Category Archives: General

Almost every year, a robin finds a way of making a nest and laying eggs near our backyard patio. Usually, Andy manages to catch her before it gets too far, (the one year he didn’t catch her in time, she terrorized us whenever we were within a short radius of her hatchlings). This year, right in the crotch of our weeping cherry (the tree closest to the patio – it actually shades part of it), she constructed a nest before he noticed, and soon enough these eggs were laid. Andy said he had to remove it, but I begged him not to do so. Let’s just wait and see if she’s okay with us, I said.

Up until now, she’s been well-behaved, leaving us to dining and gardening in the nearby vicinity. In fact, the Japanese umbrella pine I just transplanted was right below the nest, and she stayed without a peep as I pried it out of the ground.

We shall see what the arrival of children does to her peaceful disposition. In all that I’ve witnessed thus far in life, that tends to destroy almost all peace.

Yes, I’m christening Monday the new Funday, because we need it now. After a very gay weekend of Boston Pride, and Albany Pride (neither of which I quite made) – and the Tony Awards, which engaged me more than most (especially as I get to see ‘Kinky Boots’ and ‘Pippin’ this coming weekend!) it’s time to recap the previous week. Summer, and beautiful days, makes these recaps more tedious to write, and I’m guessing more tedious to read. I won’t feel bad if you skip it. Points for honesty.

Biggest news: I finally joined Instagram. And Instagram will never be the same. I’m behaving for the moment (not even one selfie yet!) but that won’t last. Nothing gold can stay…

There was the Great Gatsby party, in 95 degree heat, and it was hot, hot, hot!

This was a very floriferous week in the garden, particularly thanks to the peonies, clematis, tree peonies, dogwoods, more peonies, and lilacs – even if I had to be ruthless.

The first swim of the season happened.

There were some summer culinary treats, simple and true, in the form of one sizzling salad and some simple side dishes.

One of my favorite bands, James, provided inspiration for this memorable song.

Your Hunks of the Day were comprised of Pavel Petel and a naked Olympian, Evan Lysacek.

And last but most certainly not least,it was my best friend Suzie’s birthday. Pay respect. 

It’s Suzie’s birthday today, so if you see her, wish her a happy 38th!!! Every year I try to embarrass her with a photo from her past, but if you’ve seen her photos, you know nothing embarrasses her (World War 2 helmets, granny glasses, brass-colored hair, and every possible way of looking bad while eating have been captured to no avail). But she did pause when I mentioned the following photo. It was taken during a cruise our Moms took us on during winter break from our first year at college. We were in Bermuda, walking some crazy waterfall-surrounded path, trudging through splashing rivulets and trying only to keep from falling on our asses. As my Mom snapped this photograph, I still remember Suzie’s words of wisdom: “Nothing like walking a mile in your bathing suit.” Circa 1994…

Happy Birthday Suzie!!

And many happy returns of the day!!

It usually sneaks up on me. I always intend to make a big splash of it, and end up forgetting all intentions in the excitement, and heat, of the moment. This year was no different, as I can’t quite recall when I first jumped into the pool. Surely it’s documented somewhere, perhaps on Instagram (no, I’m kidding, believe it or not my visage has yet to appear on that account – really!) But there are other summers that have already been captured, some well before Instagram was a glimmer in anyone’s iPhone. Check them out here: Summer.

After months (years?) of hemming and hawing, hearing persuasive arguments made by friends mostly for it, and a final inspirational shove by Madonna, I’ve succumbed to joining Instagram (because what I really need is another social media time-consumer). Luckily, while my time online may seem voluminous, it is deceptively so. I make a decent number of FaceBook posts and Tweets (and now, perhaps, Instagram shots), but they literally take a few seconds, then I’m off. An hour later I’ll check and do the same, and then I’m off again. Those who get distracted by games and a zillion other apps may find their time eaten up in such a manner, but I’ve been lucky enough to stay relatively focused and break away from the internet whenever necessary. Like when there are gardening chores to be done ~ an unruly viburnum to be pruned, a Japanese umbrella pine to be transplanted, and potted annuals to be fed. To that end, I’m heading into the yard. Pics on Instagram to follow…

It was a week largely dominated by reminiscing over Ogunquit – here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, and here.

There was a yellow raincoat.

There was music – thanks to Tori Amos and the Muppets.

And there were hunks, notably a Speedo-clad gay-playing Matt Damon, a not-from-Silver-Spoons Ricky Schroeder, and perennial favorite Tom Daley. (Oh, and I showed off my ass too, just to be fair.)

As we ease into the summer season – and the 90 degree weather – there’s not much to be done but swimming and pruning and manscaping. Follow Tom Daley’s lead.

This furry creature was found as I made my way to a secret garden path. Based on its small size, it looked like a young squirrel, not yet skittish around humans, as it posed happily and patiently for these photos. I walked along further, and found this feather – another sign that I was on the right road. The universe has always erected such sign-posts; they’re there if you pause and observe what’s around you. It’s so easily, and quickly, lost in the daily machinations of living, the distractions of everything that doesn’t really matter, and I’m the first one to follow the flash of a falling feather. In cases like this, though, that’s exactly what I should have done.

It’s not usually my style to favor function over form. Quite the opposite. (Platform shoes, corsets and capes aren’t exactly geared toward survival.) But once in a while, like on a rainy day in Maine, one must give up the fashion ghost, and don a bright yellow parka to make it through the wilderness. (Though if you ask me, I still think this rain slicker has a certain style to it. I got it from Sault last year, on an overcast day’s whim.)

