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Goodnight Florida

Closing this book on Florida was difficult. Just as I was getting accustomed to the sun and the sand and the heat, I was flown back to upstate New York, where temperatures hovered well below freezing. It was jarring, and entirely unwelcome, but you always have to go home, whether you like it or not. On my last night, I stood on the balcony, remembering the first night I arrived. A warm breeze rustled the leaves of the palm trees, and this lovely night wind whispered of salty sea caps, boldly-colored bougainvillea, and ocean debris waiting to be discovered by excited beach-goers.

The sadness of it being my last night in such beauty is coupled with a fullness not felt on the first night when it was still brand new. It’s strange, and wonderful, how malleable we can be, especially when we need to be, and I will bring back a little of this lesson for the days to come. Right then though I don’t need it. I only need to stretch out my arms into the balmy night, look upward to the moon, and make the memory that will see me through another winter.

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A Swath of Oceanic Pubic Hair

This bit of red-brown sea-life, washed upon the shore of Florida, brings to mind another thatch of life: the pubic patch. Evocative of the erotic, or simply the anatomical, it reeks of briny primordial ooze, as if the very depths of the ocean coughed up the remnants of some cosmic orgasm. It reminds me that life, in all its varied forms, is somehow all connected, that we all come from the same stuff, and return to it in the end.

The wilderness of Florida, where warnings of sting rays and panther crossings sounded in the night, and the potential of losing a dangling foot from a bridge to an alligator is remarkably real, brings me back to the gloriously precarious perch we retain in this world. A tangle of Spanish moss, filled with tiny spiders, waits to hang the unwary passer-by, while the phallic (yet female) pistil of a calla lily protrudes just enough to give rise to other thoughts. Like salty pubic hair glistening in the sun.

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Not-So-Dirty Diana

The only real elegance is in the mind; if you’ve got that, the rest really comes from it. ~ Diana Vreeland

Believe it or not, I don’t pamper myself that often. It seems like I do, because those are the moments I like to write about and play up here, but for the most part my paycheck goes to the mortgage and car payments (I’m a bit behind) and food (ok, and clothing.) As for things like my Tom Ford Private Blends collection, those are mostly the generous special-occasion gifts from my husband. But every once in a while I treat myself, especially when something as pretty as this calls out my name. (Considering that no one seems to know what to get me from my Christmas Wish List, I have to take things into my own hands. It makes moving on that much easier. Besides, no one got me this, so it was a safe purchase – not that I was worried. No one on this earth knows me.)

Diana Vreeland was the arbiter of style during her famed reign as Editor of Vogue, and she had her own bold sense of fashion that went beyond what she wore and bled into how she lived. Her legacy lives on today, one of the rare fashion icons whose presence is still felt, particularly when a new line of fragrances carries her name.

I finally got to try the line at Neiman Marcus, and though a few had the requisite floral aspect that I was expecting, two carried a more masculine slant – ‘Extravagance Russe’ and ‘Absolutely Vital’. Both of those spoke to me, and I could hear the whispers of Ms. Vreeland daring me to wear one of her perfumes. I took the dare and chose the ‘Absolutely Vital’ (created by perfumer Yves Cassar.) Steeped in sandalwood, with just a shade of smoky sweetness, it’s somewhat similar to Tom Ford’s ‘Santal Blush’ but without the cloying floral aspect that Ford’s confection veers toward. Like its namesake, ‘Absolutely Vital’ is a little over the top, but that’s precisely the sort of scent I like for the holiday season.

You don’t have to be born beautiful to be wildly attractive. ~ Diana Vreeland

It matches the sparkle and sequins and holiday lights, and its sillage manages to be powerful yet elegantly restrained. It’s got flair and poise, but is well-behaved. Drying down into the mystical incense-like remains that the best sandalwood leaves behind, it is practically a religious experience. The packaging and the color of the bottles is exquisite – as bold and brazen as her infamous red drawing room in New York – each with a colorful tassel to set off additional brashness. In short, they are the perfect representation of the spirit of Ms. Vreeland: potent, vital, and with just enough power to pack a pretty punch.

