The color pink usually leaves me cold. I’m just not a fan of most of its shades and tints. Bubble gum pink. Sorority girl pink. Pepto Bismol pink. No thanks.
I’m more a blood red kind of girl. Deep, rich, bluish reds like crimson. Scarlet. Ruby. When it comes to roses, my tastes run along the same lines. Francis Dubreuil. Souvenir du Docteur Jamain. Empereur du Maroc. These all smell fabulous, too.
Empereur du Maroc
But never say never. I spend too much time looking at rose catalogues and other garden porn. Last spring, a shell-pink floribunda named English Miss caught my eye. I knew I might never grow a bloom as ravishing and flawless as the one the photographer captured, but she seduced me into ordering her. This morning, I found a perfect bloom in my garden, and I have no regrets.
Sometimes the thing you never thought you could love just is.
And the fragrance? Sweet.
English Miss
I’m not really a photography expert, but I know what I like, and if you ask me, there’s a lot to love in this shot of Elijah Wood from the September cover of H magazine. Like a great story, it’s got tone, mood, character, texture, lighting. And face it, people, Wood is just plain gorgeous here.
In my past life as a magazine editor, when I assigned a photographer to a story, I told him what it was about and suggested what might work, but, ultimately, I trusted his artist’s eye. Sometimes, I traveled on assignment and had to be both writer and photographer. Each time I clicked the shutter, I prayed that eye would be there for me.
When proof sheets came in, I poured over them, searching for that one shot that supported the story visually and told its own even if you never read a word of the copy. Sometimes it took a whole roll of film or five or ten to get just the right one. But as they say, film is cheap, but the perfect picture is a pearl beyond price.
I gotta hand it to the photographer here. She’s got the eye. Or he does. Whoever. It’s beautiful.
I’m as shallow as the next girl when it comes to eye candy. It’s in my blood. My 80-year-old mother still appreciates male pulchritude as much as I do. Ask her about it when she turns to look at a handsome man, and she’ll say, “I may be old, but I’m not dead.”
Last night, I went to see “X-Men Origins: Wolverine” with my children. I enjoyed every shot of Hugh Jackman’s magnificence and all the other fine-looking men in the cast. Finest of them all was Daniel Henney as one of the villains, Agent Zero.
This is him. He’s 6’2″. I hope I’ll be seeing lots more of Mr. Henney.
Who knew it was possible to love a cat so?
I’d always thought of myself as a dog person. I liked cats–we’d always had both cats and dogs when I was growing up–but I never felt the need to have one when I was on my own. Then I acquired a husband and children. Then we got Cornelia. And Fang. And Fergus.
And Spot. Two years ago, he showed up in our yard, starving. My husband wanted to feed him, and I said OK, but he wasn’t coming in the house. Of course, a couple of months later, Spot was inside and sleeping with us. He turned out to be the most loving, wonderful, funny, absolutely best cat ever.
Spot died tonight. Our hearts are all broken. Rest in peace, sweet boy.
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