GAY AND FUN: ADVENTURES IN WINTER WARDROBE FROLICKING

This dilettante divabird has been fighting a headwind for quite some time, but has set down for the night to contemplate the  next flight. The softly shaped fall clouds of South Texas settled in to a glorious sunset in the gloaming, the earlier rain freshening the air. The cooling change of seasons has arrived. Oh to have a fireplace, for the mesquite that fell during the drought, has left a stack of fragrant logs to burn. The good comes with the bad....  Finally there is quiet in the house, the air conditioner has shut off, it must be less than 74 outside. Let that sink in for a minute. It's cool enough outside to wear a denim jacket or a light sweater, a pretty scarf.... time to get out my saddle shoes, penny loafers (with dimes), and cowboy boots. I'd be lyin' if I said the last set of items were something I'd have to pull out.. all the I-lost-count pairs of cowgirl boots have Vogue and Smithsonian magazines rolled up in them to keep them in shape; some old cemetery plastic sunflowers, red and yellow roses of Texas stuck in the middle, for cheer.

I am going to have to find my jeans, ones that fit this year, Always fun. Shakin' out the clothes and shoes and boots for various and sundry undesirables that choose to abide in our old church. So far the only critters I've noticed are some spider webs, abandoned, and some very confused dead ants. Why way over in my closet room? Those ants will never divulge their intentions. What hatbox did I put my lovely flowered hankies in? For what good are jeans without a fancy hankie in the back pocket? Where are all those stretchy velour dresses my daughters say are just not worn any more? For like George Costanza, I would drape myself in velvet all the time if it were allowable, at least this time of the year. My socks, every other pair has no elastic because I haven't worn them in a year. Same with the tights. Where are the long sleeved tee-shirt nighties? My stretch velvet long robe makes me feel like Norma Desmond. Sometimes I miss flannel...I'd have to turn the AC on to wear that unless the Jet Stream does something kooky.  And don't think I haven't done it! I did notice that I slept like taxidermied chihuahua last night...I was so cold that I got stiff and didn't realize all we needed was a blanket. I am correcting that tonight! It's going to be 50 again!

As for outerwear, this is a good time for one to access the necessary types of coats held helpless in bondage for 11 and one third months a year. Windbreaker, yes, 3. Raincoat, yes. Wool coats of varying length and color (one never knows what riding hood will be "just right"), yes. Velvet coats and corduroy coats, yes and yes and yes. Opera coat, of course, one never knows! Leather, certainly. I check my pockets for unseemly detritus, start the year out right and all that rot. Crumpled hankies set aside for a sprucing up, toothpicks, receipts, mysterious business cards, cute matches for my candles, peppermints and cough drops Trip Lists for birds and butterflies, ticket stubs, velvet scrunchies and hair claws and THERE's that pocketknife! How did I get along without all this stuff? Decisions, what to leave, I mean, it was there for a reason, right? Birding vest? Which one? I'm in a quandary...I don't like any of them, which do I hate the least? I'm remembering leaving the Texas Motor Speedway after a free Blockbuster rock concert and it was so hot, Scott left the tailgate on the van up for a bit. When we got home, the perfect birding vest was no where to be seen. It even had one of those zipper pulls that is a compass and a thermometer! And a great pocketknife in the pocket. Le sigh. I might as well tell you now that I have a "thing" about pocketknives. Got an uncle who left you too many pocketknives? Well, Christmas is coming, season for giving... They're like catnip. My estimation of a guy goes way way up if he has a good pocketknife. Girl can't help it. I think I have a secret longing to take up whittling....wonder what wood down in the Rio Grande Valley is the perfect whittling wood? Who on earth could I ask? I don't think old old guys even do that anymore. Maybe it's more charming in the abstract....

