Category Archives: General

The past week has been a rollercoaster of rain and sun, with some crazy storms forcing me to crack open ‘Un Jardin Apres La Mousson‘ – not an unpleasant fragrance for any summer day, but one that I usually reserve for when the atmosphere is questionable and moody. On with the weekly recap…

A frog or a toad, this is what husbands are for.

A Madonna celebration postponed.

An oopsie moment worthy of a Tiny Thread.

Words & notes & a naked booty.

In the almost-midnight hour.

Troye Sivan’s sexy ‘Rush’ for summer.

Pink & wet.

Poussez my bussy!

Heavens to Betsy!

The cliffhanger of a cucamelon.

Meet me in the city with macarons.

A return to New York City with the help of some very dear friends.

Dazzlers of the Day include Christian Hull, Ryan Gosling, Janet Jackson and Olivia Rodrigo.

A necessary evil to any Broadway show is the crush of crowds and people in Times Square. It has always been the bane of any NY visit, and when you have any degree of social anxiety, it requires a certain mindset and mental preparation, as well as a fortitude forged out of sheer will and desperation, to successfully navigate without a complete breakdown. When I was younger, I didn’t seem to mind as much, though part of that was being blithely and blissfully unaware of any anxiety issues – the discomfort I may have felt was just something I took in stride, a misunderstanding of my stress level as something that everyone felt. 

On this evening, Chris and I took a car to meet Suzie, Tommy and Janet at the Mermaid Oyster Bar for a pre-theater dinner, followed by drinks (and pistachio ice cream for some of us) at the Chatwal Hotel lobby. This has long been a favorite escape from the madness of Times Square, a quiet and largely unfrequented place that has often served as a calm waiting room before or after a show. Mom and I have enjoyed many a cocktail here, and Andy and I also met up with Skip and Sherri after we took in separate matinees (‘Sunset Boulevard’ and ‘Natasha, Pierre, and the Great Comet of 1812’). All meetings here have been magical.

The main reason for this trip was to attend ‘Grey House’ which sounded like something different from the usual Broadway fare, and a darker indication of the times in which we live. I also harbored hopes that it would be as spooky and scary as the mysterious promos made it out to be. (Having been duped before by productions that claimed to be the most “emotionally terrifying” experience I would ever have – ‘A Doll’s House’ will never be that for me – I kept expectations low, and happily ‘Grey House’ surpassed them all. There’s way too much to dissect or digest here, but if you’re looking for a thought-provoking, tense, and somehow still fun evening of theatrical excitement, stop by this creepy abode. 

It was a lot to take, and so we stopped for post-show drinks at the Bryant Hotel (which Chris had recommended, but apparently he was thinking of the Nomad) – it didn’t much matter – the place was quiet, dim, and offered an intimate chance to decompress following all the wickedness of the show. We walked Suzie back to her hotel – right near the Port Authority – and then decided to walk to rest of the way to our hotel – no small walk, for no spring chickens, but it was summer, and warm, and it rekindled more youthful days where walking dozens of NY blocks was a goal and end unto itself. 

We passed through Hells’ Kitchen – apparently where the gay boys are these days – and paused at a couple of bars. We even poked our heads into one of them before deciding that a slice of pizza and the rest of the walk back would be more than enough entertainment for the remainder of the evening. It was already well past midnight, and it seemed best not to tempt any devilry that might find us out later than it was. 

It had been an ideal, and gloriously brief, re-entry into NY and Broadway, healing whatever upsetting memories I’ve held since my last planned trip. It made me want to return again, which is more than what usually happens when I’m at the tail-end of a trip to the city. There was still magic here – maybe there always was and I simply hadn’t given it a chance to reveal itself. Maybe I was just grateful and glad to be alive in the city, spending time with friends, and realizing that however much life had knocked all of us about in the last four years, we could still reconvene and pick up where we left off. 

