There seem to be almost no crocus yet this year in New Jersey. Spring is so late here that I begin to think the whole spring floral show will be truncated, which is something that almost never happens. Spring will be less seasonal panoply than a botched Buzby Berkeley number, with the daffodils stumbling into the middle of the crocuses’ act. Normally there is a week in between the chorus lines of yellow, white, and purple, on front lawns and the Can Can petticoat whirling dance of King Alfred and Ice Follies daffodils. Not this year. This year we will have one of those brisk Springs, that zip bulging 80 degree temperatures into weeks designed for 50 degree weather. But this is North America, and sometimes the cues for seasonal show times get mixed up, as though an addled stage manager and not Mother Nature were in charge. Continue reading
Just to define a term or two here, I mean does the perfume make you feel healthy? Does it promote a sense of well being? Does it induce that feeling of being at home and happy in your own skin? Or does it, alternatively, give you an uneasy sense that you may have sprayed on something too synthetic, something just the faintest bit nauseating? Continue reading
Ordinarily this color would come to mind in October, you know, when the leaves are turning scarlet and gold and bright pumpkin oranges are the order of the day. This year however, it hasn’t been so warm this summer. Apart from a few days when the Jersey air congealed into a burning, churning mess, most of our July and now August has been unseasonably wet and rather cool.
Basically, it rained a lot.
What to wear? Well, first I tried Orientals, but they were just a bit too thick and viscous on the humid air. After a few tries with Chergui and Muscs Koublai Khan, I abandoned this tactic and looked for something else. I disinterred Hermes Eau d’Ambre, which was a mistake because the charm of that scent is pretty seasonal, and not very apparent when it is 95 degrees fahrenheit (35 celsius) and just as humid. It was a zombie fest. Continue reading
Once upon a time the perimeters of summer were demarcated by the cocktails people drank from June to September, versus the ones they tossed back at all the other times of the year. Having been born as WASP as it gets, I remember the buzz of cocktail parties, rising and intensifying as the decibel levels increased, over green lawns, lawns which hissed noisily themselves- if Joni Mitchell was to be believed- on those afternoons in the 70s. (or 60s.) Continue reading