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A guy I know thinks I have a great resume. He says some people would kill to have my resume.
I assume that's the same group who'd die for a dessert.
I'm not big on killing or dying for anything, myself.
That same guy says my career maneuverings remind him of someone hunting the great woolly mastodon with a pop gun.
He's always amazed and delighted when I actually bag a great woolly mastodon with my pop gun.
Fear of Intimacy IV, 2001, oil on canvas, 36" x 48"
Don't you hate the way we all get put into categories? We're pigeonholed by age, gender, financial situation, geographic location, political leanings, body size, hair color, profession, height, clothing choices...the list goes on and on.
On January 1, 2001 I took a stand against pigeonholing. I created my own unique pigeonholing technique. From that day forward I lumped people into one of two categories: Armpit People and Non-Armpit People.
I'll take a moment to explain how I came up with the concept of Armpit People. One of my favorite people in the world stands a head taller I do and is very affectionate and demonstrative. When I see this person and lean forward to hug them, they enfold me in their strong, bearlike arms and crush me against their wide, muscular chest. As I turn my head to avoid being accidentally smothered... I end up with my nose in their armpit.
It's not a bad sensation to be hugged by an Armpit Person, provided you know who they are and provided that they bathe occasionally.
Most people of my acquaintance are Non-Armpit People. They're not prone to initiating lovey-dovey nuzzlings with sort-of strangers. However...when you get Non-Armpit people alone, watch out. All that pent-up hugging they've been harboring can overwhelm you suddenly without warning.
Which is also not a bad thing, with the right person.
In 2001 I did a few paintings about Armpit People vs. Non-Armpit People. Fear of Intimacy IV is one of my favorites.
Two of my readers just contacted me regarding my last blog post, The Dog Princess of Tinseltown. One of them discovered a typo when he read The Dog Princess of Tinseltown at 3 a.m. Assuming I was asleep in the middle of the night (and indeed I was), he decided to wait until morning to let me know about it. But he fretted about the zillions of people who might be reading my typo-riddled blog while I slept my way through the night, unaware of the disaster. He was so worried, he got up early and telephoned me before he'd even had coffee to alert me about the typo.
I immediately fixed the typo.
Another reader emailed me, also first thing this morning. He was worried about my feelings. He thought I was possibly still traumatized by the Los Angeles-era hairdo crisis I described in The Dog Princess of Tinseltown. He emailed me a link to a poodle workout video, saying if I watched it I might feel better about my poodle hairdo.
I did feel better after I watched the video.
I'm so glad I have such caring and discerning readers, getting up early to alert me to typos in my blog posts and cheering me up about a bad haircut I had 20 years ago. How well my readers know the kinds of things which truly matter to me!
Group hug.
I once moved to Los Angeles during a terrible Minnesota winter. I told people I was moving there to become rich and famous, even though the real reason I was moving was that I hated Minnesota winters.
As soon as got to L.A. I geared up to take the place by storm. But something odd happened...I lost all my energy and became passive. Maybe it was because of the warm weather and perfect breezes? Possibly my torpor was due to the fact I lived in West L.A., which at the time was an earthly paradise of pink haciendas, rustling palm trees and cerulean blue skies. West L.A. was the kind of place which inspired people to spend all their time sitting outdoors and soaking up creamy sunshine.
But I had no desire to go outdoors. All I wanted to do was stay in my room and paint large, gloomy paintings of nightmare scenes decorated with rats and voluptuous blonde women. The women were always lying down, dressed in ugly clothes and looking comatose with wide-open, big blue eyes. The only individual who was interested in these paintings was my sister's cat, who loved the pictures of rats and sometimes brought me dead rodents to use as models, much to my chagrin.
Eventually I ran low on money, so I got a job waiting tables at a jazz club near my house. I accumulated a small collection of friends, mostly other waitresses from the jazz club. At first they were all impressed by my commitment to working on my art, since that was the excuse I gave when I refused to go anywhere with them, but eventually they decided I needed to get out more. They suggested I get a new hairdo to boost my self-confidence and make me feel attractive and lively.
One of my friends drove me to a hair salon which a customer at the jazz club recommended because it was cheap. The cheap salon was in the Valley. I was assigned to a stylist named Jorge-Jim who said he was a cousin of the owner.
After Jorge-Jim was done cutting and perming my hair, I looked at myself in the mirror...and realized I looked exactly like a poodle. Jorge-Jim was quite horrified at what he'd done and refused to take my money.
Yup, the hairdo was that bad.
I was so embarrassed about how I looked, I hid in my room even more than usual. My friends thought I needed to have more of a sense of humor about the hairdo. They bought a retro postcard of a poodle who had a long nose and big sad brown eyes and presented it to me, saying, "Nancy! You look exactly like this poodle. " They started calling me "Fifi" and asking me if I wanted to go for a walk.