“The soft rush of taxis by him, and laughter, laughters hoarse as a crow’s, incessant and loud, with the rumble of the subways underneath – and over all, the revolutions of light, the growings and recedings of light – light dividing like pearls – forming and reforming in glittering bars and circles and monstrous grotesque figures cut amazingly on the sky.” ~ F. Scott Fitzgerald, ‘The Beautiful and Damned’

“From the night into his high-walled room there came, persistently, that evanescent and dissolving sound – something the city was tossing up and calling back again, like a child playing with a ball. In Harlem, the Bronx, Gramercy Park, and along the water-fronts, in little parlors or on pebble-strewn, moon-flooded roofs, a thousand lovers were making this sound, crying little fragments of it into the air. All the city was playing with this sound out there in the blue summer dark, throwing it up and calling it back, promising that, in a little while, life would be beautiful as a story, promising happiness – and by that promise giving it. It gave love hope in its own survival. It could do no more.” ~ F. Scott Fitzgerald, ‘The Beautiful and Damned’

The last time I was scheduled to be in New York, our plans were derailed spectacularly as the COVID pandemic dawned upon the world the exact weekend we were due at the Plaza. Some PTSD remained as Suzie and I boarded the train for the city to see some old friends and a new play. I’d warned her and Chris that I was looking for a calm and quiet weekend – something that a brief foray into Times Square to get to the theater might prove difficult, but both were game for any potential social anxiety moments. Basically, I needed two of the people who make me feel the most safe to cushion this return to NY, even if a cushion wasn’t really needed in the end. 

We arrived at the old Penn Station, disappointed that it hadn’t changed in the slightest, despite what we’d seen advertised about a new version, but in our ignorance we didn’t realize we just had to cross the street to find the bright and airy Moynihan Train Hall – and as Chris was just checking into the hotel, Suzie and I made an early lunch of fried chicken and fried pickles in one of the train station restaurants. There’s also a Magnolia Bakery and Ladurée cart for your dessert and macaron needs. (Andy would benefit from the latter on my way home.)

It helped that thanks to Chris we were staying near the Upper West Side, close to Central Park and away from the super-crowded masses. Suzie and I arrived to see our friend whom we had not seen since these Christmas festivities, and after a brief re-introduction we were back outside for a stroll through Central Park’s Shakespeare Garden. 

Someone remarked that it’s strange how people come to the city just to find places that don’t feel like the city, and as we walked through the sunny highpoint of the day, past lilies and daisies and hollyhocks in full, resplendent bloom, it did feel like we had been taken completely out of the concrete jungle. 

With rickety fences of gnarled wood and old-fashioned glades of flowers straight from an English countryside, the space was not only an antithesis of the city, but a throwback to another time. It was the respite that provided a way to enjoy New York on a summer day. Coupled with lifelong friends, it was a brush with the sublime, and more friends were on the way to add to the joy…

The warnings came first, and Andy hastened to move our precious pot of cucamelons (which just had their very first bloom!) under the patio canopy. The wind came second – great shifts in the atmosphere barreling through the oak trees and pines in the distance. The approach of dark skies came third – like some ominous army quickly approaching, rumbles grew to thunderous claps. Finally, the rain fell – hard and heavy – ripping every last drop of moisture from the sky before throwing it all down onto the earth.

If my grandmother was still alive, she’d have exclaimed, “Heavens to Betsy!” upon the arrival of last night’s storm. It was on the tip of my tongue, waiting to be uttered if the astonishment of the deluge of rain reached an extreme level. As it is, Andy thinks I’m bonkers enough without bringing back sayings from my grandmother’s era, so I held it inside and merely texted it to my Mom. 

The rain continued, and just as I was growing accustomed to its roar and the dim winter-like light level of the house, it abated – lightening its barrage as it lightened the sky. The storm was over as quickly as it came – I could have and perhaps should have slept right through it. Summer works its magic and tumult rather quickly. Blink and you’ll miss it. 

