Author Archives: Alan Ilagan

We are expecting a few dear guests this weekend to finish up celebrating JoAnn’s birthday festivities, so I found some flowers to offset the winter-like weather. They also personify the feisty zest my friend has brought to the world in the almost-twenty-five years in which I’ve known and adored her. We’ve both grown and evolved over those years, and while we look back on our past follies and foibles with fondness, we’re also pretty happy to not be in such a messy place that the late 90’s were. I’m looking forward to where the next chapters bring us, starting with this weekend…

#1. Local journalist writes a column several years ago entitled ‘Stop posting about your ailments, hospital visits to social media‘ in which she complains about how some people post about their injuries and illnesses. A few choice quotes from her column:

These posts and photos don’t generate conversation. They don’t entertain or amuse or even educate or inform others. No, they’re simply a sign of desperation, a need for attention, a craving for people to comment with “OMG, get better!!!” and “what happened?” or “thinking of you!!!!”

None of my family or friends have ever shared an image, or status update, related to their ailments, either. Why? Because we have each other. We have real friends – AKA those “IRL friends”, we have family and we have colleagues who care. People we can reach out to in a group text or email, if need be, but we don’t need to post images or tales of medical woes online in a sad and desperate plea to get attention and to feel “loved.”

#2. A few years later this same journalist posts a photograph on social media of herself with a black-eye and accompanying cuts, with a caption of three possible ways she got the injury. 

#3. This week someone called out that journalist on writing the original column, to which she doubled down, saying she still stands behind it and then reposting it on FaceBook. When I wrote my own question on how she reconciles what she wrote with the black-eye picture she posted, she ignored the question and immediately limited comments on the post, while also making her Twitter profile private. (Did I mention that she has repeatedly claimed she is always open to discussion and differing viewpoints?) 

That’s a lot of hypocrisy for one post, but such are the times we live in. It’s difficult to call politicians, or anyone, to task for being hypocrites if members of the media are going to be just as hypocritical. It destroys any shred of credibility that certain journalists once had. 

“The only thing worse than a liar is a liar that’s also a hypocrite.” ~ Tennessee Williams

Hold this place. I’m either going to fill it with more flower photos, diatribes against hypocrisy and for accountability, tales from a recent trip to Boston and Cape Cod, or some combination of the aforementioned items. For now, these flowering fruit trees will have to suffice for a morning post. The air is cool, the wind is strong, and it doesn’t quite feel like spring yet. 

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.