Betty White's Quotes

A friend said to me, “Hey you need to grow a pair. Grow a pair, Bro.” It’s when someone calls you weak, but they associate it with a lack of testicles. Which is weird, because testicles are the most sensitive things in the world. If you suddenly just grew a pair, you’d be a lot more vulnerable. If you want to be tough, you should lose a pair. If you want to be real tough, you should grow a vagina. Those things can take a pounding.

Animals don’t lie. Animals don’t criticize. If animals have moody days, they handle them better than humans do.

If one has no sense of humor, one is in trouble.

I'm a teenager trapped in an old body.

People have told me 'Betty, Facebook is a great way to keep in touch with old friends...' .. At my age, if I wanted to keep in touch with old friends, I'd need a Ouija board

Friendship takes time and energy if it's going to work. You can luck into something great, but it doesn't last if you don't give it proper appreciation. Friendship can be so comfortable, but nurture it-don't take it for granted.

You don't luck into integrity. You work at it.

Retirement is not in my vocabulary. They aren't going to get rid of me that way.

Why do people say, "Grow some balls"?  Balls are weak and sensitive.  If you wanna be tough, grow a vagina.  Those things can take a pounding. -Betty White

It’s [old age] not a surprise, we knew it was coming – make the most of it. So you may not be as fast on your feet, and the image in your mirror may be a little disappointing, but if you are still functioning and not in pain, gratitude should be the name of the game.

Yes, when I get big and have my own home, no plush chairs and lace curtains for me. And no rubber plants. I'll have a desk like this in my parlor and white walls and a clean green blotter every Saturday night and a row of shining yellow pencils always sharpened for writing and a golden-brown bowl with a flower or some leaves or berries always in it and books . . . books . . . books. . . .

My mother always used to say, "The older you get, the better you get. Unless you're a banana.

All creatures must learn to coexist. That’s why the brown bear and the field mouse can share their lives in harmony. Of course, they can’t mate or the mice would explode.

Trolls suck.

You can lie to anyone in the world and even get away with it, perhaps, but when you are alone and look into your own eyes in the mirror, you can’t sidestep the truth. Always be sure you can meet those eyes directly.

A lady likes to be complimented on her looks, her eyes, her figure. But the personality comments are much appreciated.

*​As the legendary Betty White once said, “Why do people say ‘grow some balls?’ Balls are weak and sensitive. If you wanna be tough, grow a vagina. Those things can take a pounding.

I don't care who anybody sleeps with. If a couple has been together all that time -- and there are gay relationships that are more solid than some heterosexual ones -- I think it's fine if they want to get married. I don't know how people can get so anti-something. Mind your own business, take care of your affairs, and don't worry about other people so much.

I asked the indefatigable Betty White what she was going to do when she got home. She told me she was going to fix herself a “vodka on the rocks and eat a cold hot dog.” In one sentence, she proved my theory and made me excited for my future.

If you don't believe something, then don't say it. Saying it only gives it power. ~Betty White

Maybe I should go put on my ragged white dress and stone necklace and you can put on your leopard skin tunic and we can pedal in our stone car to the roadhouse before you go bowling with Barney and I go shopping with Betty, Fred. –Sadie

That’s when you have to remember that image in the mirror and not let success get to you. It is important that you not believe your own publicity. Be grateful for whatever praise you receive, but take it with a grain of salt.

You were just a beautiful woman. Now you're my beautiful woman. What you got under your clothes is for me. No one else. They don't look. They don't touch. That's the deal. Yeah?" I stared at him, speechless, which was a good thing because if I had words, I would have said them so loudly the neighbors would hear. "Now," he went on, either not feeling or not caring about the badder than bad vibes emanating from me directly toward him, "go put on a tank." That’s when I found my words. "Maybe I should go put on my ragged white dress and stone necklace and you can put on your leopard skin tunic and we can pedal in our stone car to the roadhouse before you go bowling with Barney and I go shopping with Betty, Fred.

One day,’ I told him, ‘God will turn out all the lights to remind people like you that in the dark, you won’t be able to tell who is white like you and who ain’t. We’ll have to treat one another equally. We’ll learn it’s not our skin color that makes us good or bad. And only when we learn that, will God turn the lights back on.

Zander says you are.” “Zander also maintains that Betty White isn’t the only surviving member of The Golden Girls and that a reunion is still possible if someone could just uncover the conspiracy,

I know how lucky I am to have had such wonderful first and second acts in my career. I'm still not sure what my third act will turn out to be (Sexy Baking Competition Hostess? Flamboyant Peruvian Bingo Caller?), but if you happen to run into Betty White, tell her thank you. I'd like to be her one day.

Don’t try to be young. Just open your mind. Stay interested in stuff.

The robe open just enough for me to see his beautiful saggy chest. A chest that would give Betty White a run for her money.

Thanks for being a friend, Betty White.

