Category Archives: General

It was only Monday, and the week had already kicked us all down. One friend was just getting out of the hospital, for the second time in a week. Another was locked down in the hospital he works at, thanks to some guy with a gun. And then our neighbor had a medical emergency, to which Andy rushed out to offer assistance. I thought about not checking my phone for fear of what news might arrive next. 

Alone, I stood in the middle of the house, listening to the rain on a late-March evening, when the world should have been full of hope. Instead, it was a day of tragic news too – another school shooting left three children and three adults dead. Tornadoes in the south left almost thirty people dead. Standing there, I reached out for a wall, and then brought my hands to my face because suddenly I was crying. 

Darling are you feeling
The same thing that I’m seeing?
The troubles of the day,
Took my breath away
Took my breath away

Now you’re no longer talking
And I’m no longing hearing
There’s nothing left to say
Said it anyway
Said it anyway

And I want you not
I need you not
I’m dying ’cause this is the saddest song I’ve got

The saddest song I’ve got

I worry. I worry for my parents. I worry for my husband. I worry for my family. I worry for my friends. I worry for my neighbors. I worry for the world. And I worry a little for myself, because I haven’t felt this fear in a very long time. I worry that this is it – the long, or maybe not-so-long trudge into old age, into obsolete madness, into days that only know loss and sadness and the memory of what once made us all so happy, the memory of what made the world so bearable. I wonder what to make of the days when that memory fades for good. 

Darling are you healing
From all those scars appearing?
And don’t it hurt a lot?
Don’t know how to stop
Don’t know how it stops

Now there’s no sense in seeing
The colors of the morning.
Can’t hold the clouds at bay
Chase them all away
Chase them all away

I went into the attic and started writing this post while listening to this song. Probably not the wisest thing to hear in such a mood, but sometimes you have to dive into it and feel it, however awful it might be. The only way out is usually through. 

Andy texted that another neighbor was dropping off a blueberry coffee cake so we would have breakfast in the morning. That made me cry more. The heart aches at all the hurt in the world; the heart breaks when another human tries to make it better. I thought of one friend’s answer when I once asked how she managed to not get overwhelmed and consumed by all the awfulness of the news: she said she thinks of her kids and how they are making this place better.

A 47-year-old man weeps in front of his laptop and feels absolutely ridiculous doing so, but gives into it anyway because some nights the world is just that awful. Some nights a good cry is the only thing that forces us to keep going, to put one foot in front of the other and keep going, to wipe the tears away and keep going… keep going, even when it hurts… just keep going… for all the people who can’t. 

And I’m frozen still
Unspoken still
Hearts broken
Remembering something I forgot
Something I forgot

The hazy shades of winter persist, as predicted, because in upstate New York spring is usually slow to come and then quick to pass – all hurry! hurry! quick! quick! wait! wait! stop! stop! – and then we wonder why some of us denizens are so crazed. Give us a moment to adjust! 

Normally I wouldn’t include such dour and drab photos, not without some scintillating commentary to spruce them up, but today you will have to make do with what is at hand. ‘Tis the damn season. I’ll need all the energy to gear myself up into tackling the winter mess once this snow finally departs for good. 

The month of March bridges the birthdays of our two dear friends JoAnn and Ali, so when they made a visit this past weekend we celebrated both with a cake and low-key celebration. Just being together with friends who go back decades is a celebration, and the older we get, the less importance we place on birthdays, and the more we put on being together. 

JoAnn texted in advance and asked if we still had snow. I had to answer int he affirmative, as I look dout into the yard and saw swatch of dirty white stuff still heaped and mounded on the garden and lawn. We would also get a spattering of snow and rain on Saturday, but our plans were solidified, and we weren’t going anywhere. 

On Friday night the gals arrived, to a light dinner of classic dips and chips – it’s been so long since we had a proper party, I put together the beloved dill dip in a bowl of rye bread and a batch of the red pepper chutney dip. A dinner of dips, reminding us of parties and past debauchery, provided moments of happy reminiscence, with the added flavor of gratitude that some of those times are behind us. 

After the first flush of happy reconnection, and gorging on all the food (Ali had provided an assortment of insanely-delicious Portuguese confections, as she always does) JoAnn and I headed off to bed while Any and Ali stayed up talking util 5:30 in the morning. We’d already decided to sleep in and indulge in puttering about the home the next day, when forecasted nastiness of wind and rain and snow would keep us homebound.

