I Forget

I am pondering this plumeria. It is not mine. I was searching for the name of the plant in the following photo:

which IS mine and which is, of course, a bromeliad (though what sort I haven't a clue because as always I didn't save the tag) and while searching for the word, which had entirely escaped my brain, as these things do (the brain meantime was flailing about with helpful hints like -- pink thing!), I went on line and searched under tropical plants, which I know it is, and the photo of the plumeria popped up and I'm wanting it. If you squint hard to make the colors run together it's also the color of the blusher (or rouge, as my antiquated prince persists in calling it) that I have been craving. If I only had that color--if could turn myself that color-- I would be a happy person, I mutter to myself. Rich. Admired.

Now I do own a plumeria. Here it is, in the shade of a rubber tree leaf:

Happy Birthday Vinnie & Shakira

Birthday Birds

Vinnie and Shakira are one. 

Watch it Lula. They're small but vicious.

Holiday's End

Positively Springy

The holidays have been deconstructed. The tree is down, Uncle Jimmy's menorah is wrapped in silver cloth, and boxes of bejeweled birds and shiny baubles have been removed to sleep in the attic.

In the living room, the mantle no longer explodes with glittery branches and ribbons tucked in greenery. It now wears a tasteful and calming tableau of rusty little Mexican lanterns and small blackened bronze objets: an Egyptian dog, a reclining nude reading I suppose not a bible, a candlestick embraced by a dragon, and a bulbous cement item I bought in Georgetown last summer that has no purpose and has been wandering homelessly from floor to table to here.

Deck the ... Prince

Bombe Chest

Never marry a man whose job it is to fix things. You'll always be last on the list and even then uncertain that the work will ever be completed. Thank God The Prince is not a plastic surgeon. He'd yank up one of my jowls and wander off, announcing he's busy and telling me to just turn the other damn cheek.

Window Boxes Redux Redux

As I've waddled through my two-year evaluation, and it looks like I'm going to live, at least for the time being, and I'm boring myself silly with monitoring my blood pressure and deciding whether to take pills in the morning or evening or some here and some there -- how quickly we have shifted from thug to pansyass -- I guess I'll rev up the Gaga and....

Love Gaga.

Shit. Now I'm having trouble sitting still. Oh right, I was going to resume writing, not jigging about. Much has happened since my last entry that I will not go into beyond a summary: weddings and trips and holidays and getting paid for writing, which is always nice.

Zo. The post-Thanksgiving window boxes have been decorated and they are even less natural than usual. Little besides the ivy draping over the corners, and the fringe of wandering jew that will linger only until frost, has roots. The rest, as always, is a mix of the finest Chinese plastic and various mystery products, a sprinkling of glitter, and branches pinched from trees and shrubs as filler. It's all tied up with big purple bows.