Betty's a good Muslim woman and wife. I don't imagine many other women might put up with the way I am. Awakening this brainwashed black man and telling this arrogant, devilish white man the truth about himself, Betty understands, is a full-time job

Sissy had two great failings. She was a great lover and a great mother. She had so much of tenderness in her, so much of wanting to give of herself to whoever needed what she had, whether it was her money, her time, the clothes off her back, her pity, her understanding, her friendship or her companionship and love. She was mother to everything that came her way. She loved men, yes. She loved women too, and old people and especially children. How she loved children! She loved loved the down-and-outers. She wanted to make everybody happy. She had tried to seduce the good priest who heard her infrequent confessions because she felt sorry for him. She thought he was missing the greatest joy on earth by being committed to a life of celibacy. She loved all the scratching curs on the street and wept for the gaunt scavenging cats who slunk around Brooklyn corners with their sides swollen looking for a hole in which they might bring forth their young. She loved the sooty sparrows and thought that the very grass that grew in the lots was beautiful. She picked bouquets of white clover in the lots believing they were the most beautiful flowers God ever made...Yes, she listened to everybody's troubles but no one listened to hers. But that was right because Sissy was a giver and never a taker.

Don’t try to be young. Just open your mind. Stay interested in stuff. There are so many things I won’t live long enough to find out about, but I’m still curious about them.

Why do people say, "Grow some balls"?  Balls are weak and sensitive.  If you wanna be tough, grow a vagina.  Those things can take a pounding. -Betty White” Excerpt From: Vale, Lani Lynn. “Highway Don't Care (Freebirds).” iBooks. This material may be protected by copyright.

However, if one is lucky enough to be blessed with good health, growing older shouldn’t be something to complain about. It’s not a surprise, we knew it was coming—make the most of it. So you may not be as fast on your feet, and the image in your mirror may be a little disappointing, but if you are still functioning and not in pain, gratitude should be the name of the game.

My mother always used to say: The older you get, the better you get, unless you’re a banana.

Butterflies are like women— we may look pretty and delicate, but baby, we can fly through a hurricane.

Sex without pain is like food without taste.

I have a suspicion - and hear me out, 'cause this is a rough one - I have a suspicion that the definition of "crazy" in show business is a woman who keeps talking even after no one wants to fuck her anymore. The only person I can think of that has escaped the "crazy" moniker is Betty White, which, obviously, is because people still want to have sex with her.

It was Christmas Eve. Big snowflakes fluttered slowly through the air like white feathers and made all of the Heavenly Valley smooth and white and quiet and beautiful. Tall fir trees stood up to their knees in snow and their outstretched hands were heaped with it. Those that were bare of leaves wore soft white fur on their scrawny, reaching arms and all the stumps and low bushes had been turned into fat white cupcakes.

Yes, when I get big and have my own home, no plush chairs and lace curtains for me. And no rubber plants. I'll have a desk like this in my parlor and white walls and a clean green blotter every Sunday night and a row of shining yellow pencils always sharpened for writing and a golden-brown bowl with a flower or some leaves or berries always in it and books...books..books.

—Bueno, ¿dónde se supone que está el corazón? —preguntó dicha parienta. ¿Betty White? ¿Iba a por Betty White? Mis manos se levantaron por instinto para protegerla. Era muy frágil. Muy vulnerable. Y la señora Beecher quería clavarle un punzón para el hielo. De eso nada.

I’ll have a desk like this in my parlor and white walls and a clean green blotter every Saturday night and a row of shining yellow pencils always sharpened for writing and a golden-brown bowl with a flower or some leaves or berries always in it and books…books…books….

You can do anything you want in the United States of you wear a suit and tie...especially if you are white. That also helps.

Betty White of The Golden Girls would say. ‘Why do people say “grow some balls?” Balls are weak and sensitive. If you wanna be tough, grow a vagina. Those things can take a pounding.’)

It's your outlook on life that counts. If you take yourself lightly and don't take yourself too seriously, pretty soon you can find the humor in our everyday lives. And sometimes it can be a lifesaver.

What the Hell happened to that angel,” Butch murmured.”It’s like he’s running out of battery strength.” Shaking his head, V went back to his phone. “Betty White did die. Maybe that’s why he’s in decline.

THE WASHINGTON POST headline across page one in its editions of Wednesday, January 21, 1998, was shocking: “Clinton Accused of Urging Aide to Lie.” Bill had spent a tense night and early morning on the phone with Vernon Jordan, Bob Bennett, Bruce Lindsey, David Kendall, and Betty Currie, talking about the story and trying to keep his legal ducks aligned. Hillary said later he nudged her awake just after 7 A.M. and sat on the edge of their bed. “You’re not going to believe this,” she quoted him telling her, but there were “news reports” blanketing the Internet and airwaves as well, that he had had an affair with a young White House intern named Monica Lewinsky and had asked her to lie about it to Paula Jones’s lawyers.

you can lie to anyone in the world and even get away with it, perhaps, but when you are alone and look into your own eyes in the mirror, you can’t sidestep the truth. Always be sure you can meet those eyes directly. Otherwise, it’s big trouble, my girl.

