My brother and I were hellions in a number of ways growing up – none more-so than when our parents had to go out and leave us with a babysitter. We went through a cadre of babysitters, a number of whom ended up in tears at some point in our time together. We had a knack for torture, and most of them never told on us. I don’t know why. Suzie’s older brothers each babysat just once. Tim was terrified of our German shepherd Crystal, so our parents warned us not to let the dog in while he was in charge. We gave Tim about three minutes before we let the dog in; he promptly ran into the bathroom and locked the door. Eventually, we put the dog in the garage and Tim came back out. Eventually.

Andy was not afraid of the dog, so we had to find another trick for him. He arrived with a copy of ‘The Little Prince’ which he read to us (at least, a bit of it). We recognized the book because we had a copy of it too. We brought out our version and compared them. They were identical but for a black star on the back of his. Of course, we wanted his version, the one with the black star, and we begged him to trade us. He was not having it, so we gave up and waited.

Whether it was a bathroom stop or dinner preparation, at one point he left the room and it was then that we pounced. With a black marker, I drew a wobbly star on our copy of the book, then put his copy back in our library. We said nothing, assuming we would get caught before he left for the night, but he never noticed, and as he left with our copy we thrilled at the trick we had played on him. Hopefully it wasn’t a library book…

Aside from the book, Andy escaped relatively unscathed. A switched-out book was nothing compared to the horror/obstacle course we set up for a neighbor in our basement, or the vaguely suicidal gesture I made using a few allergy pills. It was a more innocent time then.

I won’t get into the grief we gave family members who ended up watching over us, especially Uncle Roberto who put up with more bullshit than anyone other than our parents. As an Uncle myself, I feel that the twins are as much karma for my bad behavior as they are for their father. Neither of us is ready for what is about to come.

It was one of those moments where nothing more needed to be said. We had just finished a movie and were walking to the Skip’s car. The wind was brutal, the temperature was well below freezing, and the night was dismal. Hurrying inside, I pulled my coat tighter around me as Skip started the car. 

“I hate going to the movies in winter,” he said with a note of sadness in his voice. “It’s so much better in the summer.”

There was no better way to convey the discontent near the end of winter in upstate New York. It was why we had spent the earlier part of the evening plotting and planning possible weekends for our annual Boston Red Sox adventure, picturing a warmer world on the brink of summer again. 

There’s nothing better than planning future adventures with an old friend. Suddenly it struck me, in the wretched cold and dark of a February night: we were old friends. We’d known each other for almost a decade and a half. (That’s the thing about old friends: they take years to find.) Now, at the end of an evening, with no need for inane filler babble, we coasted to the last weeks of winter, sustaining ourselves through the dark season with whiskey and beer and the odd appetizer. (Still no new decaffeinated soda selections at the concession stand. And why is it called a concession stand anyway? What are we conceding? Our health? Things that make you go to a movie expert like Skip…)

Last year he turned 40, and that fun party was the unofficial kick-off to spring. Coming as it does one week before the real deal, Skip’s birthday has become the earliest signs that winter is receding, that the world will be bright and sunny again, that there is hope left after all. That’s sort of symbolic of what Skip is to many of us ~ an eternal font of hope and optimism. He’s a perpetual example of how the planning and plotting and dreaming is as much a part of the journey as the destination ~ and sometimes not getting where you originally thought you wanted to be can be the best move we never make.

Happy Birthday Skip ~ and many happy returns of the day!

It was just a matter of time before I got around to embracing crystals. In fact, it may not be so much discovering them as returning to a minor passion of my youth, when gems and semi-precious stones caught my fancy. Back then, it was a science class where were examined the various minerals and rocks that introduced me to this world. I was obsessed with the way calcite broke into neat, uniform parallelograms, and how writing would be doubled when viewed through a thin-enough piece of it. I was transfixed with the gleam and sparkle of pyrite, happily fooling myself into trusting its golden show. I dug in the woods behind our home and found the smallest bit of rock that contained a bit of mica – shiny and flaking off in thin sheets. And I was enthralled with the tale of how a friend had found a perfectly-formed quartz crystal in his backyard, then brought it into class to show everyone. That such beautiful objects also held some sort of power was simply too good to feel true. I stopped short of the New Age worship that some crystal-lovers practiced, because I wasn’t quite ready to put all my faith in crystals.

I’m still not. My brain is too wary of such magic. Part of me understands on a fact-based level that a piece of stone has no literal power to sway my life in any way. But this isn’t about the literal. This is about the power one imbues to a talisman or object that gives it a different life, and in return it inspires or changes something in you. That can be quite literal. Sometimes belief begets transformation. I’ve done this many times – every time I walk into work for example – and it can be a powerful way of getting to where you want to be.

The stones that make up this bracelet (found at Tushita Heaven in Saratoga – a wondrous shop that you should definitely visit) are Bloodstone, said to aid in Personal Healing: “It stimulates the immune system, builds courage and raises self-esteem, teaching that all is at it should be. Bloodstone transmutes negative memories into positive actions, working gently as it cleanses and purifies. Bloodstone makes us aware that adverse conditions in our lives are often illusions.”

That sounds about perfect for what I need. What we all need. I feel better already.

We gave an hour for a little more light, and it was a sacrifice we were happy to make. Spring is on the way – it has to be. I’m working on a new project, and thus have no time for grandiose intros. On with the recap:

The week began in colorful fashion. 

The #TinyThreads category kept growing.

The Annual Ass Wednesday post. 

What kind of fuckery is this?

Pillow by Target.

Daffy is not just a duck.

Sexy Sunday studs.

Hunks of the Day included Jason Domino, Keegan Michael Key, Brian Justin Krum, Keegan Whicker, Cameron Hawthorn, and Kris Boyson.

This beautiful pillow, which goes so well with my Grandmother’s tufted green velvet couch, was procured at Target of all places. Perhaps somewhat surprisingly, I’m not a complete label whore, and I enjoy a bargain and a well-lit mainstream store as much as the next person. (I still have a gorgeous Marimekko for Target beach bag that personifies summer living and summer fun.) Their clothing has not quite won me over just yet (I don’t care if Isaac Mizrahi once played a part in it or not), but this pillow is stuffed heaven. 

I like its multi-textured surface, along with its riotously-jarring collection of colors. There’s a remotely 60’s vibe to it as well, with a little garishness thrown in for good measure. It goes well with Gram’s couches. 

Strong, vibrant color makes all the difference in a dismal day.