For anyone over the age of 45: don’t put your glasses or keys down, or you won’t find them. Even if you think it’s going to be just for a second. You will not remember where they are. Keep them in your hands or pockets at all times.

‘A Garden after the Monsoon’ is an exquisite fragrance from Hermes, crafted by the brilliant Jean-Claude Ellena. I reach for it whenever we’ve had a tropical storm, as it eases the pain of the rain – olfactory beauty as a balm. After the wild maneuverings of the weather these past few days, I ventured out into the garden on a sunny morning and surveyed the wet remains of the storm that came before. There is often joy in the remnants of rain, sparkling as they do under the promise of a sunny day.

The hosta plants have begun their blooming season. It feels early, when so many other things (our patio plants for instance) are so far behind (a banana tree that I overwintered in the garage has only just started poking its timid leaves from the ground – just in time, as I was about to toss it out). Now I’m getting sidetracked by tales of woe and disappointment, and the point of this post was to appreciate the pretty aftermath of a summer storm. Back to that in this last photo from the morning.

I usually describe myself as a hot-house flower, but a hot-house flower would always appreciate heat and humidity, so I only mean it in the sense of being temperamental. Enjoy this glimpse of an electric pink Monarda – just a little extra in the best possible way, not unlike the writer of these words, and a step away from what we once enjoyed as Coquette.

This is a somewhat pink moment in the garden, which makes for a lovely echo of last summer’s Coquette theme. Pink will always be welcome in these parts, especially when the heat begins ramping up and the humidity starts lashing out. There’s something soothing about the softer color palette that pink provides – the same way that blues or purples cool the mind’s eye.

It’s a good place – a pretty place – to pause at the midpoint of a hot day. This is the butterfly weed flower – one that happened to seed itself from some bird or rodent that dropped it into the garden, as I’ve only ever grown the orange version. Magic happens if you let it grow. With that, we fondly remember Coquette…

A storm blew through the afternoon, just as I was getting home from work yesterday. Storms are best for sleeping, and meditating. I’ve already done the latter, and the former is up just as soon as I finish writing this post. It’s summer, but it’s still new. We haven’t had a rain-free stretch to really feel the season yet. Our recent weekend in Boston – a long and lovely relaxing break – will be shared in a few. For now, I’m coasting a bit, breathing slowly and deliberately, somewhere between meditation and sleep, and carrying elements of relaxation into the middle of the week.

A few bare branches add extra drama to the already-dramatic sky behind them, because summer is often a soap opera, even if it’s just bubbles floating in the sky.

We are less than two months out from my 50th birthday, so if you want to look into loans and shit, now is the time. This may be an evolving post, as tastes and whims shift so often around here, so bookmark it and revise for the most up-to-date wishes. To be honest, I don’t feel like punching up the typical fanfare and hoopla that something like a 50th birthday might typically inspire. My first idea was to ask my Mom and Andy for a single birthday night at the relatively-new Raffles hotel in Boston in one of their Emerald Suites – as an experience and a memory are priceless. (I spent my 40th birthday in the Judy Garland suite at the Lenox, and it remains one of the most magical birthdays I’ve had, and our stays for our wedding and 15th anniversary in Boston were equally enchanting.)

But then I realized I’d probably have to be the one to do all the planning and reserving and logistical maneuvering and it just exhausted me, so here’s a different set of asks. They’re a lot, and I’m a lot, and the world is a lot right now – in addition, a lot of people don’t say what they want and that’s why they don’t get what they want. Here’s wishing…

With my anniversary request to Andy already in (‘Pacific Chill’ by Louis Vuitton), I thought another LV option might be nice to round out my 50th, but on a recent cologne sampling at the Copley Place location, there was nothing worthy of that price point, despite going through an exhaustive trial. Instead, the number 50 would be whispered from a different house – the House of Amouage – esteemed fragrance house that has only barely skirted my periphery up until now. They have an exquisite fragrance in the form of their bottle of ‘Purpose’ here – a great name as I embark upon the second half of a century, still searching for some purpose in the world. When I sampled it, I found it challenging and scary, but this is the time to conquer my fears. More enchanting is their newest extrait version of it, named ‘Purpose 50’, which seems almost too perfect for a 50th birthday gift, and has the crazy-expensive price-tag to go with it. Either ‘Purpose’ will suit a gentleman about to turn 50.