One day...God will turn out all the lights to remind people like you that in the dark, you won't be able to tell who is white like you and who ain't. We'll have to treat one another equally. We'll learn it's not our skin color that makes us good or bad. And only when we learn that, will God turn the lights back on.

Why would I want balls?" She tried to get a grip on her anger as she adapted her favorite Betty White quote. "Have you ever seen a woman taken out with a simple kick to the crotch? Hell no, because a vagina can take a beating. I'd like to see you squeeze a baby out of your precious, fragile balls." You intolerant, jizz-headed ass.

Paper: Some inexpensive plain bond paper A pad of Strathmore Drawing Paper, 80 lb., 11" × 14" Pencils: A #2 ordinary yellow writing pencil with an eraser at the top A #4 drawing pencil—Faber-Castell, Prismacolor Turquoise, or other brand Marking pens: Sharpie (or other brand) fine point non-permanent black A second marker, fine point permanent black Graphite stick: #4 General’s is a good brand, or other brand Pencil sharpener: A small handheld sharpener is fine Erasers: A Pink Pearl eraser A Staedtler Mars white plastic eraser A kneaded eraser—Lyra, Design, or other brand Masking tape: 3M Scotch Low Tack Artist Tape Clips: Two 1-inch-wide black clips Drawing board: A firm surface large enough to hold your 11" × 14" drawing paper—about 15" × 18" is a good size. This can be improvised from a kitchen cutting board, a piece of foam board, a piece of Masonite, or thick cardboard. Picture plane: This too can be improvised using an 8" × 10" piece of glass (you will need to tape the edges), or an 8" × 10" piece of clear plastic, about 1⁄16" thick. Viewfinders: You will make these from black paper—“construction” paper is a good thickness, or you could use thin black cardboard. You will find instructions for making the viewfinders here A small mirror: About 5" × 7" that can be taped to a wall, or any available wall mirror.

Facebook just sounds like a drag, in my day seeing pictures of people's vacations was considered a punishment.

I’ve known older men in comedy who can barely feed and clean themselves, and they still work. The women, though, they’re all “crazy.” I have a suspicion—and hear me out, ’cause this is a rough one—I have a suspicion that the definition of “crazy” in show business is a woman who keeps talking even after no one wants to fuck her anymore. The only person I can think of that has escaped the “crazy” moniker is Betty White, which, obviously, is because people still want to have sex with her.

What were the biggest surprises she uncovered, I ask? “Now, come off it, Betty, I’m not giving away all the highlights before anybody’s bought the book!” laughs Skeeter. “But I can promise that anybody who still thinks Dumbledore was white as his beard is in for a rude awakening!

Rachel Kalama is entirely a fictional creation, but what she experiences as a Hansen’s patient is very much based on the real-world experiences of many such patients. I consulted numerous oral histories and biographies, distilling them down to their common elements and from these forging the armature of Rachel’s life. To interested readers I highly commend The Separating Sickness: Excerpts from Interviews with Exiled Leprosy Patients at Kalaupapa by Ted Gugelyk and Milton Bloombaum; Quest for Dignity: Personal Victories over Leprosy/Hansen’s Disease by The International Association for Integration, Dignity, and Economic Advancement (IDEA); Olivia: My Life of Exile in Kalaupapa by Olivia Robello Breitha; Margaret of Molokai by Mel White; Miracle at Carville and No One Must Ever Know by Betty Martin, edited by Evelyn Wells. In addition

you, not riot grrrl, but rolling all of your R’s. less betty paige, more betty la fea. less zoey deschanel, more chilindrina. not trying to be more white—just more loved. just trying to find a song that is about the girl who is always fixing, snipping away at the bits of herself that are always becoming

of those New York construction workers were honored at the White House a few weeks later by President Nixon. He thanked them for showing their patriotism the day they beat students. He gave them flag lapel pins, and they gave him a yellow hard hat like the ones they wore the day they assaulted students, seventy of whom were seriously injured.

After splashing icy water on their faces and rubbing them fiery red with one of the rough sweet-smelling towels, they came in and took their places at the big kitchen table. This morning the table wore a bright red-and-white checked cloth and a pot of red geraniums. Mrs. Campbell handed the girls their plates, each with a slice of ham and half of a crisp, tan waffle.

Late one night, as he walked back alone from a Kasuals gig, a truck screeched to a halt beside him and a group of drunken white youths jumped out, screaming racial abuse. Jimmy took off across a cornfield, easily outdistanced his would-be attackers and then, rather like Cary Grant in Hitchcock’s North by Northwest, lay doggo on top of Betty-Jean, until they gave up and drove away.

Nancy grabbed Plum's hand and together they ran around the last curve and then they were leaning against the old stone wall that marked Lookout Hill. Far, far down below them, a river was trying to wriggle its way out of a steep canyon. Over to the right, thick green hills crowded close to each other to share one filmy white cloud. To the left, as far as they could see the land flowed into valleys that shaded from a pale watery green, through lime, emerald, jade, leaf, forest to a dark, dark, bluish-green, almost black. The rivers were like inky lines, the ponds like ink blots.

