As also published on Facebook.
As a girl, I wanted to be like Blanche Devereaux when I grew up, before I fully comprehended what that meant. I would do what my Mom called the “Blanche Walk” through our house: shoulders back, hips in full swing, sashaying like an alleycat in heat. I wrapped floral sheets around myself, spoke in a ridiculous Southern accent, and used the word “lanai” in everday speech, though I was only vaguely aware that it was some sort of architectural feature that our house may or may not have possessed.
As a grown woman, I’m not sure my aspirations have much changed.
Rest in peace to the incomparable Rue McClanahan.
the sloppy copy 