“I loathe narcissism, but I approve of vanity.” ~ Diana Vreeland

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There’s Only One Capri Sun

Despite the flurry of impostors of late, there’s still only one Alan Bennett Ilagan on Twitter, and it’s me, Helen Sinclair! So Follow if you dare, to a world of inappropriate Tweets, racy photographs, ribald behavior, and the general mayhem of my responses to the trolls who call me out on a daily basis. It’s a shit-show in the style of James Franco, with the vain egotism that goes along with moving from 10,000 to 12,000 based less on the quality and more on the shirtlessness. Social media, man, that’s where it’s at. Run and tell that. Hide your kids, hide your wives! There’s only one Capri Sun. And Coke is it. The one that never lets you down. (PS – I abhor capris.)




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Of Fruit & Fragrance

Behold the pomegranate. I never really noticed any prominent scent from it (and I’ve done my share of de-seeding them in recent months) but the notion forms the base of Jo Malone’s ‘Pomegranate Noir’ fragrance. I have a feeling the House of Malone used the name for its image and connotation rather than any inherent perfume from its fruit, but when the resulting concoction is this good, it doesn’t really matter.

This scent is one of Malone’s stronger creations – far more substantial than the light wisps of beauty she usually conjures. That said, it’s still somewhat fleeting, requiring repeated applications, or a base of accompanying lotion to boost the lasting power. It’s gorgeous though – more rounded and fruity than I traditionally wear, but perfect for the holidays. I’m also enamored of the way the fruitiness subdues the noir aspects (I’m not a noir fan when it comes to colognes – even Tom Ford‘s ‘Noir et Noir’ doesn’t impress me much).

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Christmas in Florida ~ Part 3

It wouldn’t be Christmas, even in Florida, without a bit of Christmas tree splendor and Santa-sightings. It was a bit odd to see it all played out against a backdrop of palm trees and an aquamarine ocean, where the temperature hovered around 80 degrees and the wardrobe called for shorts and sandals, but somehow Christmas found a way.

In the hotel I was staying at, this sumptuously-decorated scene greeted guests (along with a troll-like Santa I couldn’t quite bring myself to post).

While it felt different, it didn’t feel wrong, and in a year where things were shifting, it opened up my eyes to new possibilities, new traditions, and new ways of celebrating the season.

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Christmas in Florida ~ Part 2

It takes at least a day and a half before the realization of a vacation sets in. Work worries, family obligations, and the routine planning of this website and that life must all exit the head, and they do – but it takes that day and a half. Then the secrets of calm and restful ways are revealed, slowly at first, until the full bloom of a sunny beach in Florida unfurls, lined with sea shells and dotted with tropical blossoms.

The ocean sparkles, crests shimmering with the reflected diamonds of sunlight. Sand pipers walk hurriedly along the shore, while flocks of gulls soar overhead. The majesty of the sea is present as much in its quiet beauty as in its tumultuous power. For now, the sea slumbers, and a very pretty slumber it is.

For a native of landlocked upstate New York, the Florida coast is a marvelous wonder. A long line of exotic artifacts lines the lapping edge of salt water. Sponges and shells and the dried carcass of a catfish all present themselves to my childish delight. Warnings of it being stingray season – “Please shuffle when walking in the water!” – fill my mind with boyish excitement. I still get a thrill from new scenes of nature, and they are in ample supply here.

The Gulf Coast is a revelation. Somehow it feels more tranquil, sporting richer colors, more intense skies, and a tug at the heart that only beauty could pull off.  There is also a variety of bird-life that inhabits the water and the air, dancing along the shoreline, preening in the sun, and tip-toeing through the sand. I’m held rapt by birds I’d never seen before, entranced by their exotic features, and the way some of their beaks match the color around their eyes. I could spend a day just watching the birds here.

At the end of a pier, a pelican teases beneath wooden slats, peering up at me while enjoying the bit of shade from an unrelenting sun. I wait for the elusive creature to swim out before grabbing the only photo I could.

