Bette Midler Dispenses Stray Advice During a Game of Playground Red Rover

Hold tight Bette says prancing behind me and the girl whose hand folds into mine. The game is to prevent the other team’s players from breaking through our fence of six-year-old arms. But I’m cursed with the weakness of a wavy wacky inflatable tube man. A third kid cracks through my barrier. A pattern. Every time this happens, the opposing team snatches one of our strong kids, and I’m met with sneers from the recess oligarchy—future one percenters and corrupt dictators—I imagine. Bette says Ah well. You’re good at other things. I want to ask “what?” but this seems audacious and, after all I’m from the Midwest. Bette is AUDACIOUS with a capital A. As an actor she assumes we all always want to hear about ourselves because she says You’re good at making people laugh, which sounds like a key shifting into place the first time you unlock the door of a new apartment decorated in promises. Nothing is more satisfying, and I can say that because honey, I’ve had an album go triple platinum. The other team sends more rovers to my weak arm. Our team depletes. Just me and the girl whose hand folds into mine. Hold tight. You’re in it together Bette says. I know it’s hard, but trust is more important than running fast on playgrounds, or even winning a Tony. In the future, you’ll actually excel at grasping too hard. For instance, the girl whose hand you’re holding is named Betsy Gohl. She’ll become your best friend this year, until her dad’s job relocates their family to a Denver suburb. You’ll be crushed until 3rd grade. That betrayal will squat in your nervous system and only clear after a deep session of EMDR in your thirties. Fascinating, but irrelevant. What I really want to know is the best way to find approval on competitive playgrounds. Bette says People love Vegas, but I personally despise it. I was turned down for Sister Act, and that’s okay. It wasn’t meant for me. Instead I got to wear polka dots and play two versions of myself in Big Business. Even better. “What else should know?” I ask. Big oil is trash. Recycling isn’t real she says. Put your efforts into composting. Leave your hometown. Oh, and always call yourself Divine.

Valerie Nies is a writer and gluten enthusiast whose humor and poetry have been featured or are forthcoming in Oddball Magazine, Drunk Monkeys, McSweeney's, and Reductress. Find her in Austin, Texas, scanning WebMD, and on the web @valerieknees and valerienies.com.