The pole stood against a brick wall which was the windowless side of the neighborhood school. Francie found that no two bricks were alike when she looked real close. It was a soothing rhythm the way they were put together with crumbly thin lines of white mortar. They glowed when the sun shone on them. They smelled warm and porous when Francie pressed her cheek against them. They were the first to receive the rain and they gave off a wet clay odor that was like the smell of life itself. In the winter, when the first snow was too delicate to last on the sidewalks, it clung to the rough surface of the brick and was like fairy lace.

I push my thigh against his. “Well, thank God.” “Thank God what?” he asks. His hand slowly rubs up and down the place where my shoulder meets my arm. It makes me good shiver. “That I don’t have a neck brace. It’s hard to rock a neck brace, especially if we’re still going to that dance.” He leans in and kisses my nose. “If anyone could do it, you could.” I tilt my head so our lips meet. “Hormonal ones, I am right here. Me. The old lady otherwise known as your grandmother,” Betty says. “Sorry. He’s just irresistible,” I say, settling back against him. “Well, try to resist the irresistible,” Betty says knowingly as the truck bumps over a pothole.

Nick leans down and kisses my eyelids. “Loving you, Zara, is a full-time job. It’s a great job, don’t get me wrong. It’s the best job in the universe. But it is not easy, because you tend to . . .” “Get hurt?” Betty suggests. “Find trouble? Pass out? Break arms?” “All of the above.” Nick laughs. My hand finds Nick’s wrist and I grab onto its thickness. “You know, I’m the patient here. Where’s the bedside manner? Where’s the sympathy?” “Zara, sympathy is just a good excuse to buy greeting cards and make sorry eyes and secretly gloat over how glad you are that you aren’t the person whose crap is hanging out there for the world to see,” Betty says.

Although I raised money for a Black Panther school and attempted to help the Panthers develop a learning center, I never joined their organization or advocated that others should. The money I raised was to purchase and build a school. I became involved with the Panthers only after their leader, Huey Newton, had publicly proclaimed that it was “time to put away the gun.” In those days The New York Times was comparing Newton to Mahatma Gandhi and Martin Luther—literally. When I recommended Betty van Patter to the Panthers as a bookkeeper, I accepted the left’s view of the Panthers as victims of white racism and a noble force in the struggle for racial justice. I had no idea they were capable of cold-blooded murder.

Lady St. Vincent is too generous." The piles of crisp frothy undergarments looked so pristine, it was likely they had never been worn. There was even a corset, its white laces as neat as surgical sutures. "Oh, she has many, many dresses," Betty confided, handing Amelia a pair of folded drawers and a chemise. "Lord St. Vincent sees to it that his wife is dressed like a queen. I'll tell thee summat: if she wanted the moon for her looking glass, he'd find a way to pull it down for her." "How do you know so much about them?" Amelia asked, hooking the front of the corset while Betty moved behind her to pull the laces. "I'm Lady St. Vincent's maid. I travel with her wherever she goes. She bid me to attend thee and the other Miss Hathaways- 'they need special care,' she said, 'after what they've endured.

TICKLED PINK LEMONADE COOKIES   Preheat oven to 350 degrees F., rack in the middle position. Hannah’s 1st Note: This recipe is from Lisa’s Aunt Nancy. It’s a real favorite down at The Cookie Jar because the cookies are different, delicious, and very pretty. ½ cup salted, softened butter (1 stick, 4 ounces, ¼ pound) (do not substitute) ½ cup white (granulated) sugar ½ teaspoon baking powder ¼ teaspoon baking soda 1 large egg, beaten cup frozen pink or regular lemonade concentrate, thawed 3 drops of liquid red food coloring (I used ½ teaspoon of Betty Crocker food color gel) 1 and ¾ cups all-purpose flour (pack it down in the cup when you measure it) In the bowl of an electric mixer, beat the softened butter with the sugar until the resulting mixture is light and fluffy. Mix in the baking powder and baking soda. Beat until they’re well-combined. Mix in the beaten egg and the lemonade concentrate. Add 3 drops of red food coloring (or ½ teaspoon of the food color gel, if you used that). Add the flour, a half-cup or so at a time, beating after each addition. (You don’t have to be exact—just don’t put in all the flour at once.) If the resulting cookie dough is too sticky to work with, refrigerate it for an hour or so. (Don’t forget to turn off your oven if you do this. You’ll have to preheat it again once you’re ready to bake.) Drop the cookies by teaspoonful, 2 inches apart, on an UNGREASED cookie sheet. Bake the Tickled Pink Lemonade Cookies at 350 degrees F. for 10 to 12 minutes or until the edges are golden brown. (Mine took 11 minutes.) Let the cookies cool on the cookie sheet for 2 minutes. Then use a metal spatula to remove them to a wire rack to cool completely. FROSTING FOR PINK LEMONADE COOKIES   2 Tablespoons salted butter, softened 2 cups powdered sugar (no need to sift unless it’s got big lumps) 2 teaspoons frozen pink or regular lemonade concentrate, thawed 3 to 4 teaspoons milk (water will also work for a less creamy frosting) 2 drops red food coloring (or enough red food color gel to turn the frosting pink) Beat the butter and the powdered sugar together. Mix in the lemonade concentrate. Beat in the milk, a bit at a time, until the frosting is almost thin enough to spread, but not quite. Mix in the 2 drops of red food coloring. Stir until the color is uniform. If your frosting is too thin, add a bit more powdered sugar. If your frosting is too thick, add a bit more milk or water.