Somewhere between the cute and tiny toadies that are barely more than tadpoles and the enormous monster of a frog in ‘Pan’s Labyrinth’ comes this big guy. After the heavy rains we’ve had of late, I walked out to inspect the pool and found him (or her or them) swimming in the shallow end. It was the largest one I’ve ever encountered in all our years here, and I ran inside to have Andy get him out. That’s what husbands are for, right?

While I’m not prone to anthropomorphizing creatures, this one lends itself to human traits all too easily. Such expression, such stunning beauty, such gorgeous camouflage – as I leaned down to get its close-up, I almost started talking to it. 

So that’s where we are at folks – rain and insane.

I did not kiss it. 

That’s what husbands are for.

Amid a forecast of rain and storms, I’m conjuring sun the only way I know how – in these Coreopsis blooms. Each is a sunny orb of color and pizzazz, and this will have to do for a Monday recap. 

A summer cologne wish for anniversaries and such.

Summer buzzing like the bees.

A happy banana.

Before there were Threads, there were #TinyThreads.

The nine-week contact lens ordeal from Visionworks. 

A quick post and a casual bouquet.

Another pet peeve – it’s what I do.

Hit it & quit it.

Tomorrow comes again (or, the very last iris of the season). 

A popular song for summer.

Dazzlers of the Day included Kim Cattrall, Scotty Dynamo, Laurie Metcalf, Dave Becker, Roger Frampton, and Chrissy Flanagan.

Why does anyone use these ridiculous things? The concept is lovely, the look is sweet, but the practicality is nowhere in evidence. My first, and last, brush with them came gratefully with some cheap-ass version from Target or Marshall’s, made of plastic, but designed in the same way as these fancier ones from Crate & Barrel. In all the designs I’ve seen, you’ve got to fill the thing with a good two to three inches of whatever you’re drinking before you even reach the spout. For a household of two, that’s already way more liquid than can be imbibed in a single sitting.

And if you do happen to have a party or event where you’re serving a bazillion people, once you come close to finishing the thing, you are left with that same two to three inches of liquid that you must tilt and twist and pour without breaking it or spilling it or swearing up a storm in front of all the kids. 

Don’t even get me started on what happens when all the pretty fruit you are inspired to add clogs the damn spigot. 

I just don’t get it. 

Any of it.

Back in the early days of this blog (twenty years ago!) I would do posts that consisted solely of a few photos, without explanation or given reason. Let’s go back to before…

My eye exam was May 1, 2023. 

As of today, I still don’t have contact lenses.

That’s nine weeks from the time of my first appointment, and I still can’t see.

Let’s go back to May, when this Visionworks debacle began. In truth, my sad and frustrating history with the optometrist goes back further than that – I remember a three-hour wait just for a follow-up appointment in Amsterdam that set the tone for seemingly everything that followed, and I ended up switching eye-care centers every few years due to poor service, but they always end up sucking. Not sure why this is across the board for all the eye places I’ve been – does anyone else know?

As for this latest go round, on May 1st I went in for my 9 AM appointment, and once the doctor arrived (ten minutes late) we had a relatively quick exam and she sent me out with a trial pair of contacts – my first progressives, thank you old age. She advised to let my eyes get used to them and follow up in a week. If they worked out we would order the 6-month batch my feeble eye insurance plan would cover. 

After a week of trying them out, and freaking out while driving because the distance sight just wasn’t there, I went back and said we had to try something else. She arrived ten minutes late again (the waiting room is right where she has to walk in, so it’s not an easy place to sneak in the back and pretend you were there all the time). That said, my time with her was blessedly quick, and she offered a mother progressive lens and I went away for another week.

Same deal – driving was difficult, as was seeing up close, so the progressive lenses were great for a twenty-foot section of world around me – neither up close nor far away – so I went back and said I’d be fine with regular distance lenses and could use the readers I’d grown accustomed to (and finally have in each room of the house). She advised trying a different brand of progressives. Amenable to that, we went with another pair. 