Lazily and happily sleeping in, we reconvened with a few breakfast sandwiches that I asked JoAnn to make (she does them the best) and spent the day doing nothing but talking and munching. By afternoon, we settled in for a viewing of ‘Troop Beverly Hills’ and ate popcorn and movie candy for dinner. The perfect sort of day while we waited for the season to shift closer to summer. 

It was a glorious kick-off to spring, and being around good friends is the best balm for shaking off a dreary winter. 

Putting a weekend of friends and family to bed is never fun, and this was one I wished could have gone on a bit longer. Reality and life are not quite ready to bend that way just yet, and so the work week begins again, and our Money morning recap is illuminated by this pretty bowl of grapes. Here’s what happened the week that this hemisphere turned to spring:

A cup of matcha, to greet the green.

Leaning into spring.

Go deeper.

Shades of salmon.

One of my favorite songs (and it’s not by Madonna)… this is Tomorrow.

Kalanchoe coming together.

Two Jehovah’s witnesses knocked on my door… and I answered.

This is my plaid flannel blouse.

Devil came down the dance floor.

Shining like a booty star.

A French omelette fail.

Dazzlers of the Day included Danai Gurira and Stephanie Hsu.

Wearing a rather ugly flannel shirt in plaid, burnt out with some intentional rust stains, and procured on some exasperating visit to Marshall’s or TJ Maxx when I needed something different, I waited while the cashier at Price Chopper rang up some items. She was a young girl in her twenties maybe, and exuberantly asked me how I was. Mimicking her exuberance – I hadn’t quite decided whether to be nice or snarky – I said I was great and asked how she was doing in a tone that anyone who knew me would describe as manic and aggressively not-friendly, but then quickly slipped into nice mode because that usually ends things quicker. She said she was good and then looked at my shirt. The aforementioned flannel shirt. Clearly, obviously flannel. Plaid. 

“I like your blouse,” she said. 

“Blouse?” I asked, my snarkiness returning despite my best efforts. 

“I’m just bougie like that!” she replied. 

My look must have indicated my feelings, and it went beyond any Resting Bitch Face I would typically conjure, as she immediately began defending her ‘blouse’ comment. 

“What would you call it? It’s more fancy to say ‘blouse’ right?”

It was amusing now, and I didn’t want her to panic. “I’ll take ‘blouse’!” I said. “I love fancy. Normally I would just call it a shirt. A flannel shirt.”

So now I wear blouses – and, truth be told, I always did. 

I don’t know what the fuck these people witnessed Jehovah do, but they have not been right since. I was working from home when the doorbell rang, and since I was in the line of sight I couldn’t pretend no one was home like I normally would. Two strangers stood at the front door looking in, and I walked tentatively toward them while Andy slept in the bedroom. The woman in front wore a mask, and as I opened the door a crack, she pushed her hand inside to hand me the pamphlet pictured here. 

She pointed to the words and started talking about what sacrifices we could make for Jesus. I opened the brochure and saw that it was from the Jehovah’s Witnesses, so I asked what the JW stance was on gay marriage.

The women looked confused, and looked to her back-up, who proceeded to tell me they believed what Jehovah believed, that marriage should be between one man and one woman. She said it sweetly and kindly, like that would negate what she was really imparting. 

“That is what the Bible teaches, and that is what Jehovah’s Witnesses believe, and personally I do not believe in same-sex marriage, but I do not judge others and no one would treat you badly if you were to attend…”

“No thanks,” I said, cutting her off. The morning was cold and I was letting heat out of the house and I just didn’t have the strength or desire to have a discussion with two strangers who approached our home and came onto our property to spew sweetly-worded hate. 

She thanked me for my time, perhaps relieved that I didn’t say more. 

These kalanchoe blooms are little when taken on their own, but pack a wallop in their shade and number – a lesson in how to make an impression by coming together. This was one of the first plants I ever grew as a child, a story more fully expounded upon in this post. I remember that winter in the guest room where my grandma would stay when she visited. It had the sunniest window, with a southwestern exposure, and it provided the strong light the succulent leaves of kalanchoe loved. They like to be kept on the dry side, and so are pretty easy-upkeep, even after they finish flowering (in-flower is the only state in which I’ve ever seen them sold). 

