For far too long I’ve played into the image and idea that I’m a high maintenance person. It goes with the diva-like territory in which I’ve mostly pretended to live, but isn’t an accurate representation of truth. Take the pictured shirt, for example. It’s from Wal-Mart. I got it at half price a few months ago, cut the sleeves off for comfort, and it’s quickly become my new favorite shirt for bedtime. A high-maintenance person doesn’t find such comforts so easily. But my problem with that perceived designation runs deeper, because for me being high-maintenance isn’t about being a perfectionist or being very particular about how things are done.

A truly high-maintenance person is someone who is impossible to please, either from impossible demands, or unclear requests. A high-maintenance person will answer a question like, ‘What do you want for dinner?’ with, ‘Oh, I don’t know, whatever you want is fine.’ Then when they get a burger and fries, lament and complain that it’s not a steak and twice-baked potato. That’s not me. 

I’ve always made it exactly known what I want and how I want it. Hell, I’ve established registries for birthdays and Christmas to eliminate guesswork. I’m brazenly clear about what I like and enjoy, and unabashedly lean into asking for it. People have mistaken this for being high-maintenance, when it’s very much the opposite. The blueprint is there, the map is laid out, and all anyone has to do is follow the simple instructions – often accompanied with an explanatory blog post such as this. 

It doesn’t get any easier.

When they go high, I go low. 

This spring week ran the gamut – from snowstorms to sunny days – and emotions ran a similarly bumpy  road. While Andy eyes opening the pool, I continue the clean-up of the garden, and preparing for a few guests this coming weekend. Spring is filled with such rollercoasters. Let’s retread the previous week before diving headfirst into a new one. 

A pop of color ignited the start of the week.

This pansy smiled through the snow. (Clearly a better pansy than me.)

Rest. Relax. Rejuvenate.

Cinnamon roll start.

Dream bread – and the search is on. 

This post is for anyone with the munchies, no matter the date.

After 21 years, I got a parking permit for downtown Albany. 

Tom Ford, for further inspiration. 

A dear friend turns 50. 

Multiplying rabbits. 

The day’s eye, in a flower.

A Boston spring stroll begins with a flower-filled Friday…

…and concludes with a seaside walk. 

Sun from the ground up. 

The rabbits of our neighborhood have been especially active these past few months, decimating any and all greenery that may have persisted into the winter (including two prized fountain bamboo plants that are usually left alone), but they’re so cute I can’t bring myself to be too mad at them. A few days before Easter, I was looking out the front window at the bunny pictured above, when I called Andy to see. He stood next to me and said there were two – and indeed there were. I didn’t notice the second one hidden in the shadow of the Thuja hedge until he pointed it out. Two bunnies simply enjoying a spring day that deigned to allow the sun to shine. 

In our backyard, there may be more rabbits to come. While clearing out the garden, I raked away an unnaturally-organized pile of debris – smaller pieces of lawn grass and little whorls of dried foliage arranged in a little mound – when I noticed that the mound was moving up and down. Immediately realizing that I had disturbed some sort of animal nest, I hastened to put back what I had removed. Even if it were a pile of mice, I didn’t have the heart to expose it to the harsh weather we were still having. I left that part of the garden alone, then retreated indoors to tell Andy what I’d seen. 

I thought it might have been a squirrel’s nest, or some mice, but Andy said he thought squirrels had their nests in the trees. A few hours later we saw one of the bunnies sitting right over the mound, standing guard or nursing, and I realized it was a little rabbit den. Not exactly convenient, but for the moment they can stay, at least until they’re big enough to shoo away. 

According to certain ancient and outdated edicts, a lady is never supposed to reveal her true age, but fuck that patriarchal garbage, especially when someone like my friend JoAnn is involved. Defying what society seems to want to do to women over a certain age, JoAnn has aged beautifully and gracefully, albeit with as much resistance as possible. Her youthful spirit used to wilt at the notion of growing older, and I distinctly remember a living room all-nighter in which all of us gathered wondered whether she’d make it to the morning, much less to the 40-year mark. That was ten years ago. When she triumphed over both, I had an inkling that she’d surprise herself, and most of her friends, by leaning into her adult years, and whether she realizes it or not, she’s made a remarkable success of that. 

Life doesn’t get easier as we grow older – we lose loved ones, we lose the ease of youth, we lose the ability to physically and mentally bounce back like we once did. But oh what we gain – all the knowledge and wisdom and confidence – the genuine confidence and grace to be ok with who we are, with what we like, and with what we will not by any means accept or tolerate. That makes life a lot more enjoyable the older we get, and it’s the trade-off of letting go of some other more frivolous, and once seemingly-more-important items. 

JoAnn is one of my life-long friends who has made it this far largely on her own. That has never been lost on me, and is one of the many reasons I hold her so close to my heart. Happy birthday, my friend – let’s celebrate over the next two weekends!