Another week of poor performance, another week of questionable driving, and another appointment where the doc was twelve minutes late. (My appointments were all at 9 AM when the store opened, and apparently this doctor rarely rolled in at the 9 AM mark, so I wondered why they even scheduled appointments for that time.) 

At the 6th week mark I asked if this was some sort of record for contact trials. She laughed and said almost. 

At the 7th week, we broke the record, and I insisted on just doing distance lenses (which is what I thought from the beginning but figured since I wasn’t the optometrist I didn’t know any better). She gave me one pair that almost worked, but not quite, so I went back for week 8.

They had changed out their seating by then; I’d been going there so long I actually witnessed a revamping of the seating. Doc was on time! I took it as a good omen, and the lenses she gave me to try would work as well as we are going to get with my almost-48-year-old eyes. I can live with readers; I can’t live with driving and not seeing anything other than what’s immediately ahead of me. So the distance lenses were a go, and a week later I called the store to order them.

No answer.

I called again the next day, first thing at 9 AM right when they opened in case there was a crowd.

No answer.

Tried later that day.

No answer.

Tried the next morning.

No answer.

Well, you get the idea. 

Finally stayed on the customer service re-routing message and punched in that I was trying to order contacts. Got through to a person at Visionworks who advised that it would be easier if I ordered the lenses online. With my insurance payment already in mid-processing mode, I didn’t think that would work without causing problems, but I stayed on and asked her to help me through that. She took down the lens info I had and after ten minutes said these weren’t available to order online. 

Huh.

The eye doctor prescribed lenses that I can’t order online?

The customer service person said that’s what it looked like, but she would try to call the store herself. I thanked her profusely, saying I just hadn’t been able to get through. And ten minutes later, neither was she. She took my name and number and said a manager would call me back.

The next day, I tried again. Another customer service rep said she would try to contact the store. “Good luck!” I chimed, chipper than a chipmunk in a broken bag of birdseed. A few minutes later she returned. 

“No one is answering at the store so I will escalate this to the territory manager. They should respond in 24 to 48 hours, and since the first call already went out to them this has already been 24 hours.”

On the third business day, I tried the store again.

No answer.

I called customer service, gave the ticket number, and asked if the 48 hour thing was just a joke. It was the same rep from the week before. We laughed – oh how we laughed! She said she would try the store again – before I could stop her I was once again waiting to hold while she dialed a number I knew would not be answered.

Spoiler alert: no answer.

She came back and said no one was answering the phone there. 

“NO!” I shouted. “I don’t believe it!”

And we laughed again – oh how we laughed again. 

She said she would now tag ANOTHER territory manager on this fiasco, and I thanked her for her efforts. 

At this point I am hoping to see something – anything – by Christmas. Because I literally cannot see anything without these contact lenses.

And I am dropping Visionworks after this because they clearly, ahem, don’t care about their clients. 

Summer roads open up before us, a brilliant blue sky dropping a background to ignite white puffy clouds hanging low in the distance. Having just returned from a whirlwind trip to New York with Suzie and Chris, I’m spent and offering this weekly recap without further explanation. 

We took the rain.

The place with the yellow flowers.

A preponderance of pink.

Things my 47-year-old body can no longer handle. 

My Top Twenty Madonna timelines.

Downtown roses.

All these Junes on the first of July.

All lace, no leather.

Summer Love Hangover.

Striking summer poses of the past.

Dazzlers of the Day included Sandra Bernhard, J. Harrison Ghee, Dan Amboyer, Sidharth Malhotra, Priyanka Chopra Jonas, and Neil Patrick Harris.

Someone posted this quote on social media the other day, and for a Monday morning that kicks off a holiday work-week, it’s a worthy reminder of priorities. My Saturday was spent seeing lifelong friends in New York, and it was a recollection of what our youthful passions and goals were, juxtaposed with the ailments and complaints and survival stories of what the past two decades have wrought. It was also soul-enriching, and a pleasant reprioritization of what feeds our mental health. In my case, that’s not rushing to get every single done as soon as it comes up. 

