Double Trouble

I don't usually do matchmaking, but a recently-divorced woman friend of mine is so damned pretty, she needs to get married off immediately. In her current single state she's a liability to all other single women.

I also have a man friend who's single, smart, and employed. Fortunately I'm not attracted to him. I decided he was the perfect sacrificial victim for getting my pretty friend off the market.

To set up their first date, I began by talking to the man. He asked a lot of questions about my pretty friend, such as was she employed, did she go to college, did she drink beer and did she like sports? The answer to all those questions was yes. 

 "One more question," he said. "Has she ever been married?"

"Yes," I said. "Five times."

"Five times?" he said. "If she's been married five times, something is obviously wrong with her."

 "Nothing is wrong with her," I said. "She's so beautiful and smart, everyone wants to marry her. We'd all be married five times if we had the kind of love opportunities she's presented with."

"I dunno," he said. "She sounds like trouble."

"Think about it," I said. "Call me tomorrow."

Then I talked to the woman friend. She asked the same questions he asked, including the one about being married.

"He's never been married," I said.

"If he's never been married, something is obviously wrong with him," she said.

"Nothing is wrong with him," I said. "He was busy getting his career going before he made a commitment to marriage and children."

"I dunno," she said. "He sounds like trouble."

"Think about it," I said. "Call me tomorrow."

Neither one ever called me again.

I'm glad I got rid of them. They were both trouble.

Celebrities in Our Midst

A real, live  Hollywood movie star visited my studio during a recent art event. I'm not going to say who it was, since I didn't recognize the movie star and only found out later from a friend who witnessed the movie star strolling into my loft. Even if I'd recognized the movie star, I wouldn't have done anything about it. Movie stars appearing in the backdrop of my life are not a novelty; I used to live in Los Angeles, where movie stars mingle with peasants on a fairly regular basis.

More exciting to me is that a real, live cave man visited my studio the same day the Hollywood movie star stopped by.

I must make it clear at this point: the cave man was a GENUINE cave man, not a "cave-man type" . The cave man had somehow survived for two hundred million years and arrived intact in my studio on a  springtime afternoon.

At first I didn't recognize the cave man for what he was. I mistook the cave man for some other kind of man. His sartorial statement was elegantly muted, implying that he did important work in an office setting. His hair was nicely groomed, he was clean-shaven, and he wore a dark gray suit and tie.  His behavior was quiet and orderly.  He spoke in a language which is currently in vogue (Upper-Midwestern English). He didn't carry a club or flaunt recently-killed animal carcasses. He engaged in light conversation with the artists milling about my studio,  laughing at people's jokes and listening politely as they catalogued their existential dilemmas. There was no hint that he was a cave man until someone asked about a painting of mine, which is entitled "Reunion".

"Reunion" depicts me mingling with a gaggle of brachiosauruses, raptors and pachycephalosauruses. The painting is about the subject of aging. 

"I bought $75 worth of plastic dinosaurs to use as models for the painting," I told the crowd. "It was money I'd set aside for a new spring wardrobe, but I stopped by a hobby store on the way to the mall and ended up spending all my money on plastic dinosaurs."

 I asked other people if they'd ever done a dinosaur painting. Everyone said yes, including the cave man, but they were all quick to add that they hadn't done any dinosaur art since they were children. Then everyone told stories about doing dinosaur art as children. Some people said they too had used plastic dinosaurs as models. One person said she was so old, plastic dinosaurs hadn't been invented yet so she had to copy from pictures in archeology books. One woman said she she was so old there were no archeology books and she had to invent fantasy dinosaurs based on tales her ancestors told around campfires.

"Well, I'm so old, I used LIVE dinosaurs as my models," said the cave man.

Which is how I knew he was a cave man.

Nipples

Do total strangers ever give you advice you didn't ask for?  That happens to me all the time. Like  a couple of weeks ago, when I was lounging at a coffeehouse writing blog posts in a notebook.

When I say "notebook" I mean a spiral binder with lined paper. I was the only person in the coffeehouse who wasn't using a laptop computer. It isn't that I only write blog posts in longhand. Sometimes I write stuff at a keyboard. I like to mix things up a bit.

Eventually the woman sitting next to me stopped typing and peered at me. "What are you doing?" she said.

"Writing blog posts," I said. "I usually draft them up ahead of time so they can settle down a bit before I post them."

"Ah," the woman said, nodding.

"Except sometimes I type them directly into my computer and post them right away," I said.

 "What's the name of your blog?" she said.

"It doesn't really have a name," I said. "It's just a page on my website."