Then there was this bird – a Bird-of-Paradise. These beauties grow outside here; a treat to see, as I’ve only ever encountered them in a greenhouse setting. The flowers of Florida can be found in bloom at all times of the year, so I captured a few more.

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Christmas in Florida ~ Part 1

The notion of spending the holidays  in sunny Florida has never been one that appealed to me until this year, when new family directions and other nonsense has me screaming to get away and start my own holiday traditions. Perhaps next year… In the meantime, I’m putting up a few Florida posts from my recent trip to the Sunshine State, because I’m all about crazy juxtaposition, and it doesn’t get crazier than Santa and palm trees.

Here is just a hint of what is to come…

PS – Merry Christmas.

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I’ll Light A Candle Here in the Dark

A quick good-night quote from a very wise man on this Christmas Eve:

“There is no doubt that it is around the family and the home that all the greatest virtues, the most dominating virtues of human, are created, strengthened and maintained.” – Winston S. Churchill

And sometimes, one must humbly add, destroyed.

“A few years ago I spent Christmas and New Years alone. No family. No friends. No gifts. A little tree with some lights on it. A small Christmas dinner (in a can). Far from home but with a lot of good memories of it. I didn’t feel too sad because I knew things would change for the better because I knew I would change them for the better. It was all up to me, not fate, or luck (although understand that those are big players in this game too). If I didn’t like where I was at that moment I couldn’t feel sorry myself and blame someone else, play the victim. I was the one who put myself there and I knew I was the one that had to change. So I did. See, misery is never very far away from us (it lurks around every dark corner) but neither is joy. You’ve got to roll with that black horse when it visits, ride that bitch out if you can but you’ve got to enjoy the hell out of the other too, when it chances to come your way. Above all, you’ve got to recognize joy when it shows up to dance with you and, sorry, that’s not nearly as easy as it sounds. You’ve got to fight tooth and nail in this life to try and be as happy as you can with the circumstances you’ve been given. You’ve got to fight with every inch of your being for that and grit your teeth and stick out your chin while you’re doing it too because although without a doubt it’s the right fight to be in, it’s going to be hard sometimes. So hard that maybe you’ll be blind to everything else. Along the way however, always remember one thing: even though there are people out there in the world who will take the heart right out of you…there are those who will put it right back in again (let them). Learn to recognize who they are because that’s something really worth knowing. But it’s up to you in the end. It’s up to you to embrace the wonders in this life and to deny the darkness (and there are plenty of both). Be strong, be brave, be kind, be noble and above all, slay your dragons and keep on moving. Don’t stop. And finally, even if happiness forgets you for a little while, never completely forget about it. It’s there waiting for the other to pass. Even in your darkest hour don’t ever doubt that for a second.” ~ Noel James Riggs

~ OR ~

“I’ll cast a spell that you can’t undo, til you wake up and you find that you love me too…” ~ Madonna

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A Holy Night

It wasn’t the presents on Christmas morning, or the magical anticipation of Christmas eve that I recall most when I think of Christmas – it was the ride to church. Yes, church. That obligatory rite of passage before any holiday, the bane of my childhood existence (I’ll tell a few altar boy horror stories later), and the only thing standing in the way of carefree enjoyment of any season. Yet on Christmas eve I didn’t mind it as much, mostly for the ride to and from mass.

We’d be together in the car – and it was so long ago that the music was produced not by CD or cassette tape but by an 8-track. On that evening we’d always listen to ‘O Holy Night’ – and sometimes we sang along.

Fall on your knees
Oh hear the angel voices
Oh night divine,
Oh night, when Christ was born

I still remember some of the Christmas lights along the way – the elegant stars that studded the facade of Paul Tonko’s house, the traditional colored strand that wound its way around a wreath at the bottom of Northampton, and the splendor of an entire yard and manger scene on a particular house where Market Street met Romeyn.

