People who don’t know me think I’m nice.  You may think you’ve stumbled onto a Nice Lady Blog, but you have not.  It amuses me that people think I am nice.  I have some nice friends, and they’d be the first to tell you how not nice I am.   My oldest and dearest friend has prepared people to meet me by saying, “She seems really bitchy, but she’s not.” I don’t know why.  I’m a good person, I am, but I’m definitely not nice.  I’m self-admittedly a bitch, as if denying my bitchiness would make me less bitchy.   I’m not a fabulous bitch, I’m not an evil bitch, but I am a bitch nonetheless.

This “nice” thing always makes me giggle, especially with The Mister. The Mister, he has an imposing, intimidating presence.  He has a loud, booming voice and eyes like laser beams.  People who work with The Mister have come to assume I am some sweet thing, nearly a saint, for dealing with this man.  He is truly bombastic, arrogant and assertive: he’s not pretending.  But inside, he’s a much softer, more diplomatic person than I am.

It’s how I look that deceives people.  I seem approachable.  My face doesn’t seem to go with the attitude.  My  voice doesn’t seem to go with the words coming out of my mouth.  I cannot help this.  In a different life, I maybe would look like trouble and sound like Stockard Channing.  In this life, I look and sound younger, more innocent, and sweeter than I actually am.

Now, I’ve just told you I’m a bitch, and you’re still here, so I presume you’ve got a fondness for bitches, and may even be one yourself.  That’s helpful, because I’d hate for you to go on reading me, only to have your heart broken later. I really don’t take any pleasure in shocking people with the news that I’m a bitch, when I’ve already told them I am one.

My mother raised me to be a nice girl, but my daddy taught me not to take anybody’s shit.
That means when the maintenance man comes to my house to replace blinds, but has no blinds, I will ask him why that is.  When the realtor emails me after a month of silence asking if he’s dropped the ball, I will reply with seven extremely well-written paragraphs about what I’ve dealt with since he might have dropped the ball.  When my child’s teacher doesn’t behave professionally, I go to the principal and report it.  Because that’s what bitches do when they experience fucked-up shit.  I do not giggle and toss my hair and let it go. That’s not rude, that’s assertive.  And we all know assertive behavior in women is classified as bitchy.

I scare grown men.  The older they are, the more I scare them, because they’re ill-equipped in dealing with a woman who speaks her mind.  You know the phrase, “It’s not what you said, it’s how you said it?” That’s me.  *sighs*  I have no tolerance for weak men.
I scared off all the weak ones.

The qualities most people revere in me are my mother’s.   She gave me my manners and my ability to bite my tongue as needed for social situations.  My mother is an expert in the field of subtlety, diplomacy, grace, and poise.  These are the remnants of Southern breeding.  Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on the occasion, those fine lady-like qualities are missing from me; replaced instead with moxie, defensive posturing, a caustic tongue, and, of course, the fine art of sarcasm.

The ability to know one’s place in this world, and to carry one’s self has been a lifelong lesson from my mother to me.  I look a certain way.  I walk a certain way.  I talk a certain way.   Just.Like.My.Mother.  To anyone who is not like me, I seem to be this certain thing.  I am nothing like the thing I seem to be.  Once you get to know me, I still walk and talk and look a certain way, but by then you’ve lost your presumptions.  And lemme tell you, they were always YOUR presumptions.  *nods*

I’m not a fake bitch, I have a Fake Bitch.  She’s highly-developed, since I began practicing around age twelve.  The Fake Bitch is very useful when I go to parent teacher conferences, churches, or interact with any number of people I cannot stand, but need to make nice with for social reasons.  Fake bitch spends a lot of time nodding and smiling.  When people are nosy, the Fake Bitch always asks, “Why do you ask?”  The Fake Bitch avoids conflict.
I wish more people employed their Fake Bitch, or any manners at all per se.  It’s not necessary to enter a conflict with people who are so trivial and temporary.  The results inevitably lead only to discomfort and drama.  One should, bitch or not, seek to be kind and compassionate with everyone they meet until they’ve been given a good reason not to be.

My Fake Bitch is the nice girl my mother needed to raise, and I’m glad to have these tools at my disposal.  I use nice girl techniques with people I don’t like or trust.  It’s exhausting.  It gives me anxiety, all that pretending.

OMG, How much longer must I keep up this charade?

I much prefer bein all loud and blunt.  I’m not unkind, I’m really not, but if you ask me for a truth, I will tell it to you.  Now and again people appreciate this “shooting from the hip” thing about me. They find it entertaining but only so long as it’s not applied to them.

If I like you, if I value your friendship or your company, I will show you who I am.  If you stick around after that, I will show you trust to the point of divulging relevant information.  If I grow to love you, I will show you my vulnerabilities.

Nice girls don’t have vulnerabilities.  Instead, they have mystery.  They’re alluring and captivating. They will never tell you how they fucked someone up or over. They choose coy and quiet. They keep real secrets only unto themselves. They have great self-discipline.

I don’t have any of that.  I can only pretend that.
With any luck, I’m raising my daughters to have good manners and take no shit.  Sissy’s almost reached adulthood, and she already scares away the weak. One down, two to go…