  "I'd like to take a look at it," she said. "What's your website address?"

 "It's not an important blog," I said " It doesn't have any ads or anything."

"I still want to read it," she said.

I told her my website address and pointed her in the direction of the blog section. While she read through my blog, I went back to writing in my notebook.

Ten minutes later she leaned back in her chair and looked at me. "Not bad," she said. "I almost laughed out loud a few times."

"Thanks," I said.

"How many readers do you have?"

"I don't know," I said.

"You need to find out," she said.

 "Okay," I said.

"And you need a  better name for your blog," she said. "Something which will  make you stand out from the crowd."

"I'll give it some thought," I said.

"You also need better titles for your blog posts," she said.

"My titles are fine," I said. "They match the blog posts."

"That's not a good approach to writing titles," she said. "You need rockin' titles."

"Like what?" I said.

"Like Nipples," she said.

"Nipples?"

"I guarantee that if you title your blog post Nipples, you'll get zillions of new readers," she said.

"But I don't want to write about nipples," I said.

"Fine then," she said. "Don't write about nipples. It's your blog post, not mine."

Which is why I'm not writing about nipples.

An Artist By Any Other Name...is Very Confused

 I ran out of business cards last month, so I went to an office supply store to order a new batch. When it comes to business cards, I like to keep things simple.  I prefer cheap, legible business cards which state the facts in an organized kind of way.

When I got to the ordering counter at the office supply store, I waved my old business card in front of the sales associate and said, "I want to reorder this business card."

"That's an old template," she said, peering at my business card. "It's no longer available. But we can probably find one similar to it." Opening a large catalog which was clamped to the counter, she riffled through the book and paused when she got to a page of plain-looking templates. She pointed her finger to one of them. "This one resembles your old one."

It didn't resemble my old one and I didn't like it much, but it was the simplest one they had. "That one will be fine," I said.

The sales associate took my old business card from my hand, peered at it and began typing my information into an order form. "Do you still want to be Nancy Robinson?" she said.

"Some days I do and other days I do not," I said. "But being Nancy Robinson is kind of an ongoing tradition in my life, so yes I still want to be Nancy Robinson."

She typed in Nancy Robinson.

"I know Nancy Robinson is a very common name," I said, " but I've made the name Nancy Robinson famous. Locally famous, anyway. Or rather sort of locally famous...I mean, not everywhere locally famous but some people know who I am.  It's too late to change my name to something else."

"Okay," she said. "Nancy Robinson it is. Now, what's your job title?"

"Artist," I said.

She typed  Artist in the job title line.

"Wait," I said. "Artist could mean anything these days. People might think I was a musician or a food truck person. Not that I have anything against musicians or food truck people...I'm just not a musician or food truck person. I'm a painter. Change my job title to Painter."

The sales associate deleted Artist and typed in Painter.

"Wait," I said. "Painter implies I might be a house painter or something. Not that I have anything against house painters. House painters are very cool people and quite noble in their own way. I could never be a house painter because it would mean staying outdoors for long periods of time, and I'm kind of a hothouse flower. Change my job title to Fine Artist."

The salesperson deleted Painter and typed in Fine Artist.

"No, that sounds stupid," I said. "Nobody knows what a fine artist is any more. They'll think I'm bragging about how great I am. Change it to Surrealistic Painter."

 "How do you spell surrealistic?" the sales associate said.

"You're right, surrealistic is too obscure a term," I said. "I listed Surrealism as my religion on Facebook and they let me get away with it. I think they didn't know what the word meant."

The sales associate stood with her hands poised over the keyboard. Her expression was stoic and non-judgmental.

"The word surrealistic is  like the word sublime," I said. "Once I entitled a painting Fear of the Sublime and everyone thought I was making reference to the musical group named Sublime. " I chuckled. "Yeah, right, like the woman in my painting was afraid of some musical group! " I leaned my elbows on the counter. "The woman in my painting represented the Censor. The Censor was from a self-help book I was reading at the time."

The sales associate shook out her hands and flexed her fingers.

"Speaking of self-help books, " I said with what I hoped was a conspiratorial smile, "maybe I should list my job title as National Treasure. It would be a creative visualization exercise. Although I'm not currently a national treasure, if my business card says I am, then I'll start acting like one and morph into being a national treasure in the process of life itself."

The sales associate typed in National Treasure.

