Though It’s Totally Cool If You Want to Call Me ‘The Gentlelady’

So, no, I’m not going to be running for State Senate, now or in the future. And I have addressed the substantive portions of Oatney’s smarm over on Pith, which will be up tomorrow–the gist being that it doesn’t matter what the insidery reasons are, Haslam is still giving a huge amount of support to Campfield.

But I’d like to take a second to address the insubstantial portions of Oatney’s efforts to condescend to me so hard that I suffocate under the weight of it.

1. Oatney says, “Leftist Nashville blogger Betsy Phillips, known in a former life as Aunt B.” There is no “former life.” I’m sitting here right now blogging as Aunt B. I’m the stupid one, but Oatney doesn’t understand basic concepts like time or having a nickname.

2. “That Phillips and other members of the mostly-Nashville chatterbox chicken-left”–What other members of this mostly-Nashville chatterbox chicken-left? I got a couple of comments on my “Democrats couldn’t make piss out of water” phrase-0ne here and one at Pith. And some comments about the state of the Dems and nothing about how Democrats could make hay over this. So, who are these other members?

Did Oatney just make them up? I think so.

3. Oatney says, “As for whether Haslam and Campfield see eye-to-eye, it is certain that they don’t agree on every issue, but Democrats are deluding themselves if they think Haslam is going to act like a flaming, unrepentant liberal-he is not one.” Um, no Democrat thinks that. Not even the Democrat Oatney is writing his little “lesson” to. Maybe the Democrats he made up in order to make it seem less like he was just sitting around taking weird potshots at me? I suppose once you make folks up, you can ascribe to them all kinds of beliefs.

Anyway, Oatney, keep on keeping on. From now on, whenever some Republican wants to talk to me about how condescending the Democratic elites are, I’m going to send them to your post and ask how the Right is any better.

My Trip to SchmubleyouPLN

It was awesome. Folks, I am a small-town girl. I wish I were more sophisticated, but I am not. Shoot, I moved to Nashville and I have never been happier living here than when I found a part of town with a cow pasture in my back yard. Things just don’t happen to small-town girls. And so, when I walked in and I said, “I am supposed to meet with Nina Cardona,” and the woman behind the desk said, “Betsy’s here,” like “Betsy” might just stroll into any place and people would know who she was, I about jumped for joy.

And I got to take a tour of the station, which was beautiful, and see all their off-kilter walls and their blinking electronic equipment. And I got to meet Scott, who comments here, and I ran into Jewly, which tickled the shit out of me, and Anita Bugg and the whole time, in the back of my mind, I was just like “Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit.”

So, Nina and I went into a room with a microphone and I sat in front of it and she sat in front of a computer with some headphones on and I read through “Small Rocks” once and she made some suggestions and I read through it again and it totally sucked! I wasn’t nervous the first time through, but the second time it was like I had never seen those words before in my life. But I just admitted that I was nervous and she said it was okay because we could do as many takes as we needed to and I took a deep breath and read it through for a third time and it was great. I could even tell it was great while I was reading it.

Ha, and then I was like “This is working, don’t fuck this up!” And then I was like “Stop thinking about it! Just roll with it.”

So, yeah, I don’t know. It’s just weird and nice. I hope I didn’t blather at them too much.

Anyway, listen for it the Friday afternoon before Halloween. I think we all know I will not let you forget.

Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha.


Weird and nice. If this is my only shoot at this author crap, I will still feel like the luckiest girl ever.

My Publicist Wants a Word With Me

I should be practicing reading through my story a few times so that I am comfortable. But instead I am starting eight million things and writing emails and wondering if one of my arm pits smells different than the other. For the record, I think so, slightly.

My publicist would kick my ass.

And I am my own publicist.

So, that’s a drawback, because now I have half a mind to see if I can actually kick my own ass.

When you are your own publicist, remember, you have yourself as a client.

Ha. That’s stupid, but in its stupidity is a great and humbling truth.