"I love you," I said.
"I reject your love," he said.
"Why?" I said.
"Because your concept of love could be summed up by an early Beatles' song," he said.
"What's wrong with that?" I said.
"See? That's what I mean," he said.
The Adventures of Ms. Potato Head
I took the Green Line to an art-teaching gig I had last week.
I shuffled up to the train stop around noon. The day was sunny and bone-chillingly cold, with a nasty wind blowing down from Canada. In deference to the climate I was swaddled in my warmest hooded coat, fur-lined boots, snowmobile gloves and polyester leg warmers. The only thing saving me from terminal frumpiness was a pair of Audrey Hepburn sunglasses.
As I took my place next to the other travelers at the train stop, I observed that we were experiencing the kind of fashion synchronicity which sometimes occurs among strangers: we were all wearing lumpy hooded coats, leg warmers, snowmobile gloves and Audrey Hepburn sunglasses. If I hadn't known which one of us was me, I might have lost myself in the crowd.
Suddenly a pretty teenaged girl skateboarded up to the train stop. She was lightly dressed in a purple velvet jacket, lavendar miniskirt, pink tights and laceup granny boots. A riot of auburn curls cascaded across her shoulders. Her nose sported a dusting of freckles, her brown eyes were luminous and her rosebud lips shaped the words of a lilting melody. She was the perfect embodiment of springtime and hope.
As soon as Ms. Springtime-and-Hope spotted me, she pirouetted to a stop. "You look comfortable," she said to me.
"Comfortable" is not a good adjective to fling at a shivering, narcissistic female who is no longer in the first bloom of youth.
"I am NOT comfortable," I said. "I'm fucking freezing." I flung off my hood and displayed my head. "I'm supposed to look like you but it's so cold I had to wear this damned hood... and now I'm all mashed."
The pretty girl looked puzzled.
"My hair," I said, gesturing at my head with my snowmobile-glove flippers. "Look at my hair: it's all mashed."
By now the other travelers were peering at us through the periscope openings of their hoods.
The girl studied my hair and my face. Her puzzled expression faded as a flicker of understanding shadowed her features. She grinned and gave me a thumb's up. "That's okay," she said. "You're stylin' the mashed."
She turned and skateboarded off, singing her lovely song.
Such is the way with women: even the pretty young ones understand about the beauty contest all women get enrolled in at birth. Even the pretty young ones understand how much it hurts to lose against time and circumstance.
But as that enchanting creature reminded me that day: even when all seems lost...you can always style the mashed.
Hillary, Angie and Me
A couple of weeks ago I went to an art event in Northeast Minneapolis. It was late, the night was bitterly cold and my lair was warm and friendly... but all that love and home cooking was rattling my wolfish nature.
When I arrived at the large, trendy building housing the art event, I discovered the place was packed with people I'd never seen before. I used to know everyone around here, but the art community has swollen in the past 10 years.
Without anyone to talk to, I amused myself by standing beside a refreshment table and watching some people admire each other's outfits. The spectacle of their interaction was quite entertaining: Minnesotans dress in fantastic and colorful garb at winter art events. It's one way to fight the torpor induced by endless darkness and cold.
Suddenly a stylish woman walked up to me and said, "Hi. You don't know me but I Iove your paintings."
"Thanks," I said.
"You have such a wild imagination," she said.
"Yes I do," I said.
"I'd love to be you for just one day," she said. "It must be so exciting with all those brilliant ideas flying around in your head."
"Yup, sometimes I feel like a regular air traffic controller of brilliant ideas," I said.
"I'd also love to be Angelina Jolie for just one day," she said.
"Angelina Jolie," I said.
"Or Hillary Clinton," she said. "Except Brad Pitt is much cuter than Bill Clinton, don't you think?"
"I haven't really thought about it," I said.
"Do you ever want to be someone else besides you?" she said.
"Yes," I said. "Sometimes I do."
The Gardener
"What do you think of her poetry?" I said.
He gave me an inscrutable look. "It reminds me of a plant growing sideways."
"Is that good or bad?" I said.
"That depends on how you feel about a plant growing sideways," he said.
A Special Thanksgiving Message from Nancy Robinson
It was bound to happen sooner or later: someone mistook my blog for an advice column. "Julia" from "Paris" (not her real name or geographic location) just emailed me and said "Nancy, you're so clever and interesting, can you suggest a recipe for a unique and exciting dish I can take to a Thanksgiving potluck supper?"
Usually when invited to potlucks, clever-and-interesting me waits until the last minute and runs to a 24-hour grocery store to buy a couple of tubs of doughnut holes (one plain, one sugared). But I have a favorite potluck item I make on very special occasions, such as when I'm snowed in and the potluck is occurring in the hallway outside my door and I happen to have all the ingredients on hand.
PEAR BUNNIES
Take one canned pear half and use as the bunny body. Place the bunny body on a fresh, ruffled lettuce leaf. Use the following for features:
- Nose: a maraschino cherry
- Eyes: pomegranate seeds
- Cotton tail: a large blob of mayonnaise
- Ears: uncooked, unshelled whole green beans
- Bunny trailings: raisins
- Other bunny emissions: the juice from the canned pears
- Garnish with baby carrots, cheese cubes, smoked oysters, teeny jars of caviar, expensive crackers, theatre tickets and glasses of champagne.
Assembly time per bunny: 30 minutes
Enjoy!
The World Situation is Desperate as Usual
I was wandering around my neighborhood with my sketchbook last weekend and suddenly felt very tired. I went into a restaurant and ordered a cup of coffee. The waiter returned with two cups on a tray, one for me and one for a man in a cowboy hat who was sitting at a nearby table. I stirred cream in my coffee and took a sip. The cowboy waved to the waiter and said, "My coffee is cold."
The waiter retrieved the cowboy's cup of coffee. "Sorry, sir. I'll get you another."
The cowboy gestured in my direction. "Her coffee is cold too. "
"My coffee is fine," I said to the waiter.
"He brought yours at the same time as mine," the cowboy said. "It must be cold."
"It's fine," I said to the cowboy.
The waiter walked away and into the kitchen. The cowboy said to me, " I suppose you think I'm a pain in the ass, sending back my coffee like that."
"No, I don't think you're a pain in the ass," I said. And I meant it. I didn't think he was a pain in the ass. I opened my sketchbook and drew a picture of the salt shaker next to my coffee cup.
The man watched me for a moment and said, "'This neighborhood has a lot of artists."
"Yes it does," I said.
"You an artist?" he said.
"Yes," I said.
"Do you make a living at it?" he said.
"I wouldn't call it a living, but yes I make money from my art," I said.
The waiter returned with a fresh cup of coffee and set it down in front of the cowboy.
The cowboy took a sip of the coffee and grimaced. "It's still cold."
"I'm sorry, sir, but that's as hot as the coffee gets here," the waiter said. "Would you like me to get you something else?"
"No," the cowboy said. "I'll drink it anyway."
The waiter walked away.
The cowboy gazed at me with a bleak expression and said, "Why does this always happen to me?"
"I don't know," I said. And I meant it. I didn't know why it always happened to him.