My dear friend Alissa started our collection of Michael Aram pieces with a black orchid vase, and since then I’ve slowly added a few pieces to our home. The medium vase here would be a lovely addition to our set, as would this little tray to keep tiny things in some semblance of pretty order. There is also a gorgeous ring-holder currently on sale for a steal here.

Vibrato by Sospiro is a new fragrance to me, but it sounds like a more-lasting take on the beloved Tygar by Bulgari (which is, at $460, too much for me to request for a second fragrance after Purpose, even if it is a 50th birthday – see, I have reason!) The notes of Vibrato are grapefruit and ginger, two of my favorite notes ever, and it’s said to have some staying power – rare in a grapefruit fragrance. It’s also available at a markdown here from one of my favorite sites.

For a more reasonable sniff-see for the Le Labo collection, a line which I’ve neglected for no good reason, here’s a little sample box of their current offerings, and who doesn’t love a sample, especially when trying things out for the holiday season 2025. (If you fail to plan, you plan to fail.)

And when all else fails, there is always my Amazon wish list here, which offers more bang for the buck (and occasionally more buck for the bang).

Bonus wish on sale here of a delicious rose fragrance.

The promised ‘Celebration Tour‘ release, the promised ‘Bedtime Stories‘ re-release, the promised ‘Veronica Electronica’ release, the promised ‘Confessions on a Dance Floor 2′ album… which of these is actually happening anymore? Does anything mean anything, or have we as a culture just accepted promises and lies and decided to collectively shrug and move on with nary a shred of accountability? I speak as a disappointed fan, and as a disappointed human, and only about half-seriously. Because why hold myself accountable in a world that no longer values, well, anything?

Anyway, here’s a relatively new photo of Madonna for… Instagram I guess.

It is not typical of me to approach someone I think I recognize, because there’s a good chance I recognize them for all the wrong reasons, or, worse, they may recognize me for all the wrong reasons. On a recent morning at Hannaford however, as I loaded Andy up with pudding and coffee before Skip and I departed for Boston, I saw a man whom I was fairly sure I worked with years ago at the Department of State. Intrigued, and on a Bette Davis/’Now, Voyager’-inspired intention to be interested in everything and everybody, I asked if he used to work for the State. His eyes gave a smile of reluctant bemusement, as if unsure whether his answer would be good or bad for whatever might follow. He said yes slowly, then I asked him which agency and he said a few. I asked if one was the Department of State, where I started. He affirmed it was, and then we placed the year at 2001, which confirmed it.

My memory bank flooded open, releasing thoughts of that very late summer of 2001, when I started my first state job on the verge of 9/11, at the bottom of State Street in downtown Albany. I remembered the name of the awful woman who ran that office, and he remembered her as well. He told me the rest of his state career story, involving Spitzer and the end of his time as governor, and then left me with some golden advice that seemed to be a message from the universe: “The first day you are able to retire… do it.”

Mentioning that I have about six years until I’m eligible, I pointed to my gray hair and said I definitely was feeling it. He said it will fly by, and I am certain it will. Until then, I will be interested in everything, and everybody, and do the best job I can do, listening to the whispers of the universe, and going with the flow.

How we have already reached the end of June makes no sense to me, other than that summer tends to move quickly. Here’s a weekly recap, a bit later in the day thanks to a fun long weekend that we shall recap in another post…

It began with a different kind of pride.

An island sea song.

In stillness, coolness.

Another urinal cake moment.

A dose of cuteness to cleanse the timeline.

One thing I miss about winter.

A masquerade! (For which I didn’t get tickets.)

Wet at dawn, wet at dusk.

A Pedro Pascal appreciation post.

A male myth debunked.

Drops of sun in the rain.

Summer starting something.

Magic is the moonlight.

A super fairy interlude.

The fairy reclines.

Florals for a crown.

The summer groove master.

Andy’s summer dish.

Sunday Speedo rumination.

A boat dip fit for island living.

Labubu.