Taking a few tentative steps into spring with these blooms feels good. There is still snow on the ground, and a few more snowstorms likely to come, but it’s okay to give in to this beauty. It’s healing after a winter of cold bruises. 

This is a little Gerbera daisy for anyone who needs a break or a vacation, including myself, because without one soon I’m not going to make my retirement requirement. Such a sentiment crops up every few months, when things get rough and rowdy, and life throws wrenches and hammers and blunt objects, and we’re all just trying to duck and dodge and not get hit in the head. There’s enough trauma in the world – no need to add to it. 

And so I try to lose myself in shades of salmon, in the radial wonder and over-hybridized excess of a flower-head that can’t always support itself. There are days when I understand exactly how such a flower feels. Heavy is the head that wears the crown. 

If this were a trailer, here would be the music for our upcoming spring season – full of dramatic import and a few key scenes of emotional outbursts ripe for their close-ups. Picture our cast of characters in all sorts of pretty peril and tantalizing trauma, begging the viewer to see what twists and turns may come in the next few months. After twenty years of this website, we have reached the point where any season could be the last, and since I’ve not signed any contracts, any day might be the end too. 

When I bother to pause and look back at the overarching trajectory of life as contained in these electronic pages, the same recurring themes of family and friends come to mind – and for someone who was raised on soap operas, the way our lives intertwine and intersect will be forever fascinating. The highlights of this website have traditionally been of trips and adventures with loved ones – all the fun things Andy and I have done over the decades, all the parties and gatherings we’ve hosted and attended, all the moments we’ve celebrated and commemorated – they all fall under the umbrella of shared experiences, and they wouldn’t be half as fun if I’d done them alone. As much as I genuinely enjoy and cherish solitude and alone time, it’s still so much friendlier with two. 

And so, as we kick off the 20^th spring of this website, we put winter to bed for another year. We are reminded that we must lean on each other if we’re going to make it through another season, even one as typically happy and hopeful as spring. We will be back at winter in due time – for now we have rested enough. It’s time to dig in again – to the ground, to the work, to the garden, to the struggle – time to re-enter the world of the living, to re-immerse in the hustle and bustle. Our hibernation is coming to a close, and while I’ve learned to embrace winter and its subtle enchantments, it’s time for spring to have her turn, along with all the wonder and mess and tumult that she brings. 

The calendar reads spring, but the morning weather reads winter. 

It’s a day for the cafe,

for the young,

for the lovers.

A day for this pretty little song on the piano. 

A cup of matcha, swirled with love in a crescent moon.

Georgia – such a state of mind, such a state of spring. 

Peach blossoms, perhaps, for Georgia.

A switch from the cherry blooms that would otherwise occupy the sky. 

Falling like cream into this cup… caught with the care of a kind barista. 

Small acts of love from one human being to another.

On only the second day of spring. 

Most of the time, the first day of spring holds more hope and promise than the last day of spring. By that point, spring has largely been spent, and with it the happy notion of anything that might lie ahead. Today, it’s all possibility, even if the weather still reeks of winter. I’m someone who thrills in the promise and anticipation, enjoying these moments of what might come rather than the actual days when they do come. This is not a very mindful practice, nor is it helpful in inhabiting the moment, so it’s all a work in progress. For now, let me enjoy this day of possibility, while we look back at the last week of winter. 

Ranch ice cream is a thing, and the world is officially over.

Bathed in candlelight. 

Touch me – this is the night!

Chickpea curry in a hurry.

Entering Boston the back way.

Boston spring sneak peek.

A cheeky leprechaun backs this St. Patrick’s Day post. 

The roar of a winter lion.

…as to astonish the world!

In Our Own Voices for 25 years – and a celebration.

A linky look back at winter before we put it to slumber. 

Dazzlers of the Day included Zolita, Melisa Raouf, Kerry Condon, Lynn Beaumont, and Taraji P. Henson. 

The last official day of winter is here at last, which is cause enough for celebration. It’s also a good pause to look back over some of the more notable posts that went up over this past season, and as this marked the 20th anniversary of this website, there were quite a few. 

It began with the same vantage point as this post: the Winter Solstice. Attempts to embrace the arrival of winter were mostly successful. 