Maria managed to avoid Oliver for most of St. Valentine’s Day. It wasn’t difficult-apparently he spent half of it sleeping off his wild night. Not that she cared one bit. She’d learned her lesson with him. Truly she had. Not even the beautiful bouquet of irises he’d sent up to her room midafternoon changed that. Now that she was dressing for tonight’s ball, she was rather proud of herself for having only thought of him half a dozen times. Per hour, her conscience added. “There, that’s the last one,” Betty said as she tucked another ostrich feather into Maria’s elaborate coiffure. According to Celia, the new fashion this year involved a multitude of feathers drooping from one’s head in languid repose. Maria hoped hers didn’t decide to find their repose on the floor. Betty seemed to have used a magical incantation to keep them in place, and Maria wasn’t at all sure they would stay put. “You look lovely, miss,” Betty added. “If I do,” Maria said, “it’s only because of your efforts, Betty.” Betty ducked her head to hide her blush. “Thank you, miss.” It was amazing how different the servant had been ever since Maria had taken Oliver’s advice to heart, letting the girl fuss over her and tidy her room and do myriad things that Maria would have been perfectly happy to do for herself. But he’d proved to be right-Betty practically glowed with pride. Maria wished she’d known sooner how to treat them all, but honestly, how could she have guessed that these mad English would enjoy being in service? It boggled her democratic American mind. Casting an admiring glance down Maria’s gown of ivory satin, Betty said, “I daresay his lordship will swallow his tongue when he sees you tonight.” “If he does, I hope he chokes on it,” Maria muttered. With a sly glance, Betty fluffed out the bouffant drapery of white tulle that crossed Maria’s bust and was fastened in the center with an ornament of gold mosaic. “John says the master didn’t touch a one of those tarts at the brothel last night. He says that his lordship refused every female that the owner of the place brought before him.” “I somehow doubt that.” Paying her no heed, Betty continued her campaign to salvage her master’s dubious honor. “Then Lord Stoneville went to the opera house and left without a single dancer on his arm. John says he never done that before.” Maria rolled her eyes, though a part of her desperately wanted to believe it was true-a tiny, silly part of her that she would have to slap senseless. Betty polished the ornament with the edge of her sleeve. “John says he drank himself into a stupor, then came home without so much as kissing a single lady. John says-“ “John is inventing stories to excuse his master’s actions.” “Oh no, miss! John would never lie. And I can promise you that the master has never come home so early before, and certainly not without…that is, at the house in Acton he was wont to bring a tart or two home to…well, you know.” “Help him choke on his tongue?” Maria snapped as she picked up her fan. Betty laughed. “Now that would be a sight, wouldn’t it? Two ladies trying to shove his tongue down his throat.” “I’d pay them well to do it.

Mama made the coach stop at a barber shop around the corner from their house. 'Go in there,' she told Francie, 'and get your father’s cup.' Francie didn't know what she meant. 'What cup?' she asked. 'Just ask for his cup.' Francie went in. There were two barbers but no customers. One of the barbers sat on one of the chairs in a row against the wall. His left ankle rested on his right knee and he cradled a mandolin. He was playing 'O, Sole Mio.' Francie knew the song. Mr. Morton had taught it to them saying the title was 'Sunshine.' The other barber was sitting in one of the barber chairs looking at himself in the long mirror. He got down from the chair as the girl came in. 'Yes?' he asked. 'I want my father’s cup.' 'The name?' 'John Nolan.' 'Ah, yes. Too bad.' He sighed as he took a mug from the row of them on a shelf. It was a thick white mug with 'John Nolan' written on it in gold and fancy block letters. There was a worn-down cake of white soap at the bottom of it and a tired-looking brush. He pried out the soap and put it and the brush in a bigger unlettered cup. He washed Johnny’s cup. While Francie waited, she looked around. She had never been inside a barber shop. It smelled of soap and clean towels and bay rum. There was a gas heater which hissed companionably. The barber had finished the song and started it over again. The thin tinkle of the mandolin made a sad sound in the warm shop. Francie sang Mr. Morton’s words to the song in her mind. Oh, what’s so fine, dear, As a day of sunshine. The storm is past at last. The sky is blue and clear. Everyone has a secret life, she mused.