Safe in our warm station wagon, with Dad at the wheel and Mom in the front seat, my brother and I peered out the windows at the lights along the way. Somehow I knew then what most adults had already forgotten – the true meaning of Christmas. It wasn’t the gifts, it wasn’t the Grinch, it wasn’t the hustle and bustle and excitement of the season. It was love, and peace, and a family that was still relatively unrocked by the world.

Merry Christmas, my friends.

Happy, happy Christmas, that can win us back to the delusions of our childhood days, recall to the old man the pleasures of his youth, and transport the traveler back to his own fireside and quiet home! ~ Charles Dickens

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The Holiday Stroll 2014

We almost didn’t make it this year. After missing out on a planned stroll earlier in the month, it looked like Kira and I might not get our schedules together to do our annual Holiday Stroll/Shopping Extravaganza, but this past weekend we got our shit in sync and made it happen.

We began by going a different route – down Columbus Avenue instead of heading straight to Charles Street and Beacon Hill. The day dawned brilliantly, but the blue sky soon gave way to clouds. As long as it didn’t rain we’d be fine. A wind began to pick up as we made our way down Columbus, stopping for a quick bite at Cafe Madeleine.

A few steps down from the cafe stands the Luke Adams Gifting Co. It was there that I found the perfect gift for Andy, which started off our last-minute shopping excursion on the right foot (or fin, to give a small hint as to what was procured). This locally-owned company is a neat addition to the South End, offering unique items you don’t see anywhere else, all with threads of wit and whimsy running through them.

We rounded the corner onto Mass Ave., where we picked up our pace in the face of a cold wind. A decent pho restaurant -Pho Basil – stands midway to where we were headed, but it was a tad too early to partake of the hearty broth (that was yet to come.) We’d only just begun, and passed by with a slight twinge of regret – it was so cold that a bowl of pho would have been wonderful, no matter how early. Still, we trudged onward, to Newbury Street, where Newbury Comics afforded Kira the only gift left on her list – a CD for her youngest daughter. Two down and only a few to go, and the day was still young.

 

Previous holiday strolls with Kira have always brightened my heart, as she is one of my dearest friends. Last year’s was so enjoyable that I turned it into a two-part post (Part 1 and Part 2.) Far more than the shopping and the city, it’s the time spent with an old, comfortable friend that I treasure most about these mini-adventures. It’s been much too long since I’ve seen her, so this was a nice mini-reunion of sorts, and I made her promise to do it again next month, when winter will surely fan the flames of loneliness. On this day, we were all smiles and holiday excitement, and as we browsed along Newbury and Boylston, it finally started to feel like Christmas. A quick stop at Crate & Barrel completed what I needed for Andy, while it dawned on us that this was the busiest shopping day of the year.

We mostly managed to avoid that, vowing to not even go into any place that had a line twenty people deep. (No place was that crowded, thankfully.) I looked in Marc Jacobs, hoping to find something odd for Suzie, but no such luck. Cutting back over to Boylston, we headed up past the Boston Public Garden and toyed with the idea of lunching at The Four Seasons. Since Chinatown was just a few blocks away however, where our favorite pho place was, we forged on, skirting the edge of Downtown Crossing and finding a table in the crowded restaurant.

Nothing warms the heart and soul better than a bowl pho. I’d introduced Kira to it last year, at this very place, and we dug into the spicy broth gratefully. It was the perfect midday respite from a rather bustling bit of shopping. I honestly didn’t realize how much there was left to do, boldly and rather inaccurately boasting myself mostly done a few weeks ago. Now we sat in Pho Pasteur and rested our weary feet, laughing over old memories, and pausing to make this new one.

Bracing ourselves for the cold with one final flourish of tea, we headed back out, into the maelstrom of Downtown Crossing and that beacon of consumerism, Macy’s. I was looking for myself, but remembering a certain gift I already bought the night before (a scent I’ll describe a bit later), I listened to Kira’s advice and gave up an expensive coat. Instead, as I made her promise shortly after we began the day, she was to pick out something for herself. On a day when we were buying things for other people, I said we should do something for ourselves. (There was one Christmas when her family was so caught up in what they wanted and what they were getting that no one – not husband or children – had bothered to get Kira a gift. My heart always hurts for her when I think of that.) This year I helped her pick out a bracelet for herself, and once that was found we walked through Downtown Crossing a little happier. If you can’t take care of yourself, how can you take care of another?

