Friday I'm In Love

one day

2011-08-12T10:13:00.004-05:00

During the commercials before the previews we made a pact: We'll never watch The Notebook.

*********

I met him beside a mailbox. He asked if I was hungry. I was. Turns out that was a banana in his pocket.

*********

Every day, I ask if we can get a puppy. Every day the answer is yes. One day.

it must happen all the time

2011-08-08T11:32:00.000-05:00

Have you ever seen the movie Harold and Maude*? Happiest sad movie ever, maybe. I think. I'm not sure I really got it, but I do like Cat Stevens.

***************

It must happen all the time; the official population of New York City is 8,175,133.

Ted and I were waiting to take the elevator up to Julianna and Ed's for a Saturday catch-up party. Summer night, circle skirt, bottle of wine. We were waiting there with a lady and a puppy and when the elevator on the left finally came, there was chaos and doors closing on people and when the practical-looking nurse lady and the neat, older gentleman with the round glasses finally got out and decided which way to turn (toward the service entrance, not the main door), we had to flatten ourselves into the notch of the elevator on the right so they could wheel the stretcher away. And, pressed against that elevator door, we widened our eyes as we realized the sheet was pulled all the way up.

The lady and the puppy were still processing, but we got in the elevator. By the time we got to the sixteenth floor we were in fits of nervous giggles because sometimes big emotions come out all wrong at first.

And we had a party. We ate and laughed and celebrated and played with the puppy and forgot about it for a while.

~b

*Harold and Maude was made in 1971 and is full of awesome. It's only 90 minutes long and it's streaming on Netflix, so I suggest you just watch it for yourself.

the creative process

2011-07-25T13:01:00.003-05:00

i started writing a story with heavy, morbid themes, but then i got distracted because i was hungry and also wanted to see if any wedding invitations came in the mail. (some microwaved, frozen veg mix and a cherry yogurt; and yes, one for september 24.)

and then i got further distracted by the general internet and started thinking about writing a satirical piece entitled, "date a girl who refuses to drink non-dairy creamer". As a work in progress, it only has a few lines:

Understand that she prefers electronic books to real books because real books are heavy and new books to used books because used books make her itch.
Never mess up. Everyone knows that sequels suck because they are always trying too hard.
Never propose to me over Skype. Well you can. Because I collect proposals. But I will ignore you.

i think i need coffee. with milk.

~beatrix

the boring details

2011-07-12T16:43:00.004-05:00

It's summer and about 135 degrees. Fahrenheit. That's 57-ish if you live in Canada. A girl from Canada stayed with us for a few days, and she was like, "Is it always like this, eh? I can't dry my hair." and I was like, "Dude, it is always like this in the summer, and think about it. You are only in the very top part of this country. When I lived in the bottom part of the country, I used to have nightmares about drying my hair."

Well, anyway, I've been spending a lot a lot of time eating Italian ice. Actually, I've been spending a lot of time eating Italian ice (in heels on a corner in the East Village, on a walk through Fort Greene, at a Carrol Gardens street fair, etc.) and some time trying to figure out if I have one dollar (or two dollars if the boy wants Italian ice, too) and if not, where I can get some cash, because mostly you can't charge Italian ice.

I have a sandal tan line. I think the last time I had a sandal tan, I was in high school. It is actually a tan line, not just dirt. Sometimes it is partly dirt. The rest of my tan lines I've been changing up: scoop-neck tank top from going to Target, slightly askew oxford-shirt V from going to Trader Joe's. Currently, the most distinct print is one spaghetti straps and one extra wide handbag strap.

better than television

2011-07-01T12:36:00.003-05:00

He met a girl and she told him she worked in television. He told her he didn't watch television because his real life was so much better.

There's intrigue, girls with boyfriends, boys with anger issues, love triangles-- and more complicated geometry, the addict friend with the girlfriend he might love. It's always left to be continued. It never gets simpler, just more convoluted and harder to follow.

On the way home from a concert with his pretty friend, he stops the car and they get out to stand in the street because millions of magazine pages are raining from the sky. You want that to mean something.

He might be dating the girl from the magazine night. He's probably dating her. But it's complicated. It's always complicated.

She wanted a late-night snack. She's drunk but he's sober. You get a few months of sober when you throw up massive amounts of blood and end up spending a few days in a Bahamian hospital.*

She points out a couple a few booths away, saying they don't match because the girl's hotter than the boy. He asks if she's looked at the two of them.

He drops her off but doesn't stay. When you aren't drinking, you have to make decisions.

I'm captivated, but I want it to work out this time. I want it to work out every time.

~beatrix

*You also get very close to figuring out how quickly your parents' friends can arrange for private international flights.

the worst show on tv

2011-06-25T11:03:00.001-05:00

I don't like scary movies. I don't like ghosts or murderers, and I really hate invisible people. But I think the absolute most terrifying thing on television is I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant. I hate it, and sometimes I watch it. I think I'm equally intrigued by the bizarre plot lines and the reenactment format. It's like some really boring improv exercise where one person describes eating a lot of green apples and throwing up while someone who looks kind of like her acts it out.

So, it's scary because you can be pregnant and not know it until a baby comes ripping out of you even if you are skinny and have your period and never want to eat pickles and ice cream together. (But, seriously, if you've been having a lot of back pain and have been wanting to eat a lot of tacos, you should probably see your doctor before you reach down to find a person coming out of your crotch. That is what I learned from The Learning Channel.)

But the scariest part would be the explaining. Like, what if you were at brunch with your friend and you just thought you had to poop but then you had a baby in a public restroom and had to explain to your friend where you got that gross naked baby. And then you'd have to call your parents, who might be upset but would probably just be confused. And then you'd have to pretend that everything was normal and put some pictures on facebook and pretend that, oh, everyone just wasn't paying attention, you were pregnant all along, and of course you didn't have a baby at brunch and think it was a poop.

TLC, I did not need another thing to worry about. I should put a lock on that show, except I don't know how to work my television. (Three remotes!)

look for it on netflix

2011-06-23T10:20:00.003-05:00

I had insisted. It was the solstice, meant to be enjoyed outdoors. He brought his glass of wine and I'd brought my bowl of blueberries, feeding him every third or fourth one in what probably should have been an embarrassing way. If I wasn't over that by now.

Little kids were running around on the roof, babbling nonsense, and someone somewhere was smoking pot. How do you know when kids get a contact high if they act like this all the time?

The sun went down on the longest day of the year, the day's heat coming from below now, oozing back out from the concrete and metal. He kissed me. Then he kissed me for real.

And. . . fireworks. Big, literal, professional fireworks. Directly in front of us, perfectly timed.

Writing is hard, these days. We both feel it now that we're in the part of the romantic comedy that happens after the credits roll. But fireworks? The sequel to our first movie is straight to video.

~beatrix

metaphors everywhere

2011-06-10T07:17:00.002-05:00

i was standing there holding a box and a box cutter. and when i cut my hand on the box, i thought, i wonder if this is a metaphor for my life?

~beatrix

and. . . that's how you know

2011-06-09T01:24:00.003-05:00

We were close, you know. We shared our secrets and our dreams. I thought, this is how it will be to love someone forever. I thought I knew everything about him. I didn't really know what was left.

And then we got a stomach virus.

they probably do make star wars crib bumpers

2011-06-07T13:19:00.002-05:00

"They'd just be so nerdy."

"I'm actually afraid if they aren't, we won't be able to connect with them. I feel like if we had a baby, we should hang an embroidered sampler over it's crib -- 'Don't worry. I'm pretty sure you'll grow out of it.'"

"Or 'There's still time. No one wants to peak in high school.'"

I love him, but if you'd seen our third grade school photos, you'd be worried about our hypothetical children, too.

memorial day

2011-05-31T13:27:00.005-05:00

I wonder if I'll ever stop being surprised: Surprised that, no, I cannot just keep living my life the same way, no matter how productive I am, if no one is paying me. That, yes, the boy from when I was seven and the boy from when I was twenty-seven and my sorority great-grand little sister (or something) all got married in the same weekend. That the people I was surprised to see get facebook-divorced are engaged again. Surprised that my friends were trying to talk us into what was not necessarily a scheme but was, undoubtedly, a pyramid. That I can stay calm enough to actually be helpful when my baby brother calls from the Caribbean to tell me he is throwing up blood and on the way to the hospital (and that my credit limit might have actually been helpful, if it had come to that). Surprised to find out in a single day that two of my friends-- real friends, college friends-- are having babies soon (one on purpose, and both very excited).

I wonder when I'll stop being surprised to be a grownup.

We took off. We escaped to the beach with a swimsuit under my clothes and a tent and a cooler and sunscreen and all the things to make s'mores. We were going to camp, though it wouldn't really have been roughing it to sleep in the back yard of a house we had all to ourselves and I'm not sure it counts as camping when you've got a kitchen and two bathrooms and a washer and dryer and a television and a piano. But I got a cold, and we slept inside and that was fine, too. It was good to get away for a few days.

happy

2011-04-15T10:55:00.004-05:00

I could hear his heartbeat, with my head on his chest, watching Veronica Mars. The gentle scents of fresh paint and reheated stewed okra mingled in the air. . . . Whose life is this? So far away from where I was a year ago. Everything is different from two years ago. But this is how we spent our Sunday-- one year and 363 days after the Sunday we first met-- after we painted our new bookcase.

For all my falling apart lately, some days our life feels like a movie montage or a commercial for a home improvement store. How do I look playing one half of a Young and Happy Couple? I've been experimenting with new ways to braid my hair.

is this being a grown up?