I heard a compelling lecture by an African American pastor from the north side of Chicago. He opened his talk with numbers, counting up all of the hours that a God-fearing person in his parish has spent in church over the course of her life. It was a lot. Then he described what is talked about during those hours in church. It’s all about hope, he told us. For change, for a better future, for justice, for relief of suffering. And then he asked the predominantly white audience why we expected our African American patients to give up hope—for a cure, for another chance at life—at this most vulnerable point in their lives. This is a time, he said, when they need hope the most. If the doctor’s only concept of hope and miracles is the cure of disease, then there truly is nothing more to talk about with a family wanting everything done in the name of God. But guided by Betty Clark, the pastor on our palliative care team, I have found other ways of transmitting hope to families looking for a miracle. The miracle of time at home, of pain management, of improved quality of life. These are all concepts I have seen families embrace in place of survival—the only concept of hope previously imagined. I have also found it helpful to open up the question of God’s will. Once, a religious family explained to me that they didn’t want to play God by withdrawing the breathing tube from their dying loved one. I asked them whether another interpretation might be that they were playing God by keeping her alive when her body was actively dying. Mightn’t this be God demonstrating that it was her time to die? And were we, in our hubris, thwarting God’s will? Many families agreed with my suggestion that almighty God doesn’t need help from mere mortals. If He wants to heal a body, He can do it on his own.

TICKLED PINK LEMONADE COOKIES Preheat oven to 350 degrees F., rack in the middle position. Hannah’s 1st Note: This recipe is from Lisa’s Aunt Nancy. It’s a real favorite down at The Cookie Jar because the cookies are different, delicious, and very pretty. ½ cup salted, softened butter (1 stick, 4 ounces, ¼ pound) (do not substitute) ½ cup white (granulated) sugar ½ teaspoon baking powder ¼ teaspoon baking soda 1 large egg, beaten cup frozen pink or regular lemonade concentrate, thawed 3 drops of liquid red food coloring (I used ½ teaspoon of Betty Crocker food color gel) 1 and ¾ cups all-purpose flour (pack it down in the cup when you measure it)

Betty White's Sue Ann Nivens was classic... She had done so much with that man-crazy character! Betty made every moment count. She still does. I've declared her an American treasure, because she is just that.

Jack Black and Betty White should couple and produce Earl Grey. I could go for a cup of tea.

Some slaves went to church with whites and sat in rear pews or balconies, listening to white preachers tell them that whites were superior, that God sanctioned slavery and they’d go to heaven if they obeyed their masters and mistresses and stopped stealing chickens. Others attended their own churches, where trusted white observers watched the services and made sure they stressed the joys of the afterlife and the need to accept one’s fate. Yet many people feared that slave religion—like reading and writing—fueled rebellions. Nat Turner, the Virginian whose band plundered plantations and beat, beheaded and killed more than fifty white men, women and children in 1831, had been a preacher, claiming biblical signs and omens urged him to strike. After Nat’s rebellion, all nighttime religious meetings were prohibited and no blacks, free or slave, could hear colored preachers or ministers. They could only listen to white preachers and only during the daytime. Twenty-four-year-old Gabriel Prosser—who, like Smith, lived in Henrico County, Virginia—had been hanged in 1800 for his plot to march on the city of Richmond, seize the arsenal, strike down the whites and liberate slaves. He, too, had won followers by predicting God would strengthen the hand of rebels.

When some members of the Ford team (including the former president and Betty) left the White House for California the next day, it was said that everyone onboard a backup plane (Carter did not grant permission for them to use Air Force One) refused to eat the peanuts from an offering of mixed nuts—and then, in a fit of political pique (reinforced, perhaps by semi-serious hangovers or still slightly inebriated embers of the previous night’s ceremonial drowning of sorrows), purposely tossed the peanuts around the aircraft.

Tripp manipulated Monica, but Monica herself had manipulated her way to the president as much as the president schemed to ensnare her. I’d seen it all—or at least enough. But Monica was a pretty, spoiled girl; the president wasn’t. He knew damn well what he was doing to her emotionally and physically and to her reputation. He couldn’t have cared less. People like Monica and the entire Clinton Machine should never have had access to classified national security–related intelligence or enjoyed leadership positions. Their irresponsibility had consequences. Good men died from it—both in Mogadishu and Benghazi. We had friends die from exhaustion or from falling asleep at the wheel while ensuring the Secret Service mission of protecting the president. To die for a man of character—I can live with that. Scott Giambattista got shot to protect the president. Everyone watched the Clinton scandal shit show play out in Congress, in the media, and in the Oval Office, and every night in America’s living rooms. All the Clintons’ successes can be credited to men and women of character like Leon Panetta, Nancy Hernreich, and Betty Currie. The Clintons’ failures all point to themselves. The president and Mrs. Clinton were purely business partners. I believe from their movements and interactions that Mrs. Clinton knew of the affairs. But I do believe she was surprised by her partner’s stooping to romancing someone the age of their daughter and was furious that he besmirched the brand. Politically it was unthinkable. How could anyone excuse his womanizing and workplace conduct?

