit of thought. For who among us has fewer than three dimensions? In the history of the human race, has there ever existed a single person, besides Hitler, who could slip beneath closed doors, disappear when viewed from the side, and settle comfortably, with room to spare, between the pages of a bad novel?
“Therefore let us rejoice in our variety! Let every one of us celebrate the special homeliness of her own history! Let us wonder, and be surprised, and admit to possibilities, and get on with it, and stop being so damn stupid!”
Dear Betty:
Are you nuts? You can’t get away with this. Even if you do, what’s the point?
First Person Singular
Dear F.P.S.:
The point is, watch my smoke.
Dear Betty:
I need you to settle an argument. My brother-in-law says you’re not the original Betty and that you’re not even a person. He says Betty died two years ago in a car wreck and they covered it up and this column is being carried on by a committee, hush-hush. I say he’s all wet. (He’s one of those conspiracy nuts.) Anyway, what’s the poop? (Hint: There’s a lobster dinner riding on this.)
No Skeptic
Dear No:
This is a stumper. I’ve been staring for so long at the wonderful phrase “original Betty” that the words have become nonsensical and even the letters look strange. Who, I wonder, is or was the “original Betty”? I’m not making fun of you, dear. I honestly don’t know what to say. If it’s any help to you, I do have the same fingerprints as the infant born prematurely to Mary Alice Feeney in 1927, and the vivacious coed who won first prize in the national “My Country Because” essay contest of 1946, and the woman who put this column into syndication in 1952. So I suppose you deserve the lobster; although how you’re going to convince your brother-in-law is anybody’s guess. I wonder what he’d take as proof. I’ve got to think about this.
Dear Betty:
It’s him I can’t stand. In bed! And he knows it, too. I just don’t want him touching me, I can’t bear it! And I still love him! But there’s nothing left any more, and how the hell is homemade butterscotch pudding going to help that? My God! My God! And don’t tell me it’s just a phase, because I know better and so does he. God, I’m so unhappy.
Nauseated, All Right? in Nashville
Dear N:
That’s much better. Awful, isn’t it? The death of desire? And you’re probably right, there’s no help for it. Though if you can stomach the notion that intimacy is nothing more than a perfectable technique, you might try what they call a “reputable sex therapist.”
Of all the foolish, ignoble, even evil acts I have committed in my long life, including the “My Country Because” essay, the single event that most shames me, so that I flush from chest to scalp even as I write this, was when I sat, of my own free will, in the offices of one of these technicians, and in the presence of a pink, beaming, gleaming young man, a total stranger, took my husband’s hands in mine, and stared into his face, his poor face, crimson like my own, transfixed with humiliation and disbelief, and said—oh, this is dreadful; my husband of twenty-three years!—and said, in public, “I love it when you lick my nipples.”
&n
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