2011-04-15T10:51:00.004-05:00

Living with a boy is the weirdest. There are some questions I've just stopped asking because I either know the answer or there is just no good answer:

How could you forget that we have two brushes specifically for the bathtub?

Do you want to watch this David Tutera wedding show?

Do my arms look chubby?

Remember that episode of Sex and the City?

Why was there a copy of the New Yorker and a strawberry-banana yogurt on the lid of the toilet when I came home?

Are we keeping this snake thing preserved in a bottle of liquid?

Do you want to have sex?

~beatrix

Doubles

2011-03-30T20:30:00.004-05:00

"Being two people is harder than just being one person. Being with someone is harder than being alone."

I regret the words. We were in the car in a tunnel, and I was still twitching with the anxiety of my first freelance job, which had been over for approximately fifteen minutes.

It's not true. Being alone is hard and there's no one to put the extra sheets on the high shelf or listen to my bougie problems (like, seriously, who puts coffee in styrofoam cups that are squishy and spill-y) or pay the bills when I quit my job. He's so much to me; I don't want to not keep up my end of this bargain.

I've never been much of a team player. Selfish has always been my way of life. But I'm working on it. I am working on being an us.

~beatrix

is nothing sacred anymore?

2011-03-19T12:49:00.003-05:00

I had the best idea. Me and the boy could get civil unioned and then we could share insurance without having to get married for boring, practical reasons. Getting courthouse married would also mean either keeping it a secret from our parents or making them really angry at us for ruining the fun party part of it. And we could still get married later and get presents. And it just makes sense as I’m pretty sure we are civil unioned in practice.

As a special bonus, civil unions in New York are a bargain-- only $35.

I am brilliant. Brilliant.

Except.

The boy’s work doesn’t count civil unions unless they are between same-sex couples. So one of us would have to have a sex change to make it work and that probably costs more than insurance and I wonder if his insurance covers that because then it would have to be him and I’m not really sexually attracted to women (it’s this catch-22 situation I can elaborate upon later) and I don’t think he’d agree to it anyway. . . .

So at any rate, we can’t share insurance because we are straight.

(I mean, please don’t think I’m some awful person. I realize we have the right to get married which is cool, and I think we all deserve that. But right now I’m just pretty sure that we all deserve the rights that come from marriages or civil unions because that would mean that my plan had not been totally thwarted.)

~beatrix

unromantic

2011-03-16T18:00:00.000-05:00

Quitting my job means quitting my insurance.

My boy’s boss has a wife. The wife is from Portugal. They got court-house married because that one piece of paper saved them from so, so many more.

It’s easy to get married. In New York, it costs $40. Forty dollars is such a deal on insurance for forever.

I can’t believe we are having this conversation. But it makes sense, and we wouldn’t even have to tell anyone. It seems like a good idea for about ninety seconds until we realize that it is just too practical.

~beatrix

let's go for a swim

2011-03-09T22:49:00.000-06:00

I became a freelancer.

*****************

I have a cousin, Lillian, who is my opposite, not just because she has fair, straight hair and brown eyes and freckles, but because of. . . everything. She perms her bangs. She was practically born wearing sensible shoes. When she was 14, her dream car was a minivan. While the boy cousins and I spent our summer nights catching milk jugs full of tree frogs and playing sardines in the dark, she was probably watching The Sound of Music again. She played with dolls until. . . . Actually I’m not sure she ever stopped.

Lillian is a teacher for 4-year-olds. She’s slightly overweight and is married to a very overweight man and they have two obscenely overweight dogs and they all sit around and watch NASCAR. She eats fast food and posts inappropriately personal things on Facebook. She lives in the same small town she always has, in her husband’s house where she moved from her parent’s house when she got married.

I loved to dive when I was little: stretched out full and eyes wide open, even off the high diving board at swimming lessons. Lillian, though, with her goggles on tight and her nose held and her little toothpick jumps, still got nosebleeds in the pool about once a week.

And once, when she thought I was still under water, I heard her say, “I wish we could all be as brave as Beatrix.”

****************

I became a freelancer, which is to say that I quit my job.

It was a brave thing to do, I think, but it’s a fine line. What if we take a dive off the highest cliff, not because we aren’t afraid of the water below, but because we are terrified of what might be up there with us?

~beatrix

29 or the revolt

2011-01-22T23:14:00.003-06:00

I think they’re on to us.

They use to be so content-- blissfully unaware in their drug-induced stupor, emerging only one week out of four into a zombie-half-wakefulness, begging for chocolate, Google-ing puppies in baskets, and occasionally making me cry for no good reason.

But I don’t think I can trick them for much longer because lately. . . lately, they’ve been waking up, announcing their presence, coursing with impatience, becoming increasingly insistent in demanding more than pictures of puppies, and making me cry for what seems like a very good reason.

My ovaries have been going through the motions, faking it for more than a decade. I started taking birth control in the spring of 2000, ostensibly to clear up my still-teenage skin and to regulate my unpredictable periods. So I haven’t ovulated since I was 18, when Bill Clinton was president and we’d never even heard of Survivor.

And suddenly, or not so suddenly, after years under our strict regime, we fall out of step at the sight of a tiny foot. We Google our egg supply’s rate of decline. We feel womanly in ways that are embarrassing.

I just turned 29. Ted celebrated by taking me to one of my favorite restaurants on the Lower East Side; the universe celebrated by seating us next to a toddler singing Old McDonald where we were waited upon by a tall, blonde, and beautifully pregnant woman. And I felt old.

Because 29 is so close to 30, impossible to ignore, impossible to pretend it’s mid-20s and impossible to pretend there’s all the time in the world. And maybe all those years of forcing my hormones into hibernation has just been pushing snooze on my biological clock, and maybe if my ovaries are trying to wake up, maybe it’s time.

There was a short list of things I made, once, of things I needed before I was ready: The walls I’ve got, in Brooklyn of all places, where people come when they need space for a stroller. The health insurance is taken care of. And I’m pretty sure I’ve found the person I want to do it with. There was that time my mom laughed at me when I told her I’d rather have a washing machine than a baby. Well, I’ve got my washing machine.

My body, my choice? My education, my career, my bank account, my city, my boyfriend, my Better Judgment. . . It’s not my body that is making this choice.

I keep chemically regulating, shutting down, postponing. But at 29, the math is hard to ignore, and so is the hollow yearning that makes me feel like one of Those Women. Women, not girls anymore.

And I’m sorry I cried, sorry I got impatient, sorry I wanted more than what we have right here, now, in this apartment that feels like it chose us. I’m greedy for a lifetime of things, but most of all I want you. It’s that that makes me feel ready, and that that makes me willing to wait.

~beatrix

p.s. I do not recommend leaving this tab open on your computer for at least a week like someone might have: http://nymag.com/news/features/69789/

it was worth $12.99

2011-01-15T10:21:00.001-06:00

I warped the cutting board already.

~beatrix

tear quota

2011-01-13T17:46:00.001-06:00

“Why?! Why don’t you want me to have my cutting board?”

It’s not like I wanted to make a scene in the kitchen chairs section of Ikea; it just felt necessary.

It was $12.99 and I needed it and I know we have cutting boards already, but I’m tired of my broccoli all falling off of them because they are from the tiny-kitchen days. (How quickly things become nostalgic from a cozy, white, fold-out sofa across the bridge.)

Once my Aunt Stacy told me she cried because she wanted some kind of floor in her bathroom that my Uncle Mac said wouldn’t work.

“What did Mac say?”
“Nothing. But I got the floor.”

I thought it was silly at the time, but I might have cried for this cutting board. It’s kind of like all those tears I might have cried for lonely nights or boys who didn’t call back have to go somewhere.

And I love my new cutting board. My broccoli doesn’t fall off and it even almost fits in the sink.

~beatrix

the most wonderful time of the year

2010-11-30T20:33:00.000-06:00

Do you think one day we’ll say, Remember that time we bought a menorah and a Christmas tree?

It’s one first for each of us.

He got tinsel, colored lights, and a Mets ornament. I arranged the candles so they alternate, blue and white.

Happy Holidays, guys.

I go with C-h-a-n-u-k-a-h, to emphasize the CHHHHHHH.

Yeah. . . if you aren’t Jewish, spelling it with the C can look a little pretentious. But I guess I can learn to spell it your way; I have a menorah.

~beatrix

what you give and what you get

2010-11-11T20:53:00.002-06:00

It was a sad story. Really tragic, I thought when the show was over.

The cool, calm voice of my mother, embedded in my head, replied, It wasn’t a sad story. She went back to her husband and her life. She went back to her family. She did what she should do.

Years after it happened, my mom told me that one day she put my four-year-old self and my baby brother in our old brown station wagon and drove away. My dad was working, either at his regular job or the rapidly failing business that once-friends had abandoned to him. She left forever, but she had no cash and knew the credit cards wouldn’t work. She was running out of gas and didn’t want to end up, embarrassed and un-pitied, at her parents’. She didn’t know where else to go, so she went back home.

It’s the stuff Oprah’s Book Club is made of.

I don’t remember it.

It’s not a sad story, it turns out. It’s a story about responsibility and obligation and enduring.

My parents have been at the coast, odd for the middle of the week. My mom took a nap on a friend’s yacht and my dad caught the biggest fish she’s ever seen. She had to get off the phone so she could get back to shopping for beach houses before dinner.

It’s a story about rewards.

