Response to Stress

Betina here. . . with the dazzling insight that you're never too old or too self-aware to learn something new about yourself.


Last summer on a tour through France and Italy-- which my nephew-in-law called our "forced march through Europe"-- I learned that I have a rather peculiar reaction to stress. Especially pricey, self-inflicted stress like PLANNED TOURS. My personality splits and I develop alternate egos who come out at strange and sometimes unfortunate times and entertain my fellow sufferers.

My family and closest friends have long known about The Duchess. She's a windy, imperious fog-horn voiced old British broad who is probably based on Aniteb. (Oooo, I'm going to pay for that one.) The Duchess is opinionated and garish and way too loud to permit into the sacred precincts of Europe's great cathedrals and monuments.

But it turned out, she has a few friends. . . like Madame LaBarge, who has a nasty signature laugh (Heh, heh, heeeeh) that announces her arrival and a voice like Chloris Leachman with testosterone poisioning. Needless to say, I discovered her in Paris and there are probably still people on the Champs Elysees looking over their shoulders for possessed American tourists.

Then in Nimes (Provence) I discovered Mademoiselle Fifi. . . a sly little coquette who has a high, squeaky voice and a flirtatious manner. Her signature saying is "My name is Mademoiselle Fifi. . . and I have a plan." This "plan " part is always said while tapping her temple with a finger and looking crafty. Needless to say, she bats her lashes a lot and giggles with fascinating insincerity. People adore her. She gets away with murder. And a year later I still don't have a clue what her blessed "plan" is.

It turns out. . . Europe is the perfect place for your personality to decompensate under stress. Apparently people there have been doing it for centuries. I ran into several in Florence. . .
















Back home. I thought I was safe from the chaos my alternate personalities had created "across the pond," but it turns out, I have a couple of other creatures inhabiting my already crowded skin. One is a sadly demented librarian, Maribelle, who made her public debut during Midwest Fiction Writers' 20th Anniversary celebration. She's cranky, abrasive, and liable to say anything. Still another, named Loletta, swipes her nose, hitches up her pants and mispronounces everything in sight. She happens to be an expert on home decoration and delivers a spontaneous and rather disarming little lecture on "fong shewie." She's sort of Larry the Cable guy in drag. And another, who only comes out at conferences is--

Oh, no. Hey, Aniteb-- it was only a joke-- give me back that--

Aniteb here. This woman needs serious help. Thank God she has ME to make certain she gets it. I'll be locking her up for the rest of the day and returning her keyboard when I think she's ready to handle it. It's sad, really. There ought to be some sort of government program to prevent this sort of thing. I've always found that a seven figure check goes a long way toward preventing the sort of decompensation poor Betina seems to suffer from. Where are the bloody Democrats when you need them?

Meanwhile-- what happens to you under extreme stress? Care to relate one of your worst travel moments or reveal what happens to your stomach before or after editor appointments? How about at cocktail parties thrown by publishers? Or meeting the prospective in-laws for the first time? What do you drink, chew, shred, watch, read, or hallucinate about. . . when you're under severe stress? Any quirkly little habits or superstitions you resort to when the pressure is on? I won't be taking notes. . . I promise. . .