It’s been a rather uneventful week on the website – most of my attention has been elsewhere (outside in the garden, and up here in Ogunquit, Maine) so I haven’t had the usual focus and clarity that the elegance and sophistication of this site normally inspires. Hey, it’s the unofficial start of summer, so don’t expect that fancy shit until September. If past history is any indication, all you’ll be getting is pool shots and party promos for the next few months. But I can still put on a show, and here are a few of the highlights from the past week:

If you want to get a sniff of sexy Renaissance man, go-go dancer, model, designer, and now fragrance guru Matthew Camp, as well as own the claim to having 8.5, here’s your chance.

Proof that most of the action happened outside this week, a pair of posts clearly shows that I can still climb a tree and scrape my knee, while simultaneously causing mischief in the pool.

Artist Paul Richmond released his updated work ‘Noah’s Gay Wedding Cruise‘ and planned to board a bus full of love, headed straight for the steps of the Supreme Court.

Absent from Albany, Andy and I made our usual trip to Ogunquit, Maine for an extra-long Memorial Day weekend.

Upon seeing ‘Star Trek: Into the Darkness’ (my first brush with Star Trek ever), I became a Cumberbitch thanks to Benedict Cumberbatch. There was also some hunky competition for my bitchdom, with the shirtless likes of male model and actor Derek Theler.

The Madonna Timeline got all personal and up in my childhood business thanks to ‘Papa Don’t Preach.’

And finally, in the night, spring gave some hints of the summer to come.

A spring night, hurtling all-too-quickly toward the start of summer. The leaves have just begun to fill in the barren branches of winter, the pots newly planted and looking a little sparse. It is always that way in the beginning. The artificial light casts an eerie glow to the surroundings, warmer than the moon, but also more sickly. It is the pallor of another world, the shading of a different brush. Tell-tale signs of the day remain: the patio furniture slightly askew, the overturned wheelbarrow, the hose running through the yard like an endless snake.

A coral bark maple tree leaves streaks of crimson across the black firmament, echoing the dull blood of a brick wall, highlighting the golden beauty of its first flush of foliage. What arrogance, what cockiness, what rightful-pride-of-place it takes in its corner location, both anchoring and softening the end of the house. Its prettiness doesn’t shout like the yapping yellow jonquils or the tweeked-out tittering tulips – it rises quietly above that, into the night sky, reaching for loftier aims, higher goals.

In its silent stance, it is elegance in tree form. In this strange light, it shines forth other-worldly beauty, reflecting its own star-shaped-leaf-light. Red limbs provide structure like bloody bones, their almost-alien form ribbed by the scars of lost branches, illuminated in the glow of such absurd light.

The night wind begins up above. The song of spring is high at hand. The rush of life-giving rain awaits its cue.

On this night, all is hope, all is possibility, all is set… for the summer.

By the time I worked up the courage to venture out on a literal limb and begin pruning the cherry tree that had gone unattended for about three years too long, I neglected to factor in where the pruned branches might fall. My initial concern was the plants below, but once I got up there I was too scared to really worry about anything other than a power line and my own precarious balance. So this is one of the end results: a little tree in our pool. Along with a single felled peony branch, and a number of scratches on my arm, I think we all turned out rather well, especially when one considers the alternative: decimated peony plants, broken bones, and torn pool liners.

As often happens only when I reach the top of a twenty-foot ladder or the upper-limbs of a cherry tree, I was reminded of my fear of falling this weekend as I pruned the bejesus out of the tree seen here. (It was much higher than it appears, I swear.) It’s actually not so much the fear of heights that bothers me, it’s the fact that while doing things like painting or pruning, there is less of an opportunity to stabilize yourself when having to reach for things, or maneuver a long pair of pruning shears. That stability, or lack-there-of, is what sets my mind into overdrive imagining scenarios of losing my footing and falling, of a ladder buckling or a branch breaking beneath my feet. At that point, my legs start shaking, a panic sets in, and I cling to whatever is closest on hand for some grip on anything that won’t topple to the ground with me.

I haven’t climbed a tree like this in about two decades, and aside from the onerous sawing and pruning involved, it was actually pretty fun. While I don’t see myself climbing trees again anytime soon, it was nice to remember how to place my feet, navigate the climb upward, all with an eye on the journey back down. I used to climb the maple trees in front of our home when I was little, as soon as I was tall enough to jump into their lower boughs, as well as a sky-high evergreen that had perfectly-placed limbs like a magical spiral staircase, waiting to bring me heavenward. The bird’s eye view was exhilarating, and I don’t remember the fear that so quickly gripped me this time around. Like so many things, that fear is one of the atrocities of growing old, but I’ll fight against it in ways that don’t involve the possibility of a thirty foot plunge to earth.

Curious thing, my feelings on rain. Initially, and upon first storm, I carry on and flail wildly against it, ranting and raving like a water-allergic maniac. I throw a fit and a tantrum and bring the world down around me. Then it’s over. And if the rain persists, I come to appreciate it, almost embracing its calming effect on the world, how it can be a source of succor in a dry, arid dustbowl of a spring or summer. Once I become accustomed to it for a few days, I can make my peace, give it a nod, and walk side by side with it, umbrella and Burberry in hand. Anyway, onto the week in review, which was largely a sunny one.

The scent of spring 2013 was found in a little orange bag on Boylston Street.

A quiet little project continues its under-the-radar flight.

The beauty of art and friendship in a single piece of pottery.

A big fat Super Why? Well, why not…

Cocktail time: The Aviation, and a lemon twist on the classic gin & tonic.

Greenery provided by the following: the ostrich fern and sweet woodruff.

I was slightly obsessed with Anne Murray. Could I have this dance? 

The lusty month of May continued to provide interesting fodder for the Hunk of the Day, with the smorgasbord-like collection of Ryan Seacrest, naked Superman Henry Cavill, and Tom Hopper, buffered by a retiring David Beckham.