~beatrix

fall, and why maybe i'll write again

2010-10-22T16:41:00.001-05:00

We’ve had weeks (months?) of take out containers and piles of laundry and I’ll-be-home-soons that turned into I’ll-be-home-in-time-to-fall-asleep-and-if-we’re-lucky-make-it-out-the-door-tomorrows. The run-downs turned into some sort of cold that started with a sore throat and ended with three days of intense nausea, which would have seemed unbelievable as a sickness if we hadn’t had identical symptoms. Thursdays have really been feeling like Fridays, and I’ve felt so threadbare as to be invisible enough for an automatic door at the grocery store close on me (literally-- it hit me in the shoulder) and to have strangers sit on me on the subway even more than usual.

Last weekend, we both had the same day off for the first time in ages, and after a day of apple picking with friends and watching movies in bed, I realized that, as much as I love his reassuring presence and the way the garbage disappears and clean laundry appears, I’d missed talking to him.

My busy season ended today; Ted’s is just getting starting. I left work at 3; he should be home before 8. I feel like celebrating being able to be a good girlfriend again along with the chill in the air.

I bought a six-pound butternut squash.

~beatrix

about sex and chores and other big news

2010-09-01T19:28:00.001-05:00

He came home and took off his clothes and pressed against me.

I said, “What’s that?”, and he said,

“I’m reaching out to you.”

I said, “We can have sex if you wash the dishes after, while I wash my hair.” but he just kept searching my face with his lips.

And I dodged those lips and asked if he promised until he promised.

I came out the winner all-around.

We found a new apartment, ready in a few months around the same time we are. We’ve been faxing a lot of things, but cross your fingers that the prize for all the paperwork is a washer and dryer and some walls.

~beatrix

a snippet-- fill-in-the-blanks

2010-08-11T18:25:00.001-05:00

A few weeks ago, over a 3-hour ham(and chicken- and veggi-)burger dinner with Ted and my cousin and his wife:

“. . . at our wedding.”
“Wait, so when is your brother getting married?”
“The 25th.”
“What? Of July? Of this month?”
“Yeah. They got a package at a bed and breakfast for nine people.”
“Wow. I would never be able to do that.”
“Oh, no. At our wedding we had people we just had to invite. . . .”
“Did you know that Dunkin’ Donuts has ninety-nine cent iced tea now?”
“Did you just try to change the subject?”

I’ll let you figure out who said what.

~beatrix

i am so happy for you!

2010-08-02T20:51:00.002-05:00

My hobbies are cake, flowers, party dresses, etiquette, and paper products. And my job is full of fancy parties. I could pretend that I don’t love weddings, but no one would believe me.

And when I invited myself over to Harrington’s roof on Saturday night he said it would be perfect because I could give his wedding invite list (for a party 14 months away) a once over. . . and see YouTube videos of the cocktail-hour band. . . and see the photographer’s work.

And Cooper let me know he was proposing to his girl the next day.

And Prince Charming casually mentioned that he has been engaged for a month.

And that was going to be my blog post for today-- about how everyone is getting married and how it’s obviously a race and I’m losing and how I keep just accidentally Googling wedding dresses.

And then.

And then. . . .

Ted texted me to let me know that his brother. . . his little brother. . . is engaged. It happened last night.

And that’s it. If Simon calls to say he’s getting married, I will throw up.

~beatrix

two people in a studio is kinda nice, now that i think about it

2010-07-31T16:24:00.003-05:00

Ted’s out of town all weekend, and I have the house to myself for two nights and three days.

I can do whatever I want.

I can eat baguette with tomato and hard-boiled eggs and mayonnaise for dinner. . . again. . . without worrying that someone else will be tired of that. And I can eat almost an entire bag of chocolate cookies and watch that movie about childbirth that everyone else has seen. . . but not at the same time because Ricki Lake, naked in a bathtub, isn’t exactly appetizing. I can get up whenever I want and watch So You Think You Can Dance in fastforward and Father of the Bride and In Her Shoes (again) and drink coffee and call my mom from bed. I can braid my hair and unbraid my hair and braid my hair. . . until my arms are tired. I could even give in to my compulsion to cut hair. . . and I still might. I can Google diamonds and what kind of house we could buy if we moved where my parents live. I can leave magazines and bobby pins and chip clips and the remote in bed. I can take as long as I want to get dressed; I don’t have to get dressed until 5:30 if that’s what I want to do.

I guess there are trade-offs.

No one will turn off the lights when I fall asleep reading, and I’ll wake up at 4:38 with the lamp on. And no one will have park breakfast with me by the Peter Pan statue, and if I went alone, no one would protect me from the persistent squirrels. And I won’t have a dance party partner except for my reflection in the television. And I might even have to take the trash out myself.

~beatrix

p.s. i cut my hair. um, kind of a lot. i had my scissor privileges revoked regularly when i was a child.

wedding of the century

2010-07-29T21:21:00.002-05:00

Ted caught the bouquet. To keep if from hitting the floor, he says. With an outstretched arm and a measure of decisiveness, I say.

Maybe it was just a matter of perspective.

Boys can catch the bouquet, by the way, in Connecticut, where Grandmas can also marry their girlfriends in sweet ceremonies where the justice of the peace cries and the kids, grownups for all appearances, sneak rice from the restaurant kitchen in two coffee cups, to ensure a proper send-off.

We brought the cake and got in a fight in the car. We fight like my parents. That’s disturbing, but not altogether uncomfortable.

It feels familiar.

We made up after the party started. There were quick kisses and whispered apologies. It was a celebration of love, after all.

Then there was toasting and lunch and Ted clobbered his cousins so he could snatch that bouquet.

~beatrix

airlift

2010-07-28T22:12:00.003-05:00

"Are you really going to do this?"
"What else are boyfriends for?"

Sleep-faced and slow-talking, I wrapped my arms around his neck and let him cradle airlift me to bed.

I could wake up. And this could all be a dream.

~beatrix

extracurriculars

2010-07-11T22:07:00.002-05:00

“Wait. Doesn’t Ted care that you are out with me?”
“That would be hypocritical. And I’m with you. And. . . and we live in a studio. We’d go crazy if we didn’t leave once in a while.”

I had escaped with Pete into the well-air-conditioned world of an electronics showroom with comfortable sofas in Columbus Circle after a quick bite of Whole Foods sushi on what was not just the hottest day of the year, but the hottest day in six years. We were both sporting electric 3D glasses and settled in for a past-due chat about his recent write-up in a big publication and his current status with his (crazy) girlfriend and other Important Things.

“Well. . . No. . . . You wouldn’t worry about that.”
“About what?”
“You don’t worry about ending up with someone just because it’s there and you think you owe it to them.”
“I used to, but not anymore.”
“Right.”

The afternoon before was spent with John, who was in town for a few days and soon introduced to the oasis of the Temple of Dendur which, located inside the Met and with a view of the park, is the best place on the Upper East Side to spend an unrelentingly hot day.

Ted would have joined us, but let me go alone to catch up with an old friend when I decided that would probably be better. He went to the zoo and kept cool at the movies.

I love him and he knows. And I know that love is better when it’s more about trusting than about possessing. And we both know that you can’t keep love if you squeeze it too tight.

~beatrix

i haven't cleaned up the aftermath of the sink being fixed, so we are ordering in

2010-07-08T17:46:00.004-05:00

"What are you gonna get?"
"Vegetable biryani."
"Isn't that what you got last time?"
"Yeah."
"You love getting the same thing."
"Remember that time I got something new and it tasted like a bathroom air freshener?"

domesticity

2010-07-06T21:26:00.000-05:00

We had to change laundries because it seemed like the strange frilly knickers we were getting back might somehow correlate to my sudden shortage of underpants.

Our savings account earned three cents, but is seeming more real this months as it is now four digits.

We go for walks and watch Hell’s Kitchen.

And the sink is broken. It was draining slow, then not at all, then working again. And finally it began silently regurgitating filthy brown water. The super’s number, stored in my phone, usually a direct line to a crabby wife, is being answered by a woman named Susan. My landlord answered one email and has since been MIA.

The dirty dishes are piling up, but it’s too hot to cook anyway.

~beatrix

fatty

2010-07-05T09:26:00.000-05:00

My mom said, “Well that’s what happens when you have a boyfriend.”

I stepped on a scale at Bed, Bath, & Beyond. The number shocked me, and in the nanosecond of terror, my handbag and two bathmats ejected from my sides in an effort to get it under control. My first thought was, Why didn’t anyone tell me?

“Remember after Aunt Stacy married Mac and she woke up one morning and instead of getting on her treadmill, she thought, I don’t have to do this anymore, and she got back in bed?”

The scale was broken. I didn’t actually gain thirty pounds without noticing and with my clothes still fitting.

I’ve gained 7 pounds in the year-and-a-half I’ve known Ted, along with a general, all-over softness. I’m weighing in at a whopping 112 pounds, and I like to think I’ve earned my jiggle.

~beatrix

count 'em

2010-07-03T13:18:00.000-05:00

This makes six, I think. Not counting the implied intent of starry-eyed and slightly delusional boyfriends or bums.

There was one hand-written on three-lined paper, circa 1986. Three that one wild month junior year of college. One on an airport shuttle about five years ago.

“When are you getting married?”
“I don’t know. You’ll have to ask my boyfriend.”
“You can get married whenever you want.”
“Oh?”
“You want to get married, you let me know. You can get married whenever you want.”

One sesame bagel, toasted, with veggie cream cheese and a side of self-esteem, thanks.

~beatrix

this morning, it was easy

2010-06-22T21:17:00.001-05:00

“Love is a choice. You have to wake up every day and decide to do it.”