Somehow we ended up in Fanueil Hall, where I did finally find something silly for Suzie, and where we paused for a few obligatory cookies from the Boston Chipyard while looking at that enormous Christmas tree they’ve erected there. Still full from the pho, we carried on, walking away from the crowds to the Liberty Hotel – another traditional stop for us. The Christmas trees there hung upside-down from the vaulted ceiling, and we slumped into two high-backed chairs to get a third wind for the final stretch of the day. The sun went down as we watched a group assemble for a wedding. Ladies in sparkling evening dresses and rotund men in tuxedoes milled about the bar area, while other travelers waited for their room to be ready. There’s no better sport than people-watching with a close friend.

When we returned outside, it was dark, but there were holiday lights around every corner, and the shop windows of Charles Street were decorated with holiday gusto. This was the cozy moment that I sought every year, this was the time when the magic of Christmas made itself felt and known. We stopped in a paper store, mulling over cards and stationery, then walked down into a Tibetan store, where Kira once found her warmest pair of gloves. At this point we were merely browsing, extending our time with each other, delaying the end of the day. A hot chocolate at Starbucks would be our final bit of sustenance.

As we walked back toward Copley, the Public Garden on our left, we looked into the magnificent brownstones along the way. Christmas trees blinked and sparkled from some of the windows, while garlands and wreaths adorned many of the doors. Though the night was young, it was time for Kira to catch her train, and us to end this holiday stroll. We hugged by Back Bay Station, and I said goodbye to a friend. We headed back to our families, but I realized that this may just be my happiest Christmas memory.

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A Madgestic Surprise

When an album’s worth of Madonna demos leaked last week, all eyes were on the woman herself as to how she would handle the mess. (I’m sure someone got the worst rim job of their life if she found the culprit behind the leak.) Some have said it’s all a marketing ploy, but I’m not sure – this was just a little too messy to be more than unintentional. Regardless, the solution that Madonna shrewdly took was to offer six of the finished songs on iTunes, and the EP immediately went to Number One around the world.

The general consensus is that the new music is Madonna’s best in at least a decade. (Personally, I’m still entranced by many of the ‘MDNA’ cuts, but a lot of fans gave up after ‘Hard Candy‘.) Of the new songs, planned single ‘Living For Love’ is getting a lot of talk, but I’m less impressed by that than the shimmering brilliance of ‘Ghosttown’ and the sing-and-clap-along genius of ‘Devil Pray.’

More interesting and compelling yet may be tracks like ‘Illuminati’ and ‘Unapologetic Bitch.’ Whether or not she intended to make it an early Christmas, Madonna’s given us a glorious glimpse of the new sonic territory she’s staking out for a triumphant return to the pop fold next year. As always I’m chomping at the bit to hear more.

“When it all falls, when it all falls down, We’ll be two souls in a ghost town…”

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Pre-Christmas Recap

Christmas is coming – it’s practically here! I just spent the weekend in Boston finishing up holiday strolls and holiday shopping, and I’m going to lay low for the rest of the holiday season because I’m not feeling up for fanfare. In the words of that amazing artist who use released a few new songs, “I can’t be  super-hero right now, Even a heart made of shell can break down.” Yeah, I’m feeling that this week. But first, a look back at the last.

A pair of impostors remained a mystery, if a remarkably accurate facsimile of the real thing.

Straight ally  John Fugelsang proved that smart could be sexy, as he was crowned Hunk of the Day.

Porn star Nick Capra proved that hotness is more than skin deep.

Jane Hamilton proved that a good book can be a best friend.

More hunks, in the form of José Anmer Paredes and Mitch ‘The Dragon’ Chilson kept things hot and steamy while December went cold and dark. But not without the glimmer that is Josh Green.