In the same year, the publication of Betty Friedan’s The Feminine Mystique added fuel to the fire of a growing feminist discontent. The author spoke to middle-class White women, bored in suburbia (an escape hatch from increasingly Black cities) and seeking sanction to work at a “meaningful” job outside the home. Not only were the problems of the White suburban housewife (who may have had Black domestic help) irrelevant to Black women, they were also alien to them. Friedan’s observation that “I never knew a woman, when I was growing up, who used her mind, played her own part in the world, and also loved, and had children” seemed to come from another planet.

People like Monica and the entire Clinton Machine should never have had access to classified national security–related intelligence or enjoyed leadership positions. Their irresponsibility had consequences. Good men died from it—both in Mogadishu and Benghazi. We had friends die from exhaustion or from falling asleep at the wheel while ensuring the Secret Service mission of protecting the president. To die for a man of character—I can live with that. Scott Giambattista got shot to protect the president. Everyone watched the Clinton scandal shit show play out in Congress, in the media, and in the Oval Office, and every night in America’s living rooms. All the Clintons’ successes can be credited to men and women of character like Leon Panetta, Nancy Hernreich, and Betty Currie. The Clintons’ failures all point to themselves.

He finessed his way through it all, playing the “I don’t recall” game. He played the same game when asked about how Betty and UD officers had inserted Betty’s name on their official visitors’ log when it was Monica who actually visited, so as not to betray the president. It was yet another obvious lie on his part. I knew that game. Everyone with eyes could see it. He never recalled how she came to him with letters or papers. There was a back-and-forth on how the Clintons had garnered a lawyer for Monica so she could obfuscate matters and not implicate the president in his defense in Paula Jones’s civil sexual harassment case. They discussed how unethical that was, and that’s when the president had the nerve to blame the debacle on the information’s getting leaked, not that it actually happened. Finally it came down to blaming Monica.

One day, I told him, 'God will turn out all the lights to remind people like you that in the dark, you won't be able to tell who is white like you and who ain't. We'll have to treat one another equally. We'll learn it's not our skin that makes us different. And only when we learn that will God turn the lights back on

While it does not in any way diminish the importance of women resisting sexist oppression by entering the labor force, work has not been a liberating force for masses of American women. And for some time now, sexism has not prevented them from being in the work force. White middle and upper class women like those described in Betty Friedan’s The Feminine Mystique were housewives not because sexism would have prevented them from being in the paid labor force, but because they had willingly embraced the notion that it was better to be a housewife than to be a worker.

I have a suspicion—and hear me out, ’cause this is a rough one—I have a suspicion that the definition of “crazy” in show business is a woman who keeps talking even after no one wants to fuck her anymore. The only person I can think of that has escaped the “crazy” moniker is Betty White, which, obviously, is because people still want to have sex with her.

While Kuklick attributed part of the failures of A People’s History to the “textbook genre,” he preferred Carl Degler’s Out of Our Past, published back in 1959: “Degler’s biases are liberal, but he brought to his task a subtlety and sophistication that Zinn doesn’t possess.” According to Kuklick, Degler’s book covers much of the same ground and should be read before Zinn’s book.82 Out of Our Past had been described on January 1, 1959, in the New York Times as a discussion of “the developments, forces and individuals that have made this country what it is” and of such subjects as “how racial discrimination began and what schools and churches have done about it.”83 Degler had the bona fides, as the headline to his obituary on January 14, 2015, in the New York Times attested: “Carl N. Degler, 93, a Scholarly Voice of the Oppressed.” The Stanford University scholar had “delved into the corners of history” and “illuminated the role of women, the poor and ethnic minorities in the nation’s evolution.” His 1972 book about slavery, Neither Black nor White, won him the Pulitzer. And Degler’s work did not suffer from Zinn’s lack of familiarity with women’s issues. As early as 1966, he had been invited by Betty Friedan “to be one of [the] two men among the founders of the National Organization for Women.” Degler had the respect of colleagues, winning praise from Princeton professor Lawrence Stone for his 1980 book At Odds: Women and the Family in America from the Revolution to the Present and from C. Vann Woodward for Southern Dissenters in the Nineteenth Century.84 Out of Our

In that turbulent time, the happenstance First Lady, Betty Ford, was certain of one thing: she would not change. 'I've spent too many years as me,' she declared. 'I can't suddenly turn into a princess.

Somewhere along the line, I had learned that elephants like having their tongues slapped, and it really worked with Gita.

I love children, the only problem with children: they grow up to be people, and I just like animals better than people. It’s that simple.

No matter what major concerns may be going on in your life on the outside, you have to leave them at the door when you come to work, because you will be forced to concentrate on something other than yourself to get the job done. And somehow there is often an inordinate amount of laughter in the process for anyone who thrives on that sort of thing, which serves to replenish the strength you need to pick up your problems again as you leave. That is it has frivolous as it sounds. It works.

The Greeks had a word for it . . . Pythagoras said a long long time ago, “If you have a wounded heart, touch it as little as you would a wounded eye . . . There are only two remedies for the suffering of the soul: hope and patience.

Animals are near and dear to my heart, and I’ve devoted my life to trying to improve their lives.