Hugo’s going through a breakup and waxing philosophical to his only ex who’s not still too angry to listen.

He’s right, though.

This week Ted and I chose to not fight about the electricity bill. We chose to watch a lot of t.v. on the couch. I chose to cook dinner; he chose to do some dishes. We chose to go for a walk, but it started raining, so we re-chose to watch more t.v.

~b

7 days out of 28

2010-06-21T17:00:00.002-05:00

I thought maybe if I just didn’t say anything he wouldn’t notice what time it was and I could just lie around on the couch and watch Definitely, Maybe and eat chocolate chips. It didn’t work.

And just as he was about to call for the car*, I decided to try to talk him out of it (between fistfuls of chocolate).

“It’s just so hot and I ate too much Indian food and we were away all last weekend and we’ll be gone this weekend and I’ll only know one person there and. . . I’m just so PMS-y. I just want to eat junk food and watch this movie and look at pictures of babies in costumes. I want to google pictures of puppies in baskets.”

So we didn’t go. And he cuddled up on the couch with me.

And yesterday while he was watching baseball with his dad, I looked up baby names on the Social Security website and wedding venues and pictures of the party in the 1954 version of Sabrina.

It is a good thing every week isn’t the blank pill week in the DialPac.

* We got a garage, and it makes even going to Bay Ridge sound like a fancy event.

~beatrix

back. and mostly the same

2010-06-18T20:51:00.001-05:00

“Oh, well, I keep in touch with her. She was in my wedding-- my first wedding. I was married before this. I dated Justin Hornell all through high school, you know, and then I met my first husband and we got married real quick. And then this. Are y’all married? Oh, well, we lived together first, too. And let me tell you -- if y’all ever do get married-- we got married and got pregnant in three months. It can happen. And I don’t know if you want to know this. . . but then, after I stopped breastfeeding my little girl, we got pregnant again like that. . . .”

I went to my ten year high school reunion. I must have known this Heather at some point, but by this point I was glad she went to get some food, because I did not need any more details. And I’m pretty sure you can’t get pregnant from getting married. . . pretty sure.

When we got there, I was greeted by the lunch table where I didn’t sit in high school. Everyone had the exact same haircuts.

*********

I’ve been away for a few weeks, and some things have changed. My boy moved in. We’ve fought, like twice, but I don’t really see any reason for this not to work out. Work got busy, then calm, because things are easy with me and Sam in charge. Ted and I went to this reunion and to see my parents. We travel well together as long as I stay away from coffee. Next weekend we’re going to the beach with Julianna and Ed.

At dinner a few nights ago, sitting at the little table we’ve borrowed from his parents, I told Ted that I knew how the movie of my life would start:

It opens with I am a Rock by Simon and Garfunkel playing. I’d walk out of the subway, coming home from work. I’d nod shyly to a doorman, wait for the light and cross the street, I’d get to my shabby building, and there’d be no mail when I checked. In my little apartment with no furniture, I’d change clothes and fluff my hair. Then the music would stop-- silence-- and the scene would cut to me sitting across two huge plates from and average looking guy in a trendy restaurant. I’d say something inappropriate.

“Then what?”
“That’s as far as I’ve gotten.”

So I guess things have changed. Three years ago I’d take weekends off Facebook because the engagements were overwhelming. Memorial Day Weekend, four of my Facebook friends had babies. (One was cute; three were not.) I live with a boy. Today I came home from work and baked cookies so he could take them to poker night with the guys. I’m sure that pretty soon he’s going to start closing the shower curtain after he’s taken a shower.

’Cause even though some never do, people can change.

~beatrix

for real though

2010-05-24T20:52:00.002-05:00

summer is my busy season, professionally and personally. and the boy is moving here saturday, and there's not really room for him yet. and i had two birthday parties saturday and a friend in town and worked all day sunday and my back hurts and. . . yeah. . . i'll be back. . . soon.

something to worry about

2010-05-13T20:02:00.002-05:00

i touch my computer, it breaks, stops responding, etc. ted turns it on, and it works. i guess there's a reason i keep him around. you can thank him for this lovely post about t.v. and my period.

~b

I mean. . . I probably shouldn’t be getting sex ed. information from Mad Men.

“That’s not a thing, right? I mean, that doesn’t mean you’re pregnant. I don’t think that’s a thing.”
“I don’t know. I’ve never been pregnant.”
“Well, that happened to me. . . and. . . I think that’s not a thing. It’s not a thing, right? Right?”
“I don’t want to tell you it’s not a thing if it is a thing.”

My cousin is two years older than me and has been trying to get pregnant for at least five years with no luck at all, only teary spells from the hormones. And what if I wasted my fertility on frat parties and hangovers and waking up in strange beds? And even worse, what if I had a baby? Where would I put it in my studio? In a suitcase? The top kitchen shelf I have to stand on a chair to reach? Or worse than worse, what if I’m not a cute mom with outfits, but one of those old ones with the saggy eyes??

It’s hard enough on regular days, thinking about it, even without Betty Draper with her perfect hair and her perfect skin and her perfect waist teaching us this lesson via Netflix.

So Ted Googled it. And of course it’s a thing because everything is a symptom of pregnancy. And when everything is a symptom, I have them all.

And that was something to worry about.

“What would we do?”
“I don’t know. It would make things harder, but I guess we’d deal with it. But let’s not worry about it until it’s a thing.”

I don’t know what I wanted him to say. (“Love it.”? That would be a little cliché and a little more insincere.)

In a book of short stories, I once read an interesting thought about how we spend our twenties trying not to get pregnant and our thirties trying to have babies. I wish I could remember the sentence, the author, the book. . . .

I worried ‘til I fell asleep, didn’t have to worry long after I woke up.

About that.

There’s always something to worry about.

~beatrix

important update

2010-05-02T22:54:00.002-05:00

i thought she was just being finicky-- but the spazziness and panic attacks just grew more frequent, and my computer finally flatlined on friday night. the boy says he's buying a new macbook soon, so now i really have an incentive to let him move in. posting might be spotty for a bit, but remember that i love you. or at least that i love that you love me.

in other news:

-i'm not too old for concerts, and i am an amazing dancer. and if the bass player for weezer is interested, i want to have your babies.

-free hugs tee shirts, etc. are stupid. if you are paying for your hugs, you are doing something wrong.

xoxo

beatrix

A Story about a Boy and a Girl, Who are Not Us (Obviously) : A Play in 2 Acts

2010-04-28T18:00:00.000-05:00

ACT I

Scene: Small, untidy, sparsely-furnished city studio apartment. Upstage, a closet spills laundry onto the floor. There is a small kitchenette with dishes stacked haphazardly. A discarded cookie bag sticks out of a trashcan. Stage right is a closed door that opens into an unseen hallway or stairwell. Stage left is an unmade bed and windows that filter in late-afternoon sunlight.

SHE stands, fussing with a back zipper in a non-descript sun dress. It catches, and she sighs. She pinches at the fat of her abdomen; there’s not much, but what is there seems to disgust her. She tries the zipper again, and it goes up. The dress fits. She tests the jiggliness of her arms, first by waving one, then my flexing it and stabbing at it with her finger. When she flexes, there is no jiggle. She poses and examines herself before unzipping the dress. The zipper catches again in the same place before going down, and she removes one arm.

There is the loud. sound of a key in the deadbolt, and SHE clutches the dress back to her chest. HE enters, dressed in work clothes, tie loosened and shirt partially untucked. There is a magazine, folded, in his back pocket.

SHE [dropping the dress to the floor, stands in panties, arms outstretched]: I’ll be ready soon, I promise. I hate all my clothes.

HE: You do not hate all your clothes. [He pats her thigh and kisses her on the temple.] Hi.

SHE: Hi. [She kisses him then slings the sundress away with her foot.] There are things here I’ve never even seen before. [She motions abstractly at the closet.] I’ve never seen them, but I hate them. [Holding up a blue halter-top.] Like this.

HE: Well, wear that.
SHE: It’s not true. I have seen that. [She flings the shirt away.] It has an unflattering neck-line.
HE: You like that blue cardigan and that orange shirt that’s kind of bohemian. You wear those a lot.
SHE: I wear them a lot, so I don’t like them.
HE: What about those new things? Those dresses and things. . . .
SHE: I hate those, too. That’s not true, but I don’t want to wear them today.

HE stretches out on the bed, looks at his phone, flips through the magazine. SHE contemplates the pile of laundry, then leans over and lifts an armful of it before dropping it again. She does this several times.

SHE: [whining] I hate it all.
HE: Did you eat anything?
SHE: Well. . . a snack. Some strawberries and some cheese and some of those chocolate cookies. [She glances quickly at the trash can toward HE before slumping over again, this time contemplating her naked belly.] Which I shouldn’t have done. I’m so fat.
HE: I am pretty sure you are not fat.
SHE: I am! I’m so fat.
HE: Hmm.
SHE: My stomach spills over my pants. And I have thunder thighs.
HE: Yeah. . . and birthing hips. . . .
SHE: [Standing up straight and looks at him, possibly for the first time.] What?
HE: Um. . . [He stands up and takes a few steps in her direction before stopping.]
SHE: Don’t say that! I’m sensitive about my hips. Do you really think I have wide hips?
HE: Um. . . Ah. . . .
SHE: Say I have the sort of hips that will require C-sections. Say my hips are too narrow to allow the passage of a baby’s head!
HE: That sounds. . . unhealthy.
SHE: Unhealthy is good! Unhealthy is pretty. Do you really think I have birthing hips?
HE: I don’t know. I mean, I don’t really pay attention to hips. I’d have to have a lineup of the spectrum of hips. . . .
SHE: Don’t say that! Say you love my hips, they’re prefect hips, they’re the only hips you like. How long do we have? I guess I’ll wear what I was already wearing today.

