I have been thinking a lot about clothes lately.

I think this is because with the arrival of 30 degree weather I have had to purchase a sweater for my 14 pound yorkie-poo who was recently nearly scalped at the groomers because of matted hair. He went from being a ragamuffin dust mop to being a chiseled hunting dog (mini-version) who wears a football letter jacket purchased from Target. Believe me, he understands the difference.

Now as we head out to the lake for a three mile run he saunters and struts. He points at the geese and the squirrels, poses for the female pugs headed his direction, and literally runs circles around me if I am moving too slow, yanking my arm nearly out of my socket. As we cross the street, people point and chuckle--I have to say, "Come on, playa" just to get him to go anywhere.

Unlike my jockified small dog, I see the cold weather as a way to retreat into my clothing. Gone are the days of strolling outside in my bathing suit and a short sun dress to head to the lake for some reading and sun consumption. Instead I am scowling at my tank tops still hanging in the closet. I am ready for snuggling and sweaters and, god forbid, snow.

I can't bare the skin right now. I can't bare the soul. I am tired of exposing both. I want to wrap my psyche up in warm blankets, cover my skin in cashmere, nurse the wounds of telling all and retreat into an emotional cocoon. 

Summer represents a time of freedom, liberation, and expression. I shrug off clothes because I can't stand the heat. Likewise, I expose my emotions, confess feelings, and describe moods to old friends, potential loves, and questioning family members. Later, like a sun burn, I feel the sting of over-exposure, the uncomfortable irritation of having said too much.

I am ready to be done with all that. Time to wrap my heart back up in a hoodie sweatshirt.

To Be as Smooth as Frank

So I have just finished reading the famous essay "Frank Sinatra Has a Cold" and have concluded that Frank, even when phlegmy, hoarse, and full of mucus, never blundered in his words, misspoke, or stuck his foot in his mouth. This of course, is not to say that he didn't blow up at people or cut others down with words, it just seems like they weren't mistakes, they weren't, as they are so painfully for me, awkward mishaps.

In this article, the writer explains how Sinatra once harassed a man in a bar because he didn't like the way the guy was dressed. What happened? After escalating comments, a crackle of violent tension, a worried bar manager hustling into the room, eventually, the guy ended up leaving for another setting. Sinatra bullied this man out of the room. He didn't like that the guy wasn't wearing a coat and tie, so he proceeded to needle the guy until he left. And what's more, he didn't apologize for being rude, didn't worry over his comment and second guess himself; no, he stood where he was, next to the pool table, drinking bourbon, a blond on either arm, cigarette smoke swirling seductively around his head, and blue eyes piercing the room. In this moment, he was a jerk. More than that, he simply didn't care. That is what made him sexy. 

If this is the definition of sexy, disregarding others in the pursuit of one's own desires, then I may be, quite possibly, the least sexy being on the planet. Let's recast the scenario- I am standing in a bar, blonde on either arm, cigarette smoke swirling seductively, piano swelling, etc. etc. I don't like a guy's outfit. Well- already there are problems. First, it wouldn't occur to me not to like someone's dress and to think it grounds for exile. Seriously. Even mullets and cutoffs wouldn't make me think I had the right to boot someone from a bar. True, I might raise an eyebrow, but I would never think it grounds for dismissal. Now, say I actually did get annoyed enough to want the schmuck out. I can't imagine picking a fight unless I was really, really, really drunk. Here is where the bourbon comes in handy, I imagine. But, were I to yell at this man for not having a coat and somehow manage to get him kicked out of the bar, I would wake up the next day wringing my hands over my rude and unattractive behavior. I would feel immediately regretful for causing my friends an irritation, for causing a scene, for being anything other than a kind, gracious, accepting, and likable human being.

This is how I am different from Frank Sinatra. 

And what is the cause for this difference? Am I predisposed to be a sort of spineless worm in this world? A worm who wants to check to make sure everyone is having fun, is comfortable, and is happy to know me? Or is it something a little bigger--a gender predisposition, or something to do with being the eldest in a Catholic family. Why don't I think that I deserve to decide what people wear in the room I am in?

Well- to be honest, I don't want that role or responsibility. I think I would find myself irritating, bull-headed, and arrogant if I behaved that way, blondes, bourbon, blue eyes or not. But what I would like, what Sinatra had, and what I continue to work at is a sense of personal conviction. I want less hand-wringing. Less worry. Less fear of being unlovable. I want to say to say-- No, I don't want to sing right now, I have a cold, and to be quite honest, blondie, you are standing a little too close at the moment--and feel just fine about my convictions. 

I am sure Frank Sinatra could look back in his life and have regrets. All of us do. But he didn't apologize to himself about it. He accepted what he had done, who he was, where he was going, and what he wanted without excuse, guilt, shame, or explanation. That, and not a surly dislike for coatless slobs, is what made, makes, him sexy. That is the sexy I am looking to be.

On Starting the Blog

I am sitting in an Italian restaurant in a small tourist town situated on a large river, surrounded by the reds, yellows, browns, and oranges of autumn, and sipping a glass of Chianti. It is time. I face the window looking out at the street, I face the hibiscus plants that have been brought inside to bloom, I face the empty chairs across from me and I realize, I need to start writing this blog.

I have long been reluctant to join the blogger phenomenon. As a writer in an MFA program, I have stuck to my journals, my short stories, my assignments and have shirked this immediate form of response between writer and audience. Why? Why have I avoided a format that can only help me improve my craft? 

For one there is the problem that I have been brought up in a family where the strict, unspoken, unacknowledged code is to glorify the family, bury the problems, and speak truth selectively. We are to portray the best, garner accolades, and smile graciously, always, even if that smile is the thin veneer covering a massive wound, a heart split open with a serrated knife. A blog is a dangerous thing under such expectations; surely the stories will begin to leak out.

The other problem is that I imagine I have little to say that interests the general audience at-large, whoever these readers might be. Could anyone possibly want to know that I am eating pasta at a restaurant next to two Russian women who are speaking in low tones and leaning into each other as they sip coffee and toy with water glasses, that the waitress who served me conspiratorially told me the wi-fi password and smiled in congratulations when I ordered a glass of wine, that I am tempted right now to take my new favorite pen and scrawl terrible poetry over the brown paper tablecloth? These are not fascinating topics. They are topics, I think, for me alone to enjoy.

And alone I am. Is that why I am finally starting my blog? Because the stability of a marriage and a sense of "we" has vanished from life in this past year? Perhaps I long for community and connections. Perhaps I am reaching out with network fibers to touch the technological souls of others. Perhaps I am merely distracting myself from the vacuous spaces in my heart- the gaping holes of loneliness that I dress up daily in fishnet tights, tall boots and sweater dresses, and hide behind carefully straightened hair and eyeliner. 

Perhaps a blog is a place where I can be myself and feel what I want, even if I hide behind a pseudonym, crouch behind a secret identity, hidden amongst the reds, the oranges, the browns, and the yellows of autumn.