When it was over, no one clapped or said a word. It seemed as if those sweet notes were still drifting around the room. “That was lovely, Sayeh. Thank you for sharing your beautiful voice with us,” Mrs. Brisbane said. I wish she’d speak that way to me someday. Nice. Encouraging. Friendly. Anyway, the tricks continued. And after A.J. told a few riddles, Mrs. Brisbane looked around the circle and said, “Did I miss anyone?” This was the moment I’d been waiting for. No one had noticed, but the night before, I had sneaked one of Aldo’s white dusting cloths into my sleeping hut. I had to act quickly. I pulled out the cloth and crawled under so it completely covered me. Then I stood up and began to shout like I’d never shouted before. “Trick or squeak!” I cried. “Trick or squeak!” Miranda noticed first. “Look!” she yelled. “It’s Humphrey!” I wish I could have seen the faces of my classmates, but it was DARK-DARK-DARK under the cloth. I could hear them, though. First there were gasps, then giggles, then shouts of “Look!” and “Humphrey’s a ghost!” I continued to squeak my heart out until I heard Mrs. Brisbane’s firm footsteps coming toward my cage. “Who did this?” she asked. “Who put that on Humphrey?” No one answered, of course. Not even me. “He could suffocate under that,” she said. “But he looks so cute,” Heidi called out. Mrs. Brisbane didn’t answer. She just said, “Will someone please uncover him?” Golden-Miranda opened the cage door and whisked the cloth away. “Humphrey, you are a riot,” she said. Only a riot? Let’s be honest here: I was a smash hit! Then the room mothers served up cupcakes with orange icing and cups of apple juice, and my classmates played games. Just before the bell rang, Mrs. Brisbane clapped her hands and made an announcement. “Mrs. Hopper and Mrs. Patel and I have consulted

Ret Turner, one of TV’s Emmy-winning costume designers, made a hefty bet with a friend that he could go a whole year without chocolate. As of now, he is in the seventh month of the bet . . . alternately stalwart, then drooling . . . however, he admits he never could have done it on his own. Ret realizes, better than anyone, that he is really competing with himself. But to call it old-fashioned willpower would take all the fun out of it . . . he would slip off the chocolate wagon in no time.

Betty White is the First Lady of Television in her own right. She inspired me to write among other artists.

Please recycle. We want the world to be a beautiful place for Betty White after we’re gone.

they come to LA aspirting to be white. Even the ones who are biologically white aren't white white. Valet parking white. Brag about your Native American, Argentinian, Portuguese ancestry white. Pho white. Paparazzi white. I once got fired from a telemarketing job, now look at m, I'm famous white. Calabazas white. I love L.A. It's the only place where you can go skiing, to the beach and to the desert all in one day white.

Betty Friedan was a critic of the happy housewife fantasy and proposed that women should be liberated from the home. But according to feminist author bell hooks, she did not address who would ultimately take over the woman's duties when she left the home to find happiness. Ultimately, it would be women of color who entered the home to relieve the white woman of her burden. This meant that only some women were liberated from the weight of the happy housewife fantasy and others were relegated to continued attempts and failures at pursuing it.

So whenever you’re getting tired and you’re thinking of leaning back from the world, just remember Betty, and lean in.

learned that when I traveled abroad, I stopped belonging to one place or another and became a citizen of my memories.

I remember seeing an episode of Golden Girls where Bea Arthur, who plays Dorothy, responds to a question from Rose, played by Betty White. “What do you want in your next husband?” asked Rose. And Dorothy says, “I want someone to grow old with.” That’s what most people don’t want. They want the young. They want the cute. When you get older, you change. You change physically. You change emotionally and a whole other area of life rears its head. Your body slows down, retirement; death becomes all too real. A lot of people are not in it for the long haul. They’re not in it for the changes the life journey brings—the health scares, death. I do want someone to grow old with. I understand those elements. I saw it with my mom when she had to sit next to Daddy’s deathbed. That’s marriage. That’s love. That’s commitment.

Lots of people see visions when they stare into shiny surfaces like crystals, or mirrors, or bodies of water,” Charlie explained. “Remember how the West Indian servant taught Betty Parris and her cousin how to break an egg into a glass of water to see visions of their future husbands? They were using the white of an egg in a clear container as a substitute for a crystal ball. When people stare into something intently like that, they’re more than likely to see images. For people with psychic ability, those images may sometimes reflect past or future events. There’s nothing supernatural about it, it’s just what happens.

Working Nine to Five   Wet, cold, miserable, Monday morning.  I had toast for breakfast, no bananas.  I think my mum is taking out her revenge on Steve’s behalf by withholding the purchase of bananas.  I stood by the sink sipping my morning tea watching the rain wash down the kitchen window.  Damn, I noticed that an eye had fallen off one of my bunny slippers.  I decided to wear the blue pencil skirt with a white blouse to work and to tie my hair up as best I could.  The journey was short and uneventful, no desperate people throwing themselves in

The only person I can think of who has escaped the "crazy" moniker is Betty White, which, obviously