The lights dim as SHE takes a bra from the pile on the floor and puts it on.

ACT II

It is nighttime. HE and SHE are on a downtown corner. They are standing on the sidewalk in front of a graffiti-ed brick wall and a deli/bodega.

HE: What do you want to eat?
SHE: Well, obviously I want something big and bad for me, like spaghetti.
HE: I think I have pasta at home.
SHE: I don’t really want that. What about pizza? [She motions into the distance.]
HE: This might be the most unmanly thing I’ve ever said, but that might be a little heavy for me.
SHE: Oh. . . .
HE: What else?
SHE: I’m not really hungry. I’m kind of queasy.
HE: I know what that means. . . You need to eat.
SHE: [defensively] You do not know everything about me. . . .
HE: Maybe not, but I know enough, and I know this.
SHE: How about tacos?
HE: Done.

Holding hands, they exit stage left.

CURTAIN

~b

364 days

2010-04-27T18:00:00.000-05:00

“Congratulations!”
“Congratulations??”

We had falafel sandwiches in the same place where we first met each other. I made a mess, same as the first time. We call it our first date, start counting from that day, divide our lives into Before Falafel and After. I don’t know where we’d be if we hadn’t met each other.

“I’d probably still be trying to bang every girl on the Lower East Side.”
“And I’d probably be dating a banker.”
“But you wouldn’t be happy.”
“That is probably true.”

It wasn’t a glamorous day, just a really, really good one. They’re mostly good, lately.

~beatrix

an experiment in judaism

2010-04-26T18:00:00.000-05:00

Don’t tell him, but I could have cried at the silent prayer time, and it wasn’t because I felt at home or the presence of God, but the rabbi said pray about things you are thankful for and hopeful about and there were just so many things.

~beatrix

thoughts on the way to work

2010-04-25T10:18:00.001-05:00

“Remember when that pigeon was pecking that other pigeon?”
“Um. . . yeah. . . .”
“Well, first he was walking around on the dead pigeon then he started eating him. . . .”
“Yeah, that was pretty gross.”

************

I sidestepped a furry patch on the pavement. It was a rat, most likely, before an unfortunate moment-- minutes or hours ago-- in the street where Clinton meets Houston.

I heard a long, loud list of angry obscenities across Spring, but didn’t turn my head, concentrating on Jack Johnson’s and Cat Stevens’ brilliant scoring of my walk to work.

Last night I saw a naked man roller-skate onto a stage-- more of a circus ring, really-- and my first thought was just, If I’d ever taken time to try to imagine a naked man roller-skating, that, I think, is what it would have looked like. . . . the physics, at least, if not the mohawk.

I’m just a drop sometimes, part of an underground stream capable of running up stairs before spewing onto the dirty sidewalk, eyes down-cast in order to avoid dead rats and dog poop, but, when happening to glance up, desensitized to the postcard skyline.

I don’t get asked for directions as often as I used to, but when I do, I can usually give them.

I’m not a New Yorker, I want to shout at the tourists in ugly sneakers, the bums, the F train, the three-hundred-dollar tee shirts, myself. I’m just a little girl from Georgia: witness to shooting stars so bright they must have landed just on the other side of the azalea hedge, where we should probably check in the morning; possessor of black soles, unable to recall the last time she wore shoes; creator of potent perfumes, made with the finest combination of macerated petals, sticks, dirt, and plastic-hose-water; explorer of magnolias, with rooms, big like houses; beneficiary of the night-time lullaby of frogs and crickets and the occasional train whistle.

I could be a New Yorker, most days.

I can believe it until I hear the whine of a 4- or 5-year-old child, sharp and whining, demanding of a parent or nanny that they not walk, but take a cab to their destination.

It’s a voice you’ll hear again in 15 or 20 years. It will be walking in front of you, having an indiscreet mobile conversation about an ex-best-friend’s recently acquired STD or at the next table over, discussing a mother’s most recent rehab attempt and failure. It will sound angry, even when it’s not.

It’s a voice I feel sorry for, making me wonder, In a place with no dirt driveways, where do you learn to ride a bike?

~beatrix

nest

2010-04-19T21:21:00.000-05:00

I want to flip through books of paint chips. I want to sew long, straight curtain seams and hang botanical prints and photos we took on vacation. I want to reupholster.

I need a two-tiered, wire bin for onions and potatoes and a magnet strip to hold my knives. I need a bench for the foot of the bed and a four-story shoe rack and a shag rug. I need an immersion blender, a stand mixer, and a set of All-Clad (sans Teflon, please). . . a waffle iron, a mandoline. . . an assortment of Le Creuset (I haven’t decided on a color). . . .

I want to make tiny brioche buns for tiny hamburgers, so we’ll need a tiny barbeque grill on a tiny balcony, overlooking a tiny garden (if you don’t mind). I’ll need a big tray to serve them and several pretty pitchers for offering refills. And I will probably need a crinolined-dress and an apron that was never meant to get dirty. . . .

We went to Crate and Barrel. And maybe I’ve been watching too much Mad Men.

I wonder if this is what it feels like to nest. That’s a thing, right?

I got the most adorable little lidded casserole. It will be so perfect for baked dips and maybe pasta for two and this strawberry clafoutis recipe I’m dying to try.

Hesitant at first, Ted then spent the next twenty minutes deciding on high-ball glasses. And we got some tiny martini glasses, because, even though Ted insists that I never drink, I’m pretty sure I couldn’t have lived without them.

These are our first together-things, full of happiness and hope and potential.

Now we just need to buy some plants. . . and a muffin tin. . . and a new duvet. . . .

~beatrix

the chorus

2010-04-18T20:46:00.000-05:00

I keep wishing the blossoms back on the trees.

Wouldn’t it be nice if we were older, then we wouldn’t have to wait so long.

That Beach Boys’ song came on today at work. I don’t think Brian Wilson* ever sang about the excitement of maybe starting a savings account together. Or apprehension at the possibility of your boyfriend getting a really amazing job in Philadelphia. Or worrying that you’ll never get your place on 6th street or 9th street and that everyone in Philadelphia will hate you and that all the jobs will be in cubicles.

. . . Maybe we could liiiiiiiive together. . . Oh, wouldn’t it beee niiiiice. . .

Sam says it’s the ultimate goal.
“What is?”
“Two people, one bedroom.”

They don’t even mention the part where you have to clear out some of your stuff so your boyfriend’s stuff will have a spot . Or how nice it will be to have both of your wardrobes in a central location. Or how all the logistics will be easier and whoever gets home first can start dinner. . . .

The Beach Boys are old now-- like Beach Grandpas****. In the late autumns of their lives, they probably aren’t wishing to be older, but instead wishing friends back into lives, lovers back into beds, babies back into play-pens, hair back onto heads, blossoms back onto trees.

I just want to be here for a while.

*not to be confused with my lover, and anchor of the NBC Nightly News, Brian Williams**

**not to be confused with my boyfriend, and MSNBC personality, Carl Quintanina***

***I have a thing for newsmen

****Wouldn’t it be nice if they were older and could live together in the same assisted living community?

~beatrix

we're always ok

2010-04-17T08:10:00.001-05:00

“Hey!”
“What?!”

He didn’t hear me, so I went back into the bathroom.

“What?”

He was still shouting ’cause he was in the shower.

“When we move in together, I promise, that if I use your soap, I’ll put it back in the same place so you can find it.”
“Thanks. Maybe I should be promising that I won’t move your soap?”
“How many minutes do I have?”
“Zero. Zero minutes. I’m hungry.”
“Well, you can have some cereal.”
“Can I put it in a bag?”
“Yes. You are like a baby in the park.”

“Except then it would be Cheerios.” We said that part together.

I never worry about what would happen if this didn’t work out. I worry about not worrying about what would happen if this didn’t work out, but that is different, I think.

Maybe I should worry. Do you think you get points for trying not to cry?

’Cause I tried last night, but I was just so hungry and so tired and my feet hurt. And when he walked away in front of me, I thought about David and how wrong something can be even when you think it’s pretty ok.

I tried.

“Hey hey hey. Come here come here come here. I love you.”

I think there is nothing wrong with this. Nothing that a hug and a sandwich won’t fix.

~beatrix

this easter. . .

2010-04-12T16:37:00.001-05:00

We ate matzo for breakfast then went to church-- mostly to see my cousins.

I helped him find the verses in the Bible, then prayed that the pastor wouldn’t say anything embarrassing. God doesn’t answer every prayer.

It’s Easter, but sushi is half-price every Sunday.

~b

when all else fails. . . .

2010-04-11T07:43:00.002-05:00

When the weather changes in New York City, there are days when you remember that there are children in your neighborhood, and there are days when you realize that there are a lot of dogs here. Then there are days when you wonder if everyone has a really pretentious camera.

The sun was shining and the sky was blue, which made the chill seem even crueler.

“You sent her a plant?”
“Yeah. I didn’t know what to do.”
“So you sent her an anonymous break-up plant? . . . What kind of plant was it?”
“You know. . . a nice plant.”

Pete and Pamela broke up, which was, unfortunately, a relief. Obviously, I’d be on his side no matter what, but I’m pretty sure Pamela wasn’t really a nice girl.

“I’m pretty sure it shouldn’t be that hard. . . . Hey, you want something to cheer you up?”