"On the other hand, even I don't believe I have what it takes to be a national treasure," I said. "In fact, I'd chafe at the bit if I was a national treasure. Being a national treasure would be a huge responsibility. I'm sick of having to be so responsible. I was the oldest kid in my family and everyone expected me to be super responsible and a role model for the younger children. It was like living a fishbowl of stagnant water."

The sales associate deleted National Treasure.

"I have an idea what to put in the job title line," I said. "I'll put the same thing I have on my website: Painter, Writer and Raconteur."

The sales associate typed in Painter, Writer and.

"Wait, do you even know what a raconteur is?" I said.

"No," the sales associate said.

"Yeah, most people don't," I said. "Just say Painter and Writer. "

The sales associate deleted Painter, Writer and and typed in Painter and Writer.

"Wait...don't put Writer," I said. "I'm not a real writer. I mean, I write stuff for fun, and some people say I'm good at writing, but  I'm not even published except for my  blog on the Internet. Anyway, I should be spending my time painting, not writing, because my painting career is my real career with demands and expectations. I mean, people are buying my paintings and I'm in some art shows and need to do new work.  Yeah, you're right, a writing career is probably what I should have done with my life because I talk so much, but it's too late now. I'm too madly in love with painting. Except some days when I'm too tired to paint. Painting is really hard work. But I LOVE painting! Painting is my heart child. Painting makes me happier than anything in the world."

The sales associate was looking at me with the kind of expression people wear when viewing a car accident where no one was injured but the wreckage is blocking traffic.

"Oh, to hell with it all, " I said. "Delete Painter and Writer and just put Artist in the job title line."

As I said,  I like to keep things simple.

The Happy Clown

A couple of young art collectors recently visited my studio and bought one of my paintings. While the husband helped me package up the painting for transport to their chi-chi abode on the other side of town, the wife strolled around my loft looking at stuff on the walls. Eventually she spotted a small photo of me in my late 20's, posing for a publicity shot for an art show.

"Is that  you?" she said.

"Yes," I said.

"You were beautiful when you were young!" she said. "You used to look like a model!"

Were? Used to?

The high spirits I'd been enjoying due to selling the painting crashed and burned in my head. But I knew the young art collector didn't mean to be unkind. She was merely stating the facts as she saw them. Plus, these people were adoring fans who would probably buy more of my paintings. So I put on a happy smile and said "Thank you!"

The next day I went out and bought some very-expensive face cream and makeup.

A few days later I was at an art opening and a young artist walked up to me and said, "I admire the way you way you wear so much makeup for an older woman."

I thought about replying, "Listen, sweetheart, that kind of 'compliment' falls into the same category as 'Only you can pull off wearing that color' and 'You look really good for someone in your condition.' "

I considered barking, "Babycakes, here's a news flash: I don't wear so much makeup in order to be admirable. If I wanted to be admirable I'd run for President of the United States or devote my life to discovering a cure for cancer."

I considered murmuring, "Child, I don't wear so much makeup to be admirable.  I wear so much makeup because I want to look like the memory of someone young and beautiful."

But as I gazed at the young artist's upturned face,  I decided to respond the way a heroic and pragmatic former supermodel would respond.

 I said, "Thank you."

Yes, This Really Happened

After my bi-weekly workout at the local gym, I stepped into the locker room to retrieve my purse and jacket. The place was filled with neatly-coiffed, attractive women who'd just finished  an aerobics class. They radiated health and warmth, comfort and sunshine, well-appointed homesteads and handsome, happy husbands. They were pillars-of-the-community types, comfortable in their own skins. If these women had jobs, the jobs probably did not involve wearing silly uniforms.  I suspected none of them had ever dyed their hair purple while drunk or spent a week in bed eating potato chips. I sensed they were strangers to existential dilemmas.

In short: these lovely and law-abiding females were not my group.

I felt safe in my anonymity as I strode toward my locker. To these women, I was invisible, a passing stranger in their midst. They were too busy chatting  in gentle, hushed voices to pay attention to me.

Suddenly I spotted a scale. It was a gadgety-looking thing, a platform attached to a wall-mounted remote display. Wondering how I translate into pounds these days, I slipped off my shoes and stepped onto the platform.

 As I pressed the "on" button, the wall-mounted display fell onto the floor with a clatter.  The women stopped what they were doing and stared at me.

"I think I broke it," I said sheepishly. 

Suddenly the women began to cheer. Some of them ran forward to hug me. They thanked me and said I was their hero. They said my secret was safe with them and they'd never tell the authorities I broke the scale. They said they hated that stupid thing and were glad someone had finally managed to break it.

I guess there's a little bit of outlaw in everyone, given the right situation.