Most of us who take pride in our work and career try to excel and please, in as quick and urgent a way as possible. That’s not a way to make for a lasting sense of fulfillment in a working environment, and I’ve slowly come to see that over the past few years. There are many instances when there is a serious need for immediate action. We like to pretend there is, but that state of frantic rushing when anyone in charge wants something is a false urgency – a contrived and self-created mode of working that more often than not ends up with more errors and mis-steps than if we slowed down to analyze and take our time and care in executing things properly, and working within calm conditions. 

A lot of us do the same thing in our personal lives, and in our relationships and friendships, wanting to rush and immediately fix or solve or address things the minute they come up. We tend to make decisions and take action in the heat of the moment rather than pause and consider what’s really going on. In my youth, I made my fair share of those urgent decisions, of rushing to get something resolved or finished at the expense of letting it evolve or improve, and perhaps losing out on things that might have ripened into much more. 

Summer feels like a good time to slow things down, to re-learn and refine the way we’ve been hurrying through life and missing the moments around us. On this Monday morning maybe we can begin to shift that way of thinking. To that end, our usual weekly recap that appears early every Monday will show up a little later today. All good things to those who wait… 

Ah vanity, my unfair and familiar friend/fiend. Your work has made a mucky mess of my perceived reception in the world yet you keep me coming back for more. Here we travel back in time, to a summer spent lounging by the pool, striking all-too-serious poses or simply squinting from the sun. Life is too often a happy accident or unintended joke, and the best way to traverse its tricky path is to laugh it off whenever possible – and there is always the possibility for a laugh. It’s taken a few years, and some arduous work within, but I’m easily able to laugh at myself now – and there is much to find funny. 

Included in the items I now find humorous are pictures like this, in which I did my Zoolander best to find the perfect scowl that looked both effortless and meaningful, and somehow ended up merely appearing utterly ridiculous. Turns out that’s a good look for practically anybody – we are, after all, just a pile of neurotic habits – and everyone feels better when we feel less alone. 

As for these pics, along with the chuckles that Speedo-preening produces, I’m remembering certain summer days when all there was to do was sit beside the pool and read and watch the sun languidly move across the sky. Back then we would bask in the heat and light, commune with the bees and butterflies, sip iced tea and lemonade, slip into the cool water, and repeat. It feels so far away, and still so familiar – the way summer usually works. I remind myself to simply give in to it, to let it splash all over and not worry about any mess. We’re all a little messy, and that’s ok – especially in the summer. 

All too briskly, June has bonded toward its end and we have already arrived at the start of July. Summer moves quickly and waits for no one. That doesn’t mean I won’t try to still its march and slow its roll. Hence this post, which looks back the Junes that came before. I’m not quite ready to let go of that glorious month, and at only thirty days it feels like we owe it one more. That January gets thirty-one seems criminal if it could have been tacked on here. 

June 2010: Thirteen years is a long time – revisiting this June feels remote and lovely. 

June 2011: Recent Supreme Court rulings have many of us rightfully concerned about marriage equality, which means we might be going back to 2011, and before. 

June 2012: Pride was all the rage in June, and happily it remains so.

June 2013: The best Junes are often those in which nothing but summer happens. 

June 2014: Summer vacations and Tom Daley in a Speedo.

June 2015: Flowers and frills and more flowers.

June 2016: Summer salads and nakedness and movies. 

June 2017: Sunsets, Speedos and sweet summer perfumes.

June 2018: We took this summer off, but it still had some good entries.

June 2019: Boston in the summer and days by the pool.

June 2020: Foodstuff, flowers and fluff.

June 2021: Olympic glory, dazzlers and Madonna.

June 2022: A shepherd’s pie of summer posts.