The first ring of fire was blue. The second was gold. Both appeared on the Year in Review for 2022, Part one and Part two.

A new calendar year begins just as winter gets underway. 

Bitter Peach by Tom Ford provided an unlikely scent for the snowy season. 

Bringing the twins to Boston required not just one, but two posts. 

Madonna is going on tour again, and of course I have to go. 

Feeling my years now more than ever.

This website first opened in January of 2003, and for the ensuing twenty years a lot has happened. 

The Amsterdam Mall has turned to crap, so getting kicked out of it is more a badge of pride than shame.

A lavender haze by Taylor and Tom. 

Gazing into the aging that a mirror reveals.

At tea time everybody agrees, so let’s put the kettle on and get into it. 

Exploring mindfulness in a dishrag.

The bookends of a family.

Coaxing a mystery orchid back into bloom.

Madonna’s greatest album ever turned 25.

Two decades of ALANILAGAN.com feels like a terribly long time. But it’s still where I get nakedly raw, providing a diary and map of my life, even when I don’t always want to remember everything. 

The cutest godchild ever.

Feeling the Boston love.

What’s your definition of dirty, baby? What do you consider pornography? 

Twenty years after it premiered, this website is as messy and meandering as ever. (And the typical wardrobe of underwear hasn’t changed so much as shifted a couple of waist sizes up.)

And so we end the winter season 22/23. We made it through the wilderness… somehow we made it through… up next is spring, and I’m going to enter it with gratitude and mindfulness, and maybe just a little sparkle. 

“I’m made of cruel passions, my Lord… and when the time is right we’ll so act on them as to astonish the world…” ~ ‘Elizabeth I’ as portrayed by Helen Mirren

This sounds like something Winter would be saying right about now, before she relinquishes her temporal hold on the northern hemisphere. Unwilling to let it go until the last possible moment (and, let’s just acknowledge it, likely beyond that) the weather will be wild in the weeks to come, no matter what our feeble calendar demarcations may indicate. Mother Nature is never held to human bounds – that’s why I love her so.

After our recent humdinger of a snowstorm, the reward came the following day, when the sun came out, the sky turned blue, and all the snow and ice glistened and sparkled like the winter wonderland a certain song promised us all those months ago. 

“I have love and compassion too.” ~ ‘Elizabeth I’ as portrayed by Helen Mirren

March likes to remind us that she is still mostly winter, ready and able to attack with lion-like stealth and determination. Such was the storm scene this week when the season’s first true Nor’easter tore through our state, dumping a foot of snow in a 24-hour period (and a lot more in other less-lucky areas). After juggling my in-office schedule, I was able to work from home for the entire duration of this nasty weather event, and enjoy the whirling maelstrom from the comfy coziness of a warm interior. 

My parents lost power briefly, but for the most part we escaped unscathed. There are whisperings of another storm, and such is to be expected through April. This is the way it goes at such a tumultuous time of the year. March comes in like a lion and out like a lamb, then April showers bring May flowers, but the truth is we can have blizzards until mid-May, so I’m not banking on silly childhood rhymes, any more than I trust the weather prediction by a groundhog (even if it seems to be holding true)… 

Oh winter, we knew you would pull this shit, saving your snowy nonsense for the end when we are all entirely over you. You’ll probably do your damndest this week, dumping a few feet on us now that we are ready for spring. It’s just the way of the world, so I’m going to embrace it because there’s no point in fighting it. Spring can begin in the heart, and if that’s how it has to be, so it shall. For the grand finale of winter, and its last full week, we not-so-eagerly await a doozy of a snowstorm. Let’s look back a week, and hurry through this one. 

This may come as a surprise: Mondays in March suck. 

Saying a plant prayer. 

Lenten moon shots. 

Brownies worthy of a billionaire’s name. 

Embracing the empanada.

A shade shady.

Should I bend over? Should I look older?

Season of the Prayer.

Artist Spotlight: Kevin Bruce.

Don’t I make it look easy?

Mindful meditation over matter.

After 20 years of this website, I’m still just hanging out in my underwear.

A new kind of Sunday drinking.

Lasting flower power, when we need it most.

I wanted his sex.

And last but certainly not least, the lone Dazzler of the Day was Tandra LaGrone, who had more than enough dazzle to carry the week.