There was the cutest baby bulldog ever in Madison Square Park. Not just the cutest baby bulldog, the cutest dog, the cutest animal, the cutest thing I have ever seen.

“So when are you getting married?”
“I don’t know. You want to come?”

~beatrix

this might take some getting used to AND i'm not sure i'm willing to claim the napkin holder just yet

2010-04-09T16:25:00.001-05:00

“I’m pretty sure you’re my person. I decided.”
“Yeah. . . I hope so. . . . Otherwise I’m not going to let you move in to my apartment.”

***********

At brunch, he was listening to me talk talk talk about what I might buy at Crate and Barrel with the coupon I have.

“And I need a sugar canister. My sugar keeps getting wet, somehow. But I want a fun one.”
“Like one that’s a frog?”
“Why would I want one that’s a frog?”
“To match our napkin holder.”
“Oh. . . . That sounds so funny, ‘Our napkin holder’.”
“I know. I was just trying it out.”

~beatrix

the most beautiful day

2010-04-07T16:46:00.001-05:00

I guess it was only about a week ago that my boss quit. Well, he quit on Friday and then got fired on Monday. That. . . doesn’t even make sense anywhere else.

I’m starting to feel like myself again.

Turns out I like myself.

And I told my mom about Ted moving in. That felt good.

And I’m glad he’s moving in. It feels good to think about a future with someone without panicking at the direness of it all.

I love him and I love every street I’m walking down, but I love that one in particular. Maybe we can move there next.

I love my hypothetical apartment on 6th street. It has a garden.

And I love New York. I walked through Thompson Square Park by myself, and all the aggressive homeless men have been replaced by laughing children and well-behaved dogs. And the sun is at the most perfect angle to reflect off the windows and on the other side the daffodils are blooming. When did this even happen? Maybe I should take a picture.

But when I look back at where I came from, the shadows aren’t as nice. I’ll just remember.

We have dinner plans with friends. Oh, and I got a raise today.

I like where this is going.

~beatrix

rumors

2010-04-06T17:22:00.000-05:00

“I heard a rumor that you and Ted might be moving in together.”

I was on the train out of the city with Ted’s cousin when I realized that the only thing more exhausting than a family might be two families.

We went to Princeton for his family’s Seder, and after the meal I could hear Ted’s dad from the other end of the table. Palms flat on the table, he was explaining to Ted’s old cousins:

“Well, Ted’s lease is up in June, but Beatrix’s isn’t up until the end of the year. . . .”

So, you know, I guess it was a thing. A thing about which my parents should probably be informed.

My mom had a hard time explaining how she felt. Which I understood:

“You sound exactly like we do when we talk about it.”

She told me:

“I think it will be fine. I think it makes sense for you.”

I never expected glowing excitement over the living-in-sin thing. So, I’ll take it.

~beatrix

movies are not real life

2010-04-05T19:14:00.002-05:00

WARNING: Don’t watch Away We Go with your boyfriend unless you want to spend the rest of the weekend talking about if you are in the right place and where you should live and what it will be like to have babies together.

DISCLAIMER: It might be time for you to talk about these things even if you don’t watch the movie.

ADVICE: Watch the movie, because it is good. And the New York Times has a list of things to talk about before you get married, if you find you might need one of those.

WARNING: Number 9 might be really hard.

DISCLAIMER: If Number 9 is so hard, you should probably be trying to figure it out anyway.

ADVICE: Take a deep breath. Relax. Enjoy this part. And order in.

~beatrix

once upon a time

2010-04-02T16:46:00.000-05:00

I met up with Fred who was in town to visit Mateo who I never see even though he lives 4 blocks from Ted. Mateo got married, I remembered, recently. And his wife was there, too.

And I wondered, like I always do, why things are so awkward between me and Mateo.

Then I remembered, like I usually do. There was that time we were all hanging out and drunk and getting asked politely to please go home so they could close the bar and we all said we should go watch belly dancing soon. And then Mateo called to ask if I wanted to go watch flamenco dancing at that same restaurant, and when I asked him who was coming, he said Paul and some people. But he showed up alone in Fred’s borrowed car and he paid and it was supposed to be a date.

So I pretended I was busy for a while then dated his room mate.

Ten million years ago. So easy to forget. I bet his wife doesn’t know that story.

~beatrix

how's it gonna be

2010-03-31T18:45:00.000-05:00

“I feel better.” Even though it was just a sip of coffee.

“I have got to remember to feed you when you get crabby.”

***********

I am hot and ironing his work clothes on Saturday afternoon and he farts and laughs.

I think, Is this how it’s going to be?

He says he loves my face and puts his arms around me from behind and I stop ironing because these pants are at least better than they were before.

Is this how it’s going to be?

don't look back

2010-03-29T18:25:00.001-05:00

We said we’d have a berry farm in the mountains.

We would have had kids who ran around with too-long hair and never any shoes. They’d be olive like him and good swimmers. We’d have nights on porches with all the stars we ever wanted and sunshine mornings with wildflowers and sweet potato pancakes.

He answered the phone, “Hee-ey there, pretty girl.” I learned that Eagle Scouts aren’t always prepared.

It was one month, and beautiful the way something can be when it is purely hypothetical-- like communism and vegan baked goods.

We both cried, sitting on the trunk of his Blazer with the rusty top. Nine days, I’d begged. Let’s just have these last nine days.

We graduated. We never said I love you. When my brother met a whole bunch of my exes at a single graduation party, he said he didn’t like Fred. He asked if I thought Hugo would help me move.

Fred’s an accountant now. He has tidy hair and shirts with buttons and proper shoes and no piercings.

“How long have you been waiting for me to do that?” There was that sweaty weekend and that night in that hotel. Even when Eagle Scouts grow up to be accountants, they aren’t always prepared.

He doesn’t answer his phone the same way anymore, which probably makes sense. I’d forgotten about the mole on his right cheek.

Fred’s a pile of what-if. What if we’d figured it out sooner. What if I hadn’t moved when I’d graduated. What if he’d gotten this job instead of that one.

What if he’d ever fought for it.

~beatrix

p.s. i hope you click the link and remember how this used to be a dating blog.
~b

being angry makes me tired OR word salad

2010-03-24T20:07:00.001-05:00

I feel like a vegetable. I could be a carrot or a head of cabbage, if carrots and heads of cabbage were capable of a blood-boiling rage induced by subway performers.

I am broccoli. I have no face.

I want to move like acorn squash.

I could be jicama if a jicama pushed her smiling boyfriend away on Saturday morning (normally jicama’s favorite part of the week), rolled over, fell asleep for two more hours, then pretended to sleep for an hour more, all the while wishing he’d smile while he brought her some cereal.

I’m a potato.

~beatrix

bumps in the road

2010-03-22T20:49:00.000-05:00

“We are walking so leisurely.”
“I’m just. . . tired.”

Things had degenerated rapidly, and Sam looked like I felt: bedraggled, exhausted, confused, caught-in-headlights-then-hit-by-a-bus.

What if we just never went back to that job ever again?

“Too bad I’m not pregnant,” Sam said.

That would be some trick of science, and he’d have to buy all new clothes.

But when we sat down on a SoHo stoop, everyone who didn’t have a stroller had a convex bellybutton straining at their knitwear.

Does it say something about your job when cleaning up poop is starting to sound more pleasant?

the synopsis:

2010-03-21T20:08:00.000-05:00

One meal blended into the next and we ate until we couldn’t eat any more, then we had dessert.

I came from early-morning shopping with my mom to find my brother and Ted at a breakfast table covered with cereal boxes, laptops, and newspaper, laughing and watching ESPN. I decided we might be on to something.

My dad took us for a drive, we stopped at a sporting goods store, and while Ted and I looked at elliptical machines, my dad bought a shotgun. Seriously. A shotgun.

Welcome home.

~b

maybe because it's easier to imagine bad things than good ones

2010-03-20T19:35:00.002-05:00

I gripped his wrist. I had a vision: wind ripping a wing off, the plane falling out of the sky in the tight spiral of a pinecone seed. We were hours late, and the ride was too bumpy for anyone to even bring us drinks.

I should have been terrified.

We were going to visit my family. Ted was going to meet my dad and my brother for the first time.

It might already be springtime there.

At Christmas my brother and I get out of bed while it is still dark and go climb in our parents’ bed to wake them up. We have three-hour breakfasts that sometimes include performances and end with clean-up dance parties. Clockwise, we sit: dad, sister, mom, brother. Unless we are in the car: dad, mom, brother, sister. We’ve spent decades just the four of us, and in this system of inside jokes and assigned seats, I’ve never been able to imagine how someone new will fit.

I should be terrified. I should be at least anxious.

“Remind me not to let you drink coffee at the airport,” he’d told me when I just could not stop talking.

But I was excited and I am excited and I’m pretty sure everything will be fine as long as this plane can land wheels first.

~beatrix

it seemed like a plan

2010-03-18T21:55:00.000-05:00

When I got what was presumably a work-related text that was hurtful and quietly accusatory and passive-aggressive and, worst of all, completely predictable, I was very upset and fat tears fell and I didn’t even have time to stop the words:

“Can I just quit my job and have babies??”

And I’m pretty sure he said that would be just fine.

I’m, like, 80% sure that’s what he said.

~beatrix

sob story

2010-03-17T17:00:00.000-05:00

The thing is. . . I don’t mind so much when he turns away from me in his sleep. It’s a new sensation-- not feeling neglect or anger or why-doesn’t-anyone-ever-love-me when I wake up to face a back. But this. . . this feels. . . good.

