Last Friday our office rearranged seating, and though I didn’t personally have to change desks, I did take the opportunity to clean mine up at least, because it was covered in papers with weird/bad post ideas on them and also some stickiness, presumably from all the Sour Patch Kids. When I was done it was pretty bare and sad-looking, so I decided I would get a plant, even though I pretty much always kill them. All that time living with a horticulturist and I never learned anything! I watched Rylee water our plants so many times and I swear I am doing it the same (she REALLY soaks them, holding them under the faucet until the water pours out through the holes in the bottom; this way you don’t have to water so often) but it does not work the same. But anyway I figured I’d try.
After work I went to the gym, and on the way back I stopped at this flower shop I always see downstairs from my apartment but never go into. (I do this a lot: walk by a place I’m curious about lots and lots of times and never go in, but then ultimately go in and love it. Why don’t I just go in sooner? I don’t know.) Anyway I walked in, and in right after me walked this really tall handsome older guy wearing an apron, and he said “Hi Joy, can I have a pen?” Joy, the woman working there, shuffled around the tiny shop looking for a pen, and I stood there trying to sneakily wipe sweat off my face, and when it became clear she wasn’t going to find a pen quickly, I offered the man one of mine, even though they are this very specific thin-tipped gel kind, with navy ink that my mom and I are obsessed with, that she orders online and gives me for Christmas. The man said “Are you sure? I have to take it with me!” And I said “It’s really okay! I have like 40!!” which wasn’t true, I have maybe 8, but he was so handsome. He said “I have a bar around the corner, you can come whenever and have a free drink for this pen,” and I laughed and kept trying to wipe sweat off my face. Then he said “What’s your name?” and I said Katie, and he said “Where are you from, what’s your favorite color?” And I said “Minnesota, green.” ‘Katie, Minnesota, Green,” he said. “When you want to remember someone’s name you’re supposed to picture their favorite color written on their forehead.” I didn’t do this for him, and I do not remember his name, so I guess this is true. Though I do remember he said green was his favorite color too.
He left the store (after kind of standing next to me to compare our heights?! He was so much taller than me, ahh, so handsome and I think inappropriately aged) and Joy helped me find a plant. We settled on one called a Waffle Plant that doesn’t look anything like waffles but is pretty and very dark green. She found a black pot and put rocks in the bottom for me, to gather extra water and make the plant fit, and then charged me $12, which seemed like nothing, and I carried my plant home around the corner. On Monday I brought it to work in a canvas bag with plastic over the top to protect it from the cold, and it looked very cute and helped take up space on my desk. It looked a little sad, but also determined.
I came into work this morning and Waffle was not dead, but was perhaps as close to dead as one can come while still having a shot at recovery. I sent Rylee a panicky text message with a picture of him, and she said to water him all the way through like she’s shown me, so I took him to the kitchen and did my best. He’s over by the window now, which is a little annoying because the whole point was to have him at my desk, but I am trying to be flexible and patient, which are two things I don’t do very well, and I really want this one to make it.
The 58 Yellow Smiley Emoji, Defined -
It’s very nuanced.
All acts of sex were forms of degradation. Some random recollections: East 11th Street, on the bed with Murray Gorman: “Swallow this mother ‘til you choke.” East 11th Street, in the bed with Gary Becker: “The trouble with you is, you’re such a shallow person.” East 11th Street, up against the wall with Peter Baumann: “The only thing that turns me on about you is pretending you’re a whore.” Second Avenue, the kitchen, Michael Wainwright: “Quite frankly, I deserve a better-looking, better educated girlfriend.” What do you do with the Serious Young Woman (short hair, flat shoes, body slightly hunched, head drifting back and forth between the books she’s read)? You slap her, fuck her up the ass and treat her like a boy. The Serious Young Woman looked everywhere for sex but when she got it it became an exercise in disintegration. What was the motivation of these men? Was it hatred she evoked? Was it some kind of challenge, trying to make the Serious Young Woman femme? —
Chris Kraus, I Love Dick
This book is like a talisman, or something, or a spell, like sort of a secret, because it wasn’t in any of your Women’s Studies classes or even on the radar for so long, but all the women you meet now or see at readings or online are talking about it in a way that makes you both doubt it’s really everything they say (because WHY DIDN’T YOU HEAR SOONER) but then you buy it and read it and are like, oh, yeah. It’s the kind of thing that makes you write exclamation points in the margins. It’s as totally revelatory and gutting as Emily in particular always says, of course.