Martha's Vineyard | Diva Barbarella

In Your Facebook

David and I braced ourselves for the nippy, nighttime New England air as we stepped off the ferry and onto the ramp, headed toward the luggage cart. It was 10:30 p.m. on Martha’s Vineyard, more than

Hive-Minded

I spend a lot of time online. Okay, more than a lot. The point is, I get around the interwebz. Though I’ve long considered “web surfing” my primary hobby, it wasn’t until I discovered Reddit that

The Bulldog

Mothers are known to think their daughters-in-law are evil, but I’m pretty sure they don’t go saying it to their faces. Especially mothers-in-law like mine: pre–Civil Rights era women who are always striving to keep the

Nothing Left to Lose

I’ve got drugs on the brain, mostly because of my current surroundings. I’m on the island of Martha’s Vineyard, to attend my man’s annual photographic art exhibition at the Granary Gallery and visit my in-laws, as

The Judge

“Will you call Michelle?” “You call her,” I said. David huffed in frustration. “I don’t have my phone with me, and I’m driving. And it was your idea,” he said. “You can use my phone, you

First-World Problems

It’s been one week and two days since David and I officially moved. I use the word “officially,” because there are still some odds and ends that need transporting. I haven’t been back to the old

Worst Dressed

“Oh, boy, guess what!” Robert called from his living room throne, a modern recliner on which he is stationed much of the time. Ency, David, and I were in the next room, hunching over a thousand-piece

Facial Party

The story is as old as Avon. A salesperson slips into your social sphere, and the “social” invitations follow. But these aren’t casual, gather-round-the-teapot chatter fests – they’re nets cast far and wide, for the sole purpose

Terribly Absurd

When things go so wrong, when the chasm between expectation and reality reaches such ludicrous depths, the only sane thing left to do is laugh. Hysterically. This is especially easy to do when you realize that

No Better Feeling

Oh, the summer night/ Has a smile of light/ And she sits on a sapphire throne. — Barry Cornwall It had been a lackluster evening. Our waiter was unnaturally perky. The bare-wood acoustics made for stunted

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