It wouldn’t be the holidays without a dose of family drama. This likely won’t be my last word on things, because if there’s one thing I learned in therapy it’s that things are better said out loud than kept inside. As that wise woman taunts, “It might sound like I’m an unapologetic bitch, but sometimes you know I gotta call it like it is.”

You know you never really knew how much you loved me ’til you lost me…

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December 21 – Then and Now

The first day of winter. Doesn’t seem possible. Feels like we’ve been having winter for quite some time – and yet here it is, only the first official day. That does not bode well for the months to come, the long winter ahead, the snow and ice and frigid temperatures. I already want out.

What did we do on December 21 in previous years? An archived blog helps to figure that out, starting with this entry from 2011. Well, perhaps that’s not so much we did as much as what was posted on said date. The same goes for this post from 2012, and this one from that same year. (2012 was good to us on that date, as Harry Judd also got shirtless then.)

Last year at this time things were stripped bare, Nolan Funk got into his underwear, and an angel came down.

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Alan Doesn’t Live There Anymore

The question caught me off-guard, not just in its meaning, but in its delivery. I’d just had dinner with my family, but instead of driving straight to my home, I stopped at my parents’ place to pick something up. I had made it into the house before my family arrived, so I was standing in the kitchen when my nephew bounded in and found me there. Usually, I would have just driven home and not been in my parents’ place at that time, so he was unaccustomed to seeing me there.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, half-wonderingly, half-accusingly.

“I… I… well, I live… I used to live here. This is still…” and then I tapered off because either he lost interest or I lost the words to explain. It was a simple question, a harmless and meaningless question from the mouth of a four-year-old, and yet it meant so much more.

A few days later my Mom e-mailed me to tell me that they were going to set up a bunk bed in my childhood bedroom for the twins, trying as diplomatically as possible to explain that my room was going to be theirs. In truth, Andy had told me as much because she’d already told him. I’d braced myself for what it would make me feel, trying to work through whatever anguish or unreasonable sense of possession I felt over the room where I’d grown up (and in which, on the occasional night of difficulty, I still found solace and safety) before the actual news was delivered. Of course, you can’t practice for pain, especially when it’s delivered by your own family.

I realize that was foolish of me. Not just to feel so hurt by the action, but to even think I held any ownership or claim to a childhood bedroom. My mother explained that there was more history to that room than my time in it, and that, in her words, “It is the season for nostalgia but these are also times for passing the torch, so to speak, for new traditions and new directions.”

I felt foolish for feeling so hurt. She was right. My brother lives there. His children live there. My parents live there. The only family member who doesn’t live there is me. It’s only fitting that I should not have a room or place of my own in that house. In truth, I haven’t felt part of that home in years, and it’s as much my fault as anyone else’s.

Like my mother, I remember every incarnation that room went through as I grew up. I remember when I was old enough to ask for a change in the wall-paper – it had been a striped background with blue soldiers ever since I could remember – and in a last-ditch effort to win over my father I chose a new pattern of horses with a border of a horse race – hoping that his love of OTB and betting on horses would somehow translate to a new love of his first-born son. Following his lackluster reception, I think I gave up on trying to make him proud, or even trying to get him to like me in such blatant, pandering ways. (In his defense, I don’t think I was a very likable child.)

But before that, my parents had kissed me goodnight there. In the days before I grew into whatever it was that made people draw back, into whatever off-putting version of myself that kept love at bay, that made people hesitate and pause, I’d been loved – unconditionally, unquestionably, undeniably loved. That sort of love comes, if we’re lucky, once or twice in our lives – and, if we’re very lucky, it starts in childhood. That was what I remember most about that room – not the soldiers or the horses or the pattern of the air-duct grate – it was the love.

That’s why it was hard to let go. Part of me thought there was still some remnant of the boy that I was still inside me, still worthy of that kind of unconditional love. Part of me thought if I held on to that room, there would still be a chance to unlock that love again. But I was wrong.

It’s time for two other children to get that love. I hope they can hang onto it longer than I could.

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