Happy New Year!
(And now we can all go back to bed...)
A Case of Mistaken Identity
I hate it when people call me "Ma'am".
When that happens, I feel like a middle aged woman frumping her way through life in the Upper Midwest. Which is possibly how I look to some people. But I'm more comfortable thinking of myself as a fairytale princess who was kidnapped as an infant by trolls who were hiding under the bridge when the royal carriage passed over it. I just know that some day a handsome art dealer will recognize me for who I really am and rescue me and sell my paintings for pots of money and make me famous and a national treasure.
Until then, out of a sense of noblesse oblige, I'll refrain from yelling at all the misguided peasants who keep calling me "Ma'am".
The Hostess, graphite on bristol paper, 27-1/2" x 17-1/4"
With a Love Like Mine He Knew He Wasn't Glad
"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.