(via gretchenjonesnyc)
Piles in my closet
1. Assorted never-worn scarves
2. Jeans that make me sad
3. Skirts for which I cannot find hangers
4. Dresses that should be on their hangers
5. Shoes I will never wear again
6. Sentimental postcards, anonymous over-21 show wristbands, and craft supplies (?) which don’t fit in my keep box
7. Shitty handbags to donate to charity
Too many men use little or no sense in the sending of flowers. Confused, they buy something expensive and therefore, they believe, impressive, but it may be quite unsuited to the occasion or to the costume the girl is wearing. A corsage of purple orchids looks foolish at a football game, whereas a shaggy chrysanthemum, a bunch of violets, or orange calendula, or even a charmingly arranged spray of bittersweet would be in tune with her sport coat, lap rug, and stadium boots.
A woman is much more impressed when her escort makes an effort to find out what kind of flowers she would prefer to wear than if he just leaves it up to the florist. A man should take into consideration that there are some women who prefer, for one reason or another, not to wear flowers, but who, of course, enjoy receiving them for use in decoration. Men should cultivate the ability to observe these little preferences among the women they escort and when in doubt should ask.
It is a very nice thing, however, to send flowers for decoration to a girl who is giving a party. I once knew a charming gentleman with imagination enough to do that. He filled my apartment with flowers the afternoon I was giving a large cocktail party—and sent along his Filipino butler, too, to help out.
Good advice from Amy Vanderbilt, but I do have to say that the last time one of my suitors tried to surprise me with a Filipino butler was a disaster.
Anyway, for the record, I’m partial to sweet pea and hydrangeas.
Important photographic documentation of the Ides of March, twenty-eleven, on which I thought about having a Caesar salad but decided raspberry dressing was tastier. Shown: Pear and gorgonzola on romaine with walnuts.
N.B., this morning I locked myself out of my apartment (again!) and, thinking I had exhausted my get-out-of-jail-free cards—or into-the-apartment, as it were—I casually complained to my neighbor about my predicament. Little did I know I had summoned the powers of a woman whose commanding skill set extends beyond sunbathing and speaking Farsi to breaking and entering. Window screen off in a snap, and noting I had secured my sliding window lock, she returned from her apartment with two screwdrivers which we used to pop the window out of its grooves in about three minutes; it took just another forty-five seconds to grab my keys and drop the window right back in.
Avoiding calling a locksmith as one would fear the Reaper, it only seems I have dodged Death once more. The Ides of March have come … but they are not gone.
No biological clock here or anything, but I’ve been accumulating houseplants like whoa, with the goal of turning my apartment into some sort of leafy pet-child jungle. Ideally, most of my love objects would be low maintenance, yet able to tolerate my occasional anxiety-induced watering and fussing. While not every plant I’ve picked up in a postwork haze in the garden section of Orchard Supply Hardware fits this criteria, I’ve been researching proper care and think I might be able to avoid sending any of them to the plant pound (or plant heaven).
The major successes are my pothos. It’s nearly impossible to kill these guys. I love them! They’re beautiful and easy. I kept one alive for years at my old apartment, but lost it in the move; I plan to have at least two for as long as I live.
Sadly, my Dracaena Janet Craig in the dining room is showing tip burn just as is my poor Massangeana cane in the bedroom, also of the Dracaena genus. Much Googling has ensued to determine how much more/less I should be watering and misting and fertilizing. I will probably just need to buy a humidifier for my apartment—perhaps more than one. Same goes for the Boston fern, my fussiest plant child. I lost one already (RIP first fern!), and I now mist it twice a day to suit its humidity needs. Hopefully it hangs in there for a while (literally?).
The umbrella tree on my bedroom windowsill is the new light of my life. Despite not having blooms, it’s just as sprightly and hopeful as my flowering plants outside: kalanchoe (a succulent), sweet alyssum, and geranium. The key is to not over-water, which is so important that I’ve even made myself a little watering schedule.
Is this how it starts? Crazy Plant Lady in t minus 3 years?
