This little guy or gal was caught digging in my hydrangeas outside the bedroom window. I knocked on the pane loudly to scare him/her off, to no avail. In fact, the bold beast turned around and promptly lifted its tufted butt and shook it brazenly in my direction. I opened the window and hissed, and it climbed to the top of the fence post and stared me down. Cheeky thing. My hat is tipped to any creature with the balls to defy me in my own bedroom.
That’s one saucy squirrel.
Andy makes his gin and tonics using Dorothy Parker gin, Fevertree tonic, and a slice of lemon. Personally, I’m not that picky, as long as it’s a double, but I’ve come around to his style, and the last time we were in Boston I had some Fevertree on hand, and a bottle of Plymouth (which will do in a pinch) so he whipped one up for me. It’s a refreshing change of pace to have someone else make a cocktail, and I savored this one as hints of summer started making their appearance.
It began with the cries of a hawk in the pines across the street from our home. High up in the lofty boughs, the sounds brought back the early summer of last year, and all its requisite drama. I wasn’t quite ready for it. Let’s enjoy a slow spring, I thought, even if it meant a few frost warnings past the supposed-frost-free date. Ghosts of previous sunny days also came back, seemingly out of nowhere. I was in a store studying a woman who looked familiar, trying to figure out if she was someone I once worked with, when I finally realized that she was one of the security guards at the courthouse where I had jury duty. The memories of that trial – almost a year ago – came back in disturbing fragments – things I thought I had buried long ago. Still there, still smoldering. How many memories do we carry that threaten to bring us down should they be jarred into view again?
There is a new season at hand, however. And like Mrs. Peacock I am determined to enjoy myself, threatening hawks and resurfacing memories be damned.
It was a week for the romantic at heart. Our third wedding anniversary was marked by a return to Boston. The city was in full bloom, like the cherries we left behind here, here, and here. It was also a good time to see the city at night, with some friends old and new.
Continuing the romantic theme, it was a week dominated by the film version of ‘The Great Gatsby‘ (and why I loved the book so much), also marked by a shift in perspective, in the best way that great books open up to us long after we think we know them.
Madonna once again conquered and reigned at the Met Gala.
What would FaceBook have looked like in the 1990’s? Or, more accurately, how badly would I have embarrassed myself then?
The gardens were springing into full-effect, thanks to the Judas tree, and some pretty pastels.
Hunks were in short supply, but his turn in ‘The Great Gatsby’ put Leonardo DiCaprio on the map, and a few new shirtless photos of Zac Efron made up for missing eye candy.
We closed the week with a pair of Mother’s Day posts here and here (and a tulip memory for good measure.)
Our once-pristine freezer in Boston now reeks of beer – and broken glass – thanks to a forgotten bottle of Amstel Light, courtesy of my brother’s last visit. I’m the first to admit that I can be insanely anal about things being kept neat and tidy in the condo. It’s in my Virgo nature to be so meticulous and careful and clean. In the past, perhaps I’ve been too militant about it (though not without reason – broken glass and lost keys are more dangerous than minor annoyances).
Yet even the most easy-going among us have to take issue with shit like this. We’re not in college anymore. We’re in our mid-to-late thirties. As much as I enjoy a cocktail, I don’t do this sort of nonsense. I don’t get thrown out of bars for having too much. I don’t pass out in bathtubs and almost drown. I don’t lose keys and have to call the police to break in. And yet somehow I get saddled with the bad rep.
Oh well. I’m used to it. It’s more comical at this point, and my friends can only laugh with slight incredulity when they hear of things like this over and over and over again. At this point it’s better dealt with using a shrug than a shout or other carrying-on. Sometimes it’s easier to just walk away. It’s taken me almost four decades to learn that. Maybe it’s the mark of finally growing the fuck up and letting things go.
This is one of the reasons I’m hopeful that the upcoming version of ‘The Great Gatsby’ won’t be a total let-down. It’s Carey Mulligan from her role in ‘Shame’, a movie I loved but could never watch again for fear of being rendered suicidal. She was a bright spot in it, and this devastatingly raw performance of ‘New York, New York’ captures both the ambivalence and hope of that city, and, foretellingly, of the era of Gatsby.
