Haste Makes Waste

Silly me, I never seem to get around to running my errands until half past noon, which means I often end up standing in long, slow-moving lines.

Last week as I stood in a queue at a bank, I heard the man behind me mumbling under his breath. At first his words were muffled, but eventually the clarity and volume of his mutterings increased. He seemed to be upset about having to wait too long for the next available teller. At first I didn't want to turn around and look at him, because I didn't want to encourage his rant, but eventually my curiosity got the better of me and I sneaked a glance over my shoulder. I found myself staring into the bloodshot eyes of someone who resembled the archetypal "angry man" who may or may not have voted our most recent U.S. President-elect into office.

"There are only two teller windows open," the angry man said. "This is an outrage: I've seen four other tellers walk past and go into the back room." He seemed to be addressing both me and the man standing behind him, a fellow wearing an expression of good-humored neutrality.

Before the election happened, I might have also assumed an expression of good-humored neutrality, if only to avoid conversation with the angry man, but these days I find myself acting differently. In a firm and practical tone I announced, "That's because it's noon. People are on their lunch hour."

"That's no excuse," the angry man said.

Suddenly I felt very tired. I repeated a variation on what I'd just said."People need to eat lunch."

The good-humored man smiled and said nothing.

"I'm impatient, and I admit it," the angry man said.

 "Then go ahead of me," I said.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," I said. "I'm not in a hurry."

Just then a teller window became available. The angry man thanked me and walked away. I said to the good-humored man, "I only did that because I wanted to get rid of him, but if you're in a hurry you can go ahead of me as well."

The good-humored man smiled a big, sexy grin. "I'm not in a hurry."

And he wasn't.

Listen to Your Shoes

When a major disaster occurs, the human organism needs time to reconfigure itself before moving forward. Hence my distress since Hillary Clinton lost the 2016 U. S. presidential election.

For awhile my despair manifested itself in the usual ways: shattered sleep, loss of appetite, tearful outbursts, existential fatigue, and a need to be around other people (preferably large groups characterized by global diversity).

Last night my derailment took on a less-generic aspect. I awoke at 2 a.m. and jumped out of bed in a panic. Half-asleep, I rushed to my clothes closet, dove to the floor, and crawled around checking to see if all my shoes were there. (This task was made difficult by the fact I'm not exactly sure how many shoes I own or what they look like.) As my sleep fog cleared, I sat on the floor and pondered my activities. It seemed that I was worried my shoes were so disgusted by the presidential election results, they decided to walk away on their own and go live some place where only shoes are allowed to dwell.

To the best of my knowledge, all my shoes opted to stay with me. I don't know if they remained in my closet because they're looking forward to marching in the streets, or if they hope I'll get so angry I'll take them out to kick some ass, or if they're just waiting for instructions from their leader (me) about what to do next.

Regardless of why my shoes are still here, I'll take their presence as a gesture of solidarity, a vote of confidence that all is not yet lost. It's a confidence which I'm not feeling myself, but sometimes you gotta just listen to your shoes.

The Pest

I read somewhere on the Internet that Painting is dead.

I've got news for the Internet: Painting isn't dead. It's over at my loft, eating all the cupcakes and getting in the way of me doing anything constructive.

SOLD

I recently sold an important painting.

I'm not going to tell you which painting it was. I've sold a number of paintings lately, and it could have been any of them.

I knew the painting was important the day after it sold, when I awoke to a loud silence in my place. Of course there were the usual morning sounds wafting from the alley beneath my window (garbage trucks, birds chirping, men playing ukuleles, etc.) but still...it was REALLY QUIET.

My morning was quiet in the way it always gets when someone or something larger-than-life leaves my world.

In the case of the painting, I was VERY happy it sold. Not only did I need the money, I love it when my art goes off to live elsewhere and and have a new life.

But I couldn't shake the feeling that something BIG had left the building.

I did the only thing a girl can do under these circumstances: I got out of bed, made myself a cup of coffee, went into my studio...and began a new painting.

I hope my new painting turns out to be important.

Lights! Camera! Inaction!

People keep telling me I should make a cat video. I'm not sure why. I don't own a cat, I'm not really a "cat person" (although I like cats well enough) and I never have time to watch cat videos because I'm too busy watching paint dry.

But still, every couple of days someone says to me, "Nancy, you should do a cat video."

I've gotten this advice so often, it's time for a public announcement: NO CAT VIDEOS ARE PLANNED AT THIS TIME.

If I do ever make a cat video, the auditions will be difficult. You see, no cat could ever measure up to the Only Cat I Ever Really Loved, who's been gone from my life for many years now. I don't know what happened to him, but if he's still alive, he's 280 years old (in cat years, I mean.).

If there ever was a cat to live 280 years, that cat would be the one. The critter was even more cussed-minded than I am. If he shows up on my doorstep any time soon, I'll let you know.

In the meantime, I'm going to post the sole picture I possess of the two of us together. Think of it as a VERY slow motion cat video. In fact, it's so slow, it's still stuck on a sunny afternoon in Los Angeles, sometime in the 1980's, when I was utterly lost and that cat was my guide and protector.

Gluten

I love gluten. Gluten makes me happy. I often announce to anyone who'll listen that gluten is the poor woman's antidepressant.

Before I say anything more, you must understand that I'm speaking only for myself. Other people are having much different experiences with gluten, some of them not so good.

But enough about them. Let's talk about me. To sum things up succinctly, based on epistemology and without a control model: I could never work in a bakery. All hell would break loose.

Self-portrait as a Cupcake Decoration, oil on canvas, 48" x 36"