Fictional accounts to the side, we have a few regular tomato thieves who boldly climb into our patio plants and pluck the ripest, juiciest tomato fruit from the vine, then set up a dining scene right in front of us. Thus far it hasn’t been enough to make a dent in this plentiful harvest, and while I’d rather not foster such behavior in the backyard chipmunks, the perpetrator looks so cute I can’t be entirely mad.
Amusement is sometimes worth the price of a cherry tomato.
The rest of you can be kinda chic.
I only ever operate on being 100% completely, totally and absolutely chic.
No kinda about it.
Kinda infuriating is more my style.
After a non-stop Sunday of breakfast-making, driving from Albany to Ballston Spa to Amsterdam and back, working out, shopping, location-scouting, and reading by the pool to be present on a summer’s day, I found myself facing a blog bereft of an evening post and I just didn’t have the energy to make one happen. As serious work continues on the fall theme and possible project, blog posts may feel lighter and less substantial. The older I get, the more scant my energy and resources when it comes to creative output, so bear with me because the fall season here is going to be something. I promise.
In the meantime, I’m going to try to dial back the work days and enjoy the summer while it is here. Fall will bring more than enough time to focus on new web themes and projects, and I remind myself to take time in the garden, to jump in the pool, to embrace and adore the summer.
For a morning summer moment, I made myself a breakfast of eggs and brought it out to the patio, where I picked a few ripe tomatoes from the vine, popping them directly into my mouth as one can do when the harvest is heavy. Rain in the night had started to split the ripest ones, so I threw a few into the lawn for the chipmunks. Andy has seen them snacking on them by the pool and on this day my heart wasn’t into scaring them away.
As I sat there winding to the end of ‘The Summer Book’ by Tove Jansson, I heard a squirrel jump into a nearby tree. Watching its silhouette against a blue sky, I followed its quick journey down to the fence and across the yard. It disappeared into the neighbor’s yard. The only sound left was the buzzing of the bees in the hydrangea blooms, the perfume of which was slightly reminiscent of privet in Provincetown, and summer memories mingled with summer present – the happiest sort of mental collision. All felt right with the world on this Sunday morning, and I’d take this moment with me as I drove along the dusty backroads that brought me back to my childhood town.
The first week of August already done, summer hurtles into its second half, and by the end of this upcoming week August will be halfway done. That’s a bittersweet realization, the way my birth month often rolls, and no sense in waiting on this weekly blog recap... here we go.
Guilty as charged, and not one bit sorry about it. If you’re lucky enough to get texted by me, just say thank you.
The August Show is a double-edged sword.
A single branch can change the entire room, but it won’t change the heart.
Ben Platt stuffs his hirsute body into a pair of tighty-whities in this insane photo shoot.
August means Echinacea and bursts of beauty.
A bouquet of a single bloom courtesy of this plate-size Hibiscus.
A grandly-gratuitous Nicholas Galitzine post celebrates He-Man’s thighs and then some.
This golden love break… ooh I love it!
Sometimes I can’t believe what comes out of my mouth.
Feeling my naked ass again with a golden summer revamp.
How dare they call this wretched thing a ‘gown’?
A Friday night floral follow-up, because when I make a promise it will always be kept.
Who doesn’t love a good Boney with a Heart of Gold?
Pretty, pink and prickly – three of my favorite things.
How are so many Americans still this stupid?
Another glorious morning of summer.
August sweetness enticing the birds and the bees.
The sweet scent of the climbing hydrangea opened the summer a couple of months ago – now we have the August blooming tree variety to lend perfume to this section of the season. The bees have taken particular pleasure in visiting this shrub lately, buzzing around the patio and getting intoxicated on all the pollen and fragrance. I don’t blame them – a bit of fresh sweetness cuts through the soupy humidity and stultifying heat this week has wrought.
The bees know where it’s at, and their gentle background humming lends comfort to the backyard, reminding that summer is still in full, glorious effect. Get out there and make the most of it.
This isn’t hard math, except for certain dumb Americans who still support the loser Trump.
Flowers somehow mean more when they appear amid the spines of a cactus – maybe because we know how difficult desert survival can be, and to flower indicates a resilience and triumph of spirit and power over circumstance and environment. On my lone visit to the Southwest desert, I remember being blown away by the variety of architectural wonder on display by the cacti and succulents that dared to brave the inhospitable area. Those that managed to flower – the prickly pears and a few saguaros – were emblematic of hope and beauty defiantly existing in a world of desolation. Whenever I see a cactus in bloom, I’m humbled and awed, and it’s a good lesson and reminder of survival and strength – pink prettiness too in the case of this precious guy.
How dare they call this a “gown“.
And how dare they suggest a shingles shot to me.
(Of course, I totally took it because I don’t fuck with shingles – I’ve heard of too many younger people getting it, and it sounds truly terrible.)
So this is me at my annual doctor’s check-up, pre-shingles shot #1 and pre-bloodwork, because on this day I will be poked more than all my spring breaks combined. The “gown” doesn’t match my underwear, which is upsetting. Not sure which is more awful.
