When I was four my mother Cleopatra taught me to sew. She created most of my clothing which included two grade school era jumpers. One jumper was of crackled, navy blue vinyl with visible yellow-orange stitching and a matching tote purse. A pair of yellow-orange knee high socks bottomed that outfit off. The other jumper was made of gray, faux curly sheep skin fabric for a fuzzy wuzzy experience! She bought me crazy clothes, too.

The title of this blog comes from the panic I feel about getting older and doing my usual thing of refusing to focus on one creative area at a time. I have been a visual artist, a nightclub singer, a restaurant critic, a poet, a filmmaker and a cartoonist. I go sort of deep into each discipline but not enough to feel like I reach a more profound level where expectations of myself could match up to reality.

So I panic. Or freeze. Or I do lots of house and yard work. Because all that is so much easier than committing. This blog is about me trying my damndest to commit to creating unique, joyful and surprising garments. I have a sewing studio. I invested in tools. I keep getting better. I want to go deeper.


What about finally trying standup comedy to get that rush I crave of a live audience? Or joining a tennis club (the court is the only place where my mind and body finally focus) in order to write essays modeled on Timothy Gallwey’s The Inner Game of Tennis? And what about that graphic memoir I want to make about my mother’s dementia and how my father taught me to play tennis and how I hate long hair on any caucasion woman over 26 and about the traumas of art school and about sex and drugs and Jean Seberg‘s influence plus my terrible habit of turning dogs into children?