What if FaceBook had been around in my pre-Andy dating years? The early 20’s of my life, in the late 90’s of the calendar, were embarrassing on a number of fronts, and I would have used far more exclamation points than merited. Some people (including myself) over-share regularly on FB, but I like to think I navigate those treacherous waters farely well. Back then though, I honestly can’t imagine how much trouble would have ensued. If I did, it might go something like this:
September 1994 – Kissed a man for the first time in my life. What was I thinking?! And wow, stubble is freaking sharp. Like, razor sharp. Like, it BURNS!
November 1994 – I think I just got dumped. And I didn’t even know we were going out.
April 1995 – Yes! This silver lame pantsuit goes perfectly with my silver sequin jacket! But I still need bells for my belt…
May 1995 – Met a man on the train. We exchanged numbers and he called me! He wasn’t wearing underwear either! I don’t know if I like him though.
September 1995 – I am going to have my real estate agent’s babies – I know it! Stalking session tonight. Wish me luck!!
October 1996 – The cute kid in my literature class knows my name! He handed me my paper at the end of class. I love him already!
November 1996 – I probably shouldn’t have made that mix tape and written that love letter and called him ten times in a night. But isn’t that just being honest about my feelings?
February 1997 – I can’t tell if the waiter is in love with me or my sequined vest. Romance is so hard!
February 1998 – He wiped the snow off my car. This is more than a one-night-stand.
March 1998 – Why doesn’t he love me?!?!?
June 1998 – Drinking from a garden hose at 6 in the morning because some guy made me sleep in my car instead of inviting me in. Turns out I punched him.
September 1998 – Since when is drunkenly groping a guy on the couch an hour after we met unattractive? Are we now Victorian?!
May 2000 – In my defense, had I not had that screwdriver in the morning, I would never have had sex with three guys in one day. I just happened to start early.
June 2000 – I think I’m over my slutty phase. No one needs to see their phone number in a bathroom stall.
July 2000 – A summertime P-town fling is just what the doctor ordered! Yay me! And what’s-his-name! I wonder why he hasn’t called…
[I won’t even get into what nonsense I may have Tweeted back then…]
Last week I passed a milestone (for me) on Twitter: I reached 10,000 followers. For my family and friends who think I’m hopelessly irrelevant and not worth bothering about, at least 10,000 other people think I’m at least worthy of being “followed”. Does this amount to a hill of beans? Not really. Does this give me any sort of ego-boost on a day I might be feeling down? Not even. Does it give me a bit of cachet in the social media world? Not likely.
But 10,000 is a decent number. It’s a number that somehow matters. It may not mean much, but it still matters. The hardest thing for so many of us to realize – truly, honestly, genuinely realize – is that we matter. Maybe this is a start. And to think, it only took 10,000…
This past week has seen a drastic transformation of the gardens, thanks as much to Mother Nature as to my mother-fucking muscle. My back is on strike, my feet simply quit, and my hands couldn’t pull the trigger on a pair of pruning shears to save my life. But the work got did, the yard got cleaned, and the beds and borders have not looked this good in a long time. After a few years of wild, over-grown and unchecked wilderness, this was the time I took it back. It was a time to be ruthless, and I was. I’m paying for it a bit now in callouses and back-aches, but it was worth it. Onto the previous week’s recap:
It begins, fitting with a few gardening posts, both practical and philosophical, (and just plain pretty) inspired by a great book on gardening and life, ‘The Backyard Parables’ by Margaret Roach.
There was music by Muse, both mad and divine.
I don’t know what is going on with the restaurant bars in Downtown Albany, but they seem to be losing their way. Case in point, this martini at La Serre.
The Hunk of the Day returned with a shirtless vengeance, featuring the easy-on-the-eyes likenesses of Nate Berkus, Trevor Donovan, Jon Bon Jovi, Terry Miller, Alex Pettyfer, and Marques Houston. (And I threw in some Tom Daley in a Speedo for good measure.)
The Lenten Rose wept as honey poured forth from Madonna’s gash… oh wait, I’m mixing up gardening and the ‘Sex’ book again…
As you may have guessed, I saw no reason to include any corresponding shots other than Trevor Donovan naked and in his underwear. Sue me.