I used to think maybe I’d never be able to make something like this work. The more I liked a boy, the crazier I’d act, and the faster it would blow up in my face. I just wanted to find a boy who made me a person I liked.

It turns out crazy-girl is sort of my natural state of being, but maybe that’s not the worst way to be.

I’m not a pretty crier. My skin gets even paler and contrasts my black eyebrows and soggy eyelashes; the white parts of my eyes turn red which makes the irises look sickly light; and this night my nose was pink and my eyelids were swelling closed because this had been going on for hours.

I was having a tough day/week/life, you know? But I was also just being a brat.

“You’ll have to try harder than this,” he said, all matter-of-fact, “if you want me to run away.”

~beatrix

general update

2010-03-13T22:41:00.001-06:00

For those of you interested, I bought an entire bunch of asparagus this week. And also a copy of Martha Stewart Weddings, but that was for work-related research.

~beatrix

so. . . sorry. esp. about that salad dressing

2010-03-11T17:01:00.002-06:00

I’m sorry I

-Cried when I had to walk to work in the snow
-Took an hour and half to get dressed because I was angry at my wardrobe
-Insisted that I had a staph infection on my face even though it was obviously just a pimple
-Fed you a vinaigrette I made with expired mustard
-Told you the mustard was expired but didn’t tell you it was expired by more than a year and a half
-Wasn’t fun at that birthday party and am so old that the sounds in clubs give me headaches
-Apologize, even at inappropriate times.

~beatrix

advice

2010-03-10T16:09:00.000-06:00

Sam says, “Aww.” when I mention it to him.

Logan and Laurie say whatever I do don’t do it.

Jules says people kept telling her that the first year would be the hardest, but that moving in with Ed was the easiest thing ever.

My brother says my parents might not mind as much as I think they will.

And Ted’s mom says that if it turns out having too little space and not enough walls is an issue, he can move back with her and his dad until we can get a place with doors.

We have a month to decide.

~beatrix

it's hard to be a girl OR yes, i do always talk to myself in the second person

2010-03-09T16:53:00.002-06:00

“I feel fat.”
“You aren’t fat.”
“But I feel fat. I wish I wasn’t wearing pants.”
“You can’t weigh 107 pounds and be fat.”
“Yes you can. Look.”
“Ok. You look a little fat.”
“I’m hungry.”
“You aren’t hungry.”
“No really. My stomach is growling.”
“It’s only 9:35.”
“But I’m hungry.”
“It doesn’t matter. You’re too fat to eat.”
“What if I’m pregnant?”
“You aren’t pregnant.”
“How do you know?”
“I just know. And the pill works.”
“Not always.”
“It’s only Monday. And you usually start on Tuesday. Or Wednesday or Thursday.”
“So I could be pregnant.”
“Yes.”
“So I can have a snack.”
“Fine.”
“So if I’m pregnant. . . .”
“It would be born in November.”
“January would have been more convenient.”
“Well, none of this is convenient.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m not pregnant.”
“Right.”
“What if I can’t get pregnant?!”
“Can’t you think about something else?”
“Like what?”
“How about weddings?”
“Weddings!”
“Was that it?”
“Yeah.”
“Well what are you going to think about now?”
“How about brownies?”
“Mmmm. Ok. Brownies.”
“Hey look. I’m not pregnant.”
“That’s good.”
“Well, I knew I wasn’t pregnant.”
“Right.”
“I feel like there was something else on the list.”
“Fruit? Vegetables?”
“Cheese.”
“Cheese was definitely not on the list.”
“Brie. It’s on the list now.”
“Your basket is embarrassing.”
“I’m going to have brie for an appetizer and brownies for dessert.”
“You can’t have brie for an appetizer and brownies for dessert.”
“Then I’m going to have brie for dinner and brownies for dessert.”
“I think you might regret this decision.”
“I feel fat.”

~beatrix (& beatrix)

a big thing, but not with capital letters

2010-03-08T16:34:00.001-06:00

My dad was slightly concerned that we were coming to visit because of a Big Thing.

But my mom assured him that the two of us had cooked up this plan and Ted didn’t even know anything about it yet.

We-- my mom and I-- decided it was time, and I told Ted to free up a weekend. He’s going to Georgia.

I realized later that I’d sprung it on him rather suddenly, but I’m too excited to care. And anyway, he deserves it.

~beatrix

scheduling conflicts

2010-03-06T16:40:00.001-06:00

I might have spent a good part of the day doing math, and finally asked, before he fell asleep.

“That crazy thing you said today in the car. . . . Did you mean by the time you are thirty? Or while you are thirty?”

“If I said while I’m thirty, would you feel better?”

“Yes.”

When he said that thing in the car, my first thought was “Impossible”. “At least half joking,” he’d tempered it. He’ll have the birthday in three and a half years, almost to the day. He’s right. It’s not impossible.

“I’ve just always thought my parents were 30, and I turned out fine,” he told me in bed, “And, you know, your parents were younger, and you turned out fine. It just seems like 30 would be a good time to at least think about it.”

I am glad I was so sleepy. Sleepy enough to let go of the numbers, the adding and subtracting, enough to worry about it later, enough to fall asleep in that cozy spot between his bony shoulders and his rib cage, between excited and terrified.

~beatrix

as far as i can tell, the good kind of what ifs

2010-03-05T17:05:00.000-06:00

Maybe what I mean when we talk about the finances of it all and buying furniture and the groceries and if it will matter for seven months if there is no wall and how maybe a garage will be necessary because parking uptown is a nuisance. . . is that if I buy an immersion blender or a sofa I want it to be ours and not mine. . . and that I don’t really want to be your room mate, exactly. . . . Maybe I wouldn’t mind if our lives got jumbled up along with our things. . . . Maybe what I mean is that I might like to build my life with yours.

~beatrix

the bad kind of what-ifs

2010-03-03T17:37:00.000-06:00

Ted has a lifetime of acquaintances in this city, and I think he’s better at looking up when he walks than I am. And being with him makes the East Village feel like an actual neighborhood. We run into people.

Ted asked if he was going our way, and the answer told everything without a detail. ’Cause if he’s going uptown, he’s not going to the girl whose name, with his, has become such an easy pair.

His skin was transparent, his face bonier than I remembered. Jumpy, unfocused, he has the wide, empty eyes of a stray dog who distrusts human contact as much as he craves it.

He’s going uptown, and I forgot the M is even a train. Walking away, I wished I’d given him a more honest hug, and I wished I’d given him the trail mix out of my bag. I don’t know if he’s going home, but he’s going somewhere to sleep, and Queens is a long way from here.

My boy and I laughed at the intersection of 2nd and A where he always falls in that shallow hole.

But I’ve looked out hollow ghost-eyes, eyes that never want to close, but don’t want to see anything either. I’ve stopped eating, tried to start over from the inside out. I’ve developed a quiver in my hands, my jaw, my gut I was sure was visible from the outside. I’ve been not just not my self, but not anyone.

When he pulls his shirt off over his head, he blocks the overhead light from my face. If this were a metaphor, he would be the moon in this solar eclipse and he’d control my tides. That’s a little sweet, but mostly gross. And anyway, no matter how much the earth stretches for the moon, she’ll never touch him.

And I just can’t get close enough.

I lie my head in the crook of his arm, run my fingers up and down his chest. But what I really want to do is pound it:

Never do that to me. Never do that to me. Never, ever do that to me.

~beatrix

prove it

2010-03-02T16:38:00.001-06:00

I’m sure my kindergarten teacher wouldn’t be surprised. I would spend the entire morning copying our handwriting assignment until each letter was perfectly formed and there were near-holes from all the erasing. Most adults can’t draw the way I could when I was nine, but the only evidence comes in snippets, usually about four square inches, of still lifes that were much larger.

I’m an anxious person.

I’m getting better at buying produce. A bruise, a spot, and funny color-- I have to fight a strong inclination to put it back and keep looking (and looking and looking and looking). I’ve given up completely at buying greeting cards.

With so many options and so little time, how do you ever know you’ve chosen the best one?

And I’m staring at the ceiling. Wishing wishing wishing you’d just prove to me that I can stop looking.

~beatrix

the plus side

2010-02-28T13:48:00.000-06:00

Maybe I’m just a glass-half-full kind of girl.

When I was single, I thought it was great that I could come home at any time of night or sleep wherever I happened to be when I got tired or get in bed at 8:45. I could find someone to buy me dinner or I could eat an entire pizza and pretend it never happened. Most days I thought I was happy.

But this is better.

I like his comfy chest and long tangly arms in my bed. I’d rather share blintzes with him or spit a sandwich in front of the t.v. I’m pretty sure I am happy.

And it doesn’t hurt that I don’t have to worry about Simon’s message that he’ll be in town Valentine’s day weekend or Tal’s text to see if I’m happy or accidentally telling Jeffrey I love him.

I’m sure dating was fun, I just can’t exactly remember why.

~beatrix

today, i will forgive it for not being spring yet.

2010-02-26T18:33:00.002-06:00

i would write something for you today, but in case you haven't seen the news, it snowed a lot today. and it was the biggest, puffiest, most beautiful thing i have ever seen and i was late for work because i kept playing in it and just stopping to throw it in the air. i really considered skipping work to make a snowman, but then remembered how responsible i am.

if i wrote something for you, it would be full of revelations like "if you open your mouth, it snows in your mouth!" and "look! the snowflakes look like snowflakes!"

in case you forgot, i'm from a warm place.