Dragging myself over to the accessories areas (there are two), I mate  matching gloves (dress gloves, cool gloves, I'm -in-KC gloves. Stragglers are pushed to the back, I have high hopes for a clandestine reunion! It's happened before, sneaky things. Box of clean bandannas of various colors, great for padding your binocular or camera straps. Too many red ones, never! Hats, out of control, running all over the house, willy-nilly. Winter hats have the freedom fragile summer hats do not: they get to stay out on the pegs yearround. With their buddies, the birding hats I aways take with me and never wear. Or the ballcaps. Really? Not for this divabird, sniff.  Only the truly obedient ear muffs curl up cozily, waiting for a super windy Spring Break fallout. I wore them one night to a football game here, many kids asked me "What do you call those things?" They were leopard and made me feel like a cougar. And the long pashminas and scarves, I just can't wait to wear them! Don't you love scarves? One day, when we are better acquainted, I will show you my scarf collection. I feel like having a scarf party and play with them all at once, then sell off the ones admired most by my friends.  All men should even wear a muffler, period. It's so charming to watch them remove them. The male equivalent to a hair toss if accomanied by a grin. Hmmm.....

A bold and spicy Italian sausage soup I made is turning my attention toward cutlery and bowls....keep warm, and enjoy your new/old winter friends. They have been waiting yet another year to serve and embrace you, like the cousins you only see at Thanksgiving. Family hug.

Decisions of a Dilettante Divabird....

Decisions of a Dilettante Divabird are numerous and complex. There are different definitions for the word 'dilettante', but I chose the "lover of the arts" and "someone who dabbles in a bit of everything". Hence the problem, who am I today and what, of all the various interests I have, will catch my fancy today. And if you've noticed a lot of "I's", well, divas are a bit self-obsessive. That being said, in a scientific world of birding, the pressure is on to know everything about everything. Not just identifying birds correctly by visuals, now one must also know the songs, calls, even chip notes. Not to mention the distribution of the avifauna, it's behaviour, it's year and color phases, what it eats, what it's crap looks like (yes, I've seen the shirt), it's nests, it's eggs, it's Latin name, it's historical names and distributions, where it summers and winters, and I know once I was told that it would be good if I knew the soil content of the plants it eats. Really. Really.

I will never ever ever at this later stage in my life be more than a dilettante divabird, having a brain full of books, films, history, fashion, and the other detrious that needs a good defragging in my noodle. I frequently am surrounded by insanely talented and knowledgable birders and scientists, and formerly beat myself up for my lassitude and reluctance to bird in 100+ weather, common where I live in the Rio Grande Valley of Texas. Nor do I care for mosquitoes or frigid birding. I have about a 50 degree span of birdability. When it falls outside that range, my thoughts stray to French cinema, decorating our silly church we live in, or READING great books about birding.

.I  took to the birds 15 years ago, after a fallout in Laguna Vista and my fury about not knowing a single bird made me start reading the sweet Golden Guide! Fine arts were always my forte, so this nightly reading of field guides was so new and required a different part of my brain. Reading, reading, yet when I went out alone, not a single bird could I ID for sure. Until one morning, when a raptor sat on a pole long enough to be my first love....the then Black-Shouldered Kite, with it's glowing red eyes! Then I met my first "real birder", Gary Waggerman,  out on a dove site in Rangerville. He laughed when I asked if he was a real birdwatcher! I miss Gary. He told me there were tons of birdwatchers around here, I just had to find them. And I did. The nicest people I have had the pleasure to meet with a passion for birds. There is something terrific about them all. Benton Basham, my guru. Red and Louise Gambell, mated and happy for life.  I love to meet the hard core birders whose tongues drip with the honey of Latin, whose glinty eyes and supersharp ears provide the information to tick off a list of everything going on in a mile circle (or more?). Birders are fascinating, all of them, old, young, good, bad, even those who dance and sing Karioke (especially them!). Letting me admire your behavior, preening, and intelligence, it's all good with me. Everyone needs an audience and I raise my hand to tell you that I am here with my cell phone in the air, waving it high. And maybe, maybe, my brain will let more birding knowledge in, little by little. Even though I worry what might be sacrificed....will I have to lose to learn? Advise me, birdgurus!