I was NOT amused.
Eventually my friends got tired of me moping around and refusing to go anywhere with them. They fixed me up on a date with a guy they knew, another painter, whom they described as "gorgeous to look at but still a serious person".
The painter was a cocky, handsome man who looked like the young Richard Burton. He didn't seem to notice he was on a date with a poodle. He was very nice and charming and told me many stories about all the adventures he'd had all over the world. He told me half his body was reinforced with steel plates due to his numerous motorcycle accidents. He told me a lot of other stuff too.
Toward the end of our date he suggested I show him my paintings. Since I'd told him I was living and working in my sister's spare bedroom, I assumed he was trying to seduce me, which I was very happy about. As we climbed the stairs to my sister's apartment and walked into my bedroom, I thought tonight was going to end VERY well.
"These paintings are interesting," he said. "Who is the woman you used as a model?"
"Myself," I said.
"She doesn't look anything like you," he said.
"I looked like her before I got this hairdo," I said.
"Hairdo?" he said.
"Yes, this hairdo which makes me look like a poodle," I said.
He studied me for a moment. " You're right," he said. "You do look like a poodle."
I kicked him out immediately. I could never date someone who said I looked like a poodle.
No one has been paying enough attention to me lately. Does that ever happen to you? When that happens I get really depressed. Today I decided to consult some self-help books for advice about how to puff up my ego and feel cheerful again.
The first self-help book I read said I should stop puffing up my ego (which they thought was kind of a flim-flammy thing to be puffing up in the first place). They suggested I put more energy into making contributions to my community and less energy into looking to other people for my sense of self-worth. Which is totally ridiculous so I decided to ignore their advice.
The second self-help book gave me this assignment: "Write your own imaginary obituary, listing all the things you want to accomplish before you die." It was some sort of goal-setting exercise. The assignment was supposed to empower me and drag me away from obsessive mid-winter navel-gazing. But writing my own obituary, even though it was imaginary, felt threatening and sinister. Plus, I got really distracted when I was writing the part of the obituary which described what I wore to my funeral; I tried on clothes all afternoon but couldn't find anything suitable... I mean, I have lots of stuff which makes me look good lying down :-) but none of it is appropriate attire for a funeral (especially if you're the dead person and therefore the center of attention and kind of a role model).
I finally gave up on self-help books as a way of cheering myself up. I poured myself a glass of wine and ripped open a bag of potato chips. Within minutes I could think more clearly and came up with the BRILLIANT idea of interviewing myself for this blog. I immediately felt a billion times better! As a blogger, I qualify as a media person, right? And who doesn't feel important when they're interviewed by the media?
After I finished interviewing myself I felt happy again. You should try this very effective ego-boosting technique yourself! Interviewing yourself and acting like you're a famous celebrity is cheaper than plastic surgery, safer than flirting with other people's spouses, and less fattening than getting drunk.
Here's the interview:
Nancy Robinson in her studio.
When I arrived at Nancy Robinson's loft, I was immediately struck by how young she looked (possibly because it was midnight and all the lights were turned off). Based on the sound of her voice, since I could barely see her in the darkness, the star seemed relaxed and happy.
ME: I'll begin by asking you how much makeup you're wearing.
NR: Only a hint of lipstick and powder. Tell your readers I look much fresher in person than I do in photos.
ME: Will do. Now, on to a technical question about your art: how long does it take you to do a painting?
NR: Too long, but I'm trying to speed things up.
ME: Do you have any advice for our readers about how to stay young and beautiful?
NR: Yeah...paint lots of self-portraits and make yourself look young and beautiful.
ME: What's the best way to install toilet paper, up or down?
NR: I refuse to address such an important and controversial issue during an interview for your silly little blog.
ME: Another hot topic in the news is transportation. What do you think is the most energy-efficient form of transportation?
NR: Swan boats.
ME: Have you ever even BEEN on a swan boat?
NR: No.
ME: Do you think good looks and a balanced psyche can be acquired through healthy diet and daily exercise?
NR: Yes.
ME: Are there any more nachos left?
NR: Yes...over there, next to the wine and cupcakes. Would you grab some for me while you're up? I'm too comfy to move right now.
ME: Do you take yourself seriously?
NR: No. I'm much too mysterious to take seriously.
ME: We've run out of time. Do you have any parting words of wisdom for our readers?
NR: No.
ME: Thanks for your time and hospitality, Nancy.
NR: Same to you, Nancy.
I was searching through a drawer the other day, trying to find someone's lost address, and found a cache of paper stubs bundled up with a rubber band. The top scrap was yellow with age. Written on it in a neat, matter-of-fact cursive was a message:
The note was unsigned and undated.
Several days later I'm still wondering who wrote that note and what was happening to me that was so dreadful I might need an ear or a place to stay.