"We don't trust your silence" was the reoccurring message that started flowing last night. It's funny: The paranoia that festers when you don't talk about that flock of magpies that makes up South Beach. Truthfully, my main concern this week has been trying to save my precious garden from the ravages of six weeks of relentless sun and little rain; the water restrictions--and the methods I invent to circumvent them--take up a great deal of my time. Add to this the fact that I returned from Rhode Island to find the towering ficus trees being attacked by the locally infamous White Fly of Asia and you can get a sense of my burden (and my constant fight against Nature). Except for that wild pill frenzy last Saturday--which stretched from 2 PM to 2 AM--I have had only a small amount of time to donate to my favorite charity: Orphaned Bartenders of South Beach.

I haven't yet mentioned the wonderful visit we had with Alan and Darren in Newport on that Sunday, Rhode Island weekend. It started, of course, with morning cocktails on the patio of their Goat Island condo. Summer in Newport is surreal. While sipping drinks we watched sailboats pass between Goat Island and Newport's Fort Adams, which was hosting the Newport Folk Festival's 50th anniversary. The music, the boats....the cocktails were only the prelude to a long lunch on Bowen's Wharf. As we had feared, Terry had to return us to Westerly long before we could tour Newport for Leopoldo's benefit. Alan and Darren are arriving here on Aug. 27 for a two week stay and they have again asked me to host a pool party at The Tides for them. They know what I do best.

In between saving the garden from Nature and trying new recipes for Mr. Astor, the only new thing I learned this week is that is, indeed, possible to text while on the elliptical at the gym. A new world opens.