Almost 51.
Could be worse.
Now that the sun has tinged me with some color, and I’ve decided not to throw in the towel for this summer, a second wind arrives to lift my sails and carry us through the rest of the golden season. A summer rescue mission, if you will, to save and salvage the hefty chunk of sun and heat that remains possible – still present to burn and astound.
This sort of mid-to-late season epiphany is usually reserved for a Scrooge-like redemption scene nearer to the holidays, but there’s room for salvation at any time of the year, should one’s heart be ready and open. Summer is made for second chances, for getting back up after you’ve been knocked down – by a rainstorm, by a wind gust, by the general battering of life at this particularly problematic point in time. It’s an opportunity to try again, without rush, without hurry – because while summer never lasts quite as long as we’d like, it always lasts longer than we think it does.
That means there’s still time to turn things around – and a decent amount of time at that. Summer is the promise of spring fulfilled; promises do not always deliver the way we anticipate – that whole ‘careful what you wish for’ thing rearing its tricky, infuriating head. (Hard to find good head these days, as you know better than me.)
Summer sauciness is back, and I’m feeling like myself again.
Summer sassiness never left.
Sometimes I can’t believe the things that come out of my mouth, and I don’t mean all the unwieldy ball-gags.
I found myself saying this to someone the other day and I simply had to shrug:
“My silence was not meant to indicate that you should continue talking.”
Some days I do wonder at my survival.
Nicholas Galitzine has been a Dazzler of the Day already, so this is just a bonus post, to go along with this gratuitous bonus post previously posted. I’ve been enjoying the latest version of ‘Masters of the Universe’ as the fun, slightly-campy, and solidly-entertaining jaunt that it was intended to be. Fans of the original cartoon series (like any proper child of the 80’s should be) will find lots to love about this reverential treatment, and Galitzine makes for a remarkably poignant Adam/He-Man. Check out his pumptitude in greater detail here.
We hosted friends for dinner last night, and then later this month, nearer my birthday, we’ll have Ann and Missy over for a weekend of Virgo fun and hilarity. To both ends, a bit of greenery is required to cheer up the indoor summer spaces, and I find a single branch, when large enough, makes for a big impact. In this case, some of the remnants of a pruned Coral Bark Maple provide a lush verdant backdrop for the attic loft. Summer is the best time to bring some of the outdoors inside, and this beautifully blurs the lines between the two.
As for our social lives, August sees us reaching out and connecting as it speeds along to September, that dirty back-to-school word that still strikes post-traumatic terror in my heart. Let’s stay in our August bubble for as long as possible.
Processing these last weeks of my 50th year hasn’t been as simple or easy as the bulk of this year had led me to believe – in fact, I’m still in a slight state of shock as to how suddenly and overwhelmingly I feel the rush of time, as well as how those who come into and out of our lives can do so in such swift and cruel motion. Maybe it’s the anniversary of Dad’s death, the approach of my own 51st, or the hints of fall that carried on the wind and rain during the recent deluges. Whichever the case, something has me emotionally spooked and mentally disturbed – definitely a more fitting feeling for fall than this last full month of summer.
August used to be such a treat, culminating with my birthday, often a full-day destination event no matter the day of the week, it still being summer. This year, like many years of late, I don’t find the same excitement or thrill in a birthday – at the time of this writing I haven’t even sent out a wish list (which, when you truly think about it, is the opposite of high-maintenance but I digress). Maybe this is the mark of finally growing up – you give up the stupid shit that brought your childhood self such silly joy. Or maybe I’m just lowering expectations so my birthday stands a chance of not disappointing. I won’t hurt people by regaling you with episodes to support that statement.
Oh dear – is August about to get messy? Stick around and find out – I’d just about made my mind up to throw this summer out with the baby and the bathwater, but let’s see if I have some sultry sass still in me…
Meanwhile, wildflowers are showing off this brilliant color – in the thistles and loosestrife – a reminder that August has only just begun her show…
August has arrived, and the cricket song at night is getting stronger. This past week has been a fucking doozy in just about every possible way. I won’t even try to encapsulate it in a cute intro – click below and read for yourself in this weekly blog recap.
A bulletproof piece of advice.
As the years go passing by… in (and out of) my underwear.
Egyptian secrets, summer style, inspired by my niece Emi.
Only rain, falling out of a summer book.
An Egyptian mood to take us along rivers long gone dry.
Egyptian evocation in a mind safari.
Astrological upheavals delivered on their ominous promises.
A strange melancholy pervaded a very wet week.
Don’t fall for the Pyramid summer scheme.
Once upon a Nile, I was Cleopatra.
Gold rush crush.
Golden summer years bring back memories near and far.
A semi-solid gold summer playlist because music still makes the people come together.
A letter to my Dad three years after he departed.
Driving away the hurt on roads where I only want to get lost.
Summer suddenly so serious I have to wear shades.
The Forgery – or, Don’t you ever call me that.