A couple of aborted trips to Boston and several almost-planned weekends in NYC have led me to my current state of agitated, wanderlust-laden entrapment, wherein I feel the pull and push of getting away – anywhere away – growing stronger and stronger. An all-too-brief excursion to the Cape went a small way towards alleviating this, but I need greater distance, newer pastures, and better hotel rooms. The allure of travel hangs in the coming weeks, when the spring kicks in properly. Until then I will bide my time, trying to stay occupied with gardening and home improvement, hoping it will be enough. I fear I’m growing bored – and I need new inspiration. In the garden and in the family room. Or in some hotel far, far away…
The censored pics from JoAnn’s birthday celebration. You don’t want to see the rest.
PS – Quality Inn my ass.
On Saturday of this past weekend, I drove over to the Cape, just beyond the Bourne Bridge, to surprise my friend JoAnn for her birthday. That particular pocket of Cape Cod holds special meaning to me, as we spent many times at her place on North Beach, talking and sharing and healing. It’s always a treat to return and revisit that part of the past. I arrived long before check-in, so I drove around a bit – both in town, and then further into Falmouth.
The day was gray and overcast, spitting out rain and making most photo ops impossible. I did get these two, however ~Â the windmill and the bridge ~ a pair of structural elements that defied the somber lack of color. On Main Street, I ducked into a French bakery to escape the wind and rain, hunkering down at a window table and devouring an almond croissant and, I admit, a chocolate chip cookie. A cup of coffee rounded out the breakfast, and when the rain let up a little I ventured back out.
No matter how much we try to tame her, nature will not be stopped. On this day, she only roared in the morning, and as the hours progressed her agitation diminished, until by three o’clock she was showing some of her blue sky, and it was again time to eat.
That’s about as profound as it’s going to get here today. Just another Manic Monday…
It was a week dominated by the unreal tragedy at the Boston Marathon, and the subsequent manhunt surrounding the Boston area, and as such I was slightly all over the place, unsure quite how to deal with it blog-wise, ultimately ending up with a single written letter to the city I love so much. I have nothing left to say about it at the moment.
When things turn crazy in the outside world, I tend to turn inward, to friends and family, especially when they remind of childhood innocence, as in the birthday joy of my niece and nephew.
Other distractions could be found in the vain, vapid, and ridiculous pornstache I had going (and which finally went bye-bye for real last night.)
What separates the men from the real mean, and the women from the real women.
Once-a-freaking-century this happens, and of course it has to happen to my prized possession.
There was only one official Hunk of the Day for the week, and he managed to shine and doff his shirt, as evidenced by the great Colby Keller.
To make up for the dearth of shirtlessness and male nudity, I offered what was behind Doors One, Two, and Three.
April showers sometimes bring April flowers, as seen here and here.
While searching through my flash drive I realized that I never posted the Easter outfit from Boston, and as I’ll be departing Massachusetts for another week or two, it seems a fitting time to put it up. Besides, these are all filler posts until I return with a new batch of inspirational photos. As you read this, I’ll hopefully be traversing Massachusetts and New York, a little spent, a little tired, but emotionally satiated from having seen some very good people.
A castle with a turret and a drawbridge. A damsel in anything-but-distress. A fireside hearth, before which a pink and diamond-studded shoe dries on a grate. And a yarn-tailed pony, resting on its side, ready to be brought back to life by a little hand.
When I was a kid, this sort of scene would have kept me occupied for hours, as I imagined all kinds of scenarios, setting and reconfiguring this castle, moving all its occupants (Piglet included) and enacting various far-fetched daily dramas for the knights and queens and animals. In truth, I made just as much out of a cardboard box that Dad would bring home from the hospital, and never really thought to want more until I got older. I grew and fostered my imagination because I had to, and I wouldn’t have had it any other way. If children can’t learn to entertain themselves on their own, without fancy phones or sensory overload, they will never be satisfied as adults.
I’m starting to sound like a grumpy old man, and perhaps I am. There may be nothing new under the sun. I do wonder what’s becoming of imagination, when all the wildest experiences can be conjured on a computer screen, so readily at hand, so easily explored. Maybe I just want to go back to being a kid again. Maybe that’s what we all want in some way. Maybe that’s why children are so captivating to some of us.
