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Spent much of yesterday cranking out boring, remunerative work, and then once I’d finished my quota, practicing Not Being Here.
Went to the garden. The snow has finally melted from the path:
My two monster collards still show some semblance of life, even after being buried under two feet of snow:
In the wild, cabbages are perennials, so perhaps these collards have reverted to atavism.
But, of course, I’m gonna uproot them anyway.
My strawberries and thyme, both perennials, are thriving.
My lavender leaves and stalks are ready to crumble into scented dust, perfect for cachets.
It’s too early to plant and too cold today even to prep the soil. Plus I have a shitload of work to do—gotta cook that neighborly chili plus it’s a TaxBwana day and ever, there is more remunerative work.
I’m fuckin’ sick of it all.
I want to be anywhere but here.
In the evening, L hosted a small dinner party in honor of St. Patrick’s Day. Corned beef, cabbage, and boiled potatoes. Happens I hate corned beef and cabbage, and absolutely loathe St. Patrick’s Day, but I can’t refuse household invitations without seeming utterly boorish.
Conversation alternated between what television shows people had been watching and whether Mrs. Stuckey or Mrs. Pinkley had owned that hole-in-the-wall restaurant on 9G that the Greek subsequently bought and turned into the Eveready Diner.
Then they started talking about Andrew Cuomo and sexual harassment in the workplace.
“Well, you must have had to deal with sexual harassment in the workplace back when you were a model,” said Kasinda.
“I did,” I said. “It didn’t bother me much.”
She looked disappointed.
“I mean, it’s a transaction, right? I wanted a gig, they wanted a blow job. Seemed like a fair exchange. If anything, I think I came out on top.”
Her mouth fell open.
I shrugged. “It’s like sex work. It was consensual. Nobody ever forced me to do anything I wasn’t willing to do. Or are you saying you morally disapprove of sex work?”
Her eyes looked like they were about to pop out of her head.
“When you have incredibly high barriers to entry,” I continued explaining helpfully, “you have to rely upon a disruptive strategy to reallocate existing slots.”
Of course, I have no idea whether I believed one word that was coming out of my mouth—meaning I partly did, I partly didn’t, and the world is much more nuanced than most people are prepared to imagine it is.
What I was hoping is that this would put an end to all future dinner invitations that involved eating awful food in celebration of national holidays I don’t give a shit about.
No such luck.
“Oh, Patrizia,” L said, laughing. “You are funny.”
Went to the garden. The snow has finally melted from the path:
My two monster collards still show some semblance of life, even after being buried under two feet of snow:
In the wild, cabbages are perennials, so perhaps these collards have reverted to atavism.
But, of course, I’m gonna uproot them anyway.
My strawberries and thyme, both perennials, are thriving.
My lavender leaves and stalks are ready to crumble into scented dust, perfect for cachets.
It’s too early to plant and too cold today even to prep the soil. Plus I have a shitload of work to do—gotta cook that neighborly chili plus it’s a TaxBwana day and ever, there is more remunerative work.
I’m fuckin’ sick of it all.
I want to be anywhere but here.
In the evening, L hosted a small dinner party in honor of St. Patrick’s Day. Corned beef, cabbage, and boiled potatoes. Happens I hate corned beef and cabbage, and absolutely loathe St. Patrick’s Day, but I can’t refuse household invitations without seeming utterly boorish.
Conversation alternated between what television shows people had been watching and whether Mrs. Stuckey or Mrs. Pinkley had owned that hole-in-the-wall restaurant on 9G that the Greek subsequently bought and turned into the Eveready Diner.
Then they started talking about Andrew Cuomo and sexual harassment in the workplace.
“Well, you must have had to deal with sexual harassment in the workplace back when you were a model,” said Kasinda.
“I did,” I said. “It didn’t bother me much.”
She looked disappointed.
“I mean, it’s a transaction, right? I wanted a gig, they wanted a blow job. Seemed like a fair exchange. If anything, I think I came out on top.”
Her mouth fell open.
I shrugged. “It’s like sex work. It was consensual. Nobody ever forced me to do anything I wasn’t willing to do. Or are you saying you morally disapprove of sex work?”
Her eyes looked like they were about to pop out of her head.
“When you have incredibly high barriers to entry,” I continued explaining helpfully, “you have to rely upon a disruptive strategy to reallocate existing slots.”
Of course, I have no idea whether I believed one word that was coming out of my mouth—meaning I partly did, I partly didn’t, and the world is much more nuanced than most people are prepared to imagine it is.
What I was hoping is that this would put an end to all future dinner invitations that involved eating awful food in celebration of national holidays I don’t give a shit about.
No such luck.
“Oh, Patrizia,” L said, laughing. “You are funny.”