~beatrix

mix-up

2010-02-22T19:13:00.000-06:00

I thought it was so sweet that my uncle texted to tell me Happy Valentine’s Day.

He’s the most fabulous uncle ever, always ready with words of wisdom like, “Oh, dahlin, it is always easier to ask for forgiveness than for permission.” or “Never, never stand next to Little Richard. I still haven’t gotten his makeup out of my new white linen shirt.”

So I texted back to say I miss him and I love him and that I hoped he was having a happy Valentine’s Day, too.

“Do you know who this is?”

Strange. Until I realized that the first message was not from Uncle Jeffrey, but from just Jeffrey.

Crap. Just Jeffrey who orbited for a while three years ago, before I moved. Who more recently sent a text declaring that he regretted never asking me out when he had a chance. Who invariably uses too many exclamation points and is needy and desperate and likes Thomas Kincaid.

Who I never should have answered. Who I never should have accidentally told I love.

So I did what anyone would have done: I finished my snack, ignored texts for the rest of the afternoon, made out with my boyfriend, and wished my uncle a very happy Valentine’s Day.

~beatrix

there are some things, like rollercoasters, that are fun and not fun at the same time

2010-02-21T15:49:00.003-06:00

The thought is that if he moves into my studio when his lease is up, we’ll save a ton of money. Then we can go on vacation.

And we’d rather see each other every night anyway.

It’s just a thought. It seemed like a great idea.

I didn’t know why butterflies had taken up residence in my abdomen today. At 10:15 pm, I made the connection.

I might throw up.

~beatrix

it makes my last post seem a little less crazy. . . a little

2010-02-19T18:20:00.001-06:00

I had turned my back to the boys, and beer was running down my chin. Two-thirds of the way in, I gasped for air before beginning again.

College was worth it like never before, and those sorority dues were paying off.

Ted had assured me I didn’t have to do this if I thought it would end badly, but it was going great, and I could hear them getting excited.

Ted’s friend I’d only just met declared, “If she’s pulls this off, you’ve got to marry her.”

And Ted’s brother claimed, “That is my future sister-in-law.”

I turned around as triumphantly as is possible when you are wiping beer from your face with the back of your hand, and raised the empty pitcher.

Those boys were easily impressed. There was only a glass and a half of beer in that pitcher, maximum. And once you say you can do something, you kind of have to do it.

“That’s my girlfriend,” Ted put his arm around my waist. No one ever said he fell in love with me ’cause I’m so classy.

Later I was standing on the sidewalk waiting for people who were still inside, a course your night tends to take when you’ve been drinking beer out of pitchers.

I don’t know how Ted’s brother’s thought began, but it ended, “. . . when you get married. Or maybe I’ll be in the wedding. . . ,” with a characteristic raised palm and shifted chin that means question mark.

“Of course you’ll be in the wedding,” Ted told him.

I told Ted I only want three bridesmaids, and he said he could probably narrow his people down to three.

“Oh, and my brother,” I added.
“But will he go on your side or my side?”
“My side.”

And then Ted told his brother’s friend he could be an usher.

~beatrix

maybe you should ask him

2010-02-18T18:18:00.001-06:00

My exes have started asking if I’m going to marry Ted.

When I asked Cooper for his address so I could send him a Christmas card, he asked if it was for a wedding invitation.

David asked. He said he thinks I’ll have a fun wedding, and it will be “so great” to see me as a bride. He’ll have to facebook stalk to see pictures, ’cause he won’t be invited.

Hugo asked, too. He says he’s going to dance with me and hang out with my brother. My baby cousins will be excited to see him.

And I might have told Hugo he can be an usher.

~beatrix

wealth management

2010-02-17T19:28:00.001-06:00

Sometimes I panic, not because it doesn’t feel right, just because it doesn’t feel real.

**********

He was driving down the West Side, and we were stopped at a light.

“People don’t understand sometimes. Being single is just. . . .”

“Exhausting,” we said it together.

Sometimes having a blog puts one in an interesting position to reflect. A quick scan reveals that I have written about relationships, however distant, brief, or insignificant, with no fewer than 41 boys. Stories from a kindergarten proposal to everyday adventures with the boy I woke up with this morning.

No wonder I was tired.

For a while I thought I was lucky, and maybe I am. But maybe I just deserve this.

I’ve worked hard.

There’s a Bright Eyes song that says

With these things there’s no telling, you just have to wait and see.
But I’d rather be working for a paycheck than waiting to win the lottery.

I think it’s a love song.

I always thought I’d just keep pressing my luck, but it turns out that even if you hit the jackpot, you still have to manage your investments.

~beatrix

insight, brought to you by the boys in my life

2010-02-16T17:08:00.001-06:00

Sam told me he’d invite my boyfriend to the Google calendar that tracks my phase of the moon. I politely declined on Ted’s behalf.

Now Ted has responded to a gchat message from Sam on my computer and they are talking and even though I said they cannot gang up on me they have.

S: Did she tell you how much cake we ate today?
T: How much? She only told me about some cheese.

T: I’m getting a lecture on the value of whining. Evidently it gets things accomplished. I should practice.
S: Haha. Earlier today she said, “[This intern] is so bossy! I mean, I know I’m bossy, too, but on me it’s a positive quality, on her it’s just annoying!”

~beatrix

emergency contact

2010-02-15T18:27:00.001-06:00

Now well aware of bad things that can happen to you in doctors’ offices (even eye doctors’s offices), I was filling out a stack of paperwork and trying to remember if any of my grandparents have glaucoma and decide if having my wisdom teeth out counts as surgery when it asked for an emergency contact.

Out of habit I put my mom. She is dependable and I know her phone number by heart, but it seems silly because she lives too far away to be of any help in a real emergency.

I almost put Ted. Almost.

~beatrix

we went to a wedding-- epilogue

2010-02-13T19:34:00.000-06:00

And afterward, with my dress and coat and shoes all over his bedroom and my hair back in its ponytail and my feet tucked under him, we were very full and very tired and it was very late. I don’t know if it mattered that we’d just seen friends get married. But our words were soft and heavy and trapped in under the covers, and we talked about prayers and love and believing, because it might matter. One day.

~beatrix

we went to a wedding-- part 2

2010-02-10T20:31:00.001-06:00

“It’s like we’re dead!”

I guess I got excited and said that out loud before I thought about how it might sound to his high school friend and her boring banker boyfriend.

But on the roof, city behind us, looking through a skylight, at this particularly angled view of the dance floor inside. . .

“Ha. Yeah,” I should have known my boy would get it. And he tries to explain it to their wrinkled foreheads and gaping lips. He’s unsuccessful, but I’m thankful he saved me from having to try.

We point them in the direction of the spot we found to have a Moment before we head back inside.

It’s still winter, after all.

~beatrix

we went to a wedding-- part 1

2010-02-09T20:00:00.000-06:00

We spin and flail and laugh. We raise fists and shake heads and hips. I squeal and he throws his arms around my waist before we are back to spinning and flailing and twirling into people and maybe a wall or two.

We are very accomplished dancers, though limited mostly our personal kitchen dance parties. We probably would have looked ridiculous if weddings didn’t give everyone else an excuse to shimmy and thrash and strut about like lunatics.

I love dancing with him-- at home or here or maybe anywhere.

There was a slideshow. And the bride and groom seemed to have recorded every tiny milestone since the moment they met.

I forgot to bring my camera.

“See? Normal people take pictures,” I told Ted over my shoulder.

There’s stunningly little photographic evidence of our relationship. A glance at facebook would lead you to believe that if I do, in fact, have a boyfriend, he’s a 6’5 Indian fellow.

Spinning, spinning, spinning, I know he’s real. But it might not be a bad idea to have some proof.

~beatrix

because i'm your people, and i think you might be mine

2010-02-08T17:45:00.001-06:00

I’m sorry to be a little happy when you are so upset.
It’s just because
you are managing to put in words how I’ve felt my whole life.
And I’m pretty sure. . .
you will be fine
and we will be fine
and I will be fine,
someday,
when I don’t have to explain what’s the matter.

~beatrix

when you know

2010-02-07T14:45:00.000-06:00

Julianna’s parents knew they were going to be together two weeks after they met. Her mom was seventeen, her dad only slightly older. They know they are lucky.

Ted’s parents dated for six weeks, were engaged for six months, and have been married for more than thirty years.

Jules and I realized that virtually all our friends have still-married parents.

My own parents have the opposite of a love-at-first-sight story. They met at school when they were five; my mom says my dad didn’t invite her to his birthday party. They went to school together and had a lot of the same friends and ran into each other in the parking lot at Disney World when they were twelve. My dad went on FFA trips with my mom’s brothers; my mom dated all my dad’s friends.

When my dad asked my mom to marry him in the driveway of her parents’ house, no one inside cared because the United States had just beat the USSR at hockey. And they already knew what it had taken my mom and dad fifteen years to figure out.

~beatrix

somewhere between here and there

2010-02-05T16:42:00.000-06:00

When Jules and I went to see Evie, we had to stop in at a first birthday party. It was swarming with babies, which I guess is what happens when a one-year-old makes the guest list.

You couldn’t step or sit down without checking to make sure there wasn’t a little person in the way, and all the grownups who hadn’t brought their own baby seemed to be working on it for next time.

The cupcakes were pretty good. Jules had spent the weekend talking herself out of getting a puppy because it would be too hard and was concentrating on the hors d’oeuvres. Evie was holding a two-week old infant while balancing an 18-month-old on her knee and still having a grown-up conversation. And I was trying to have a grown-up conversation with a two-year-old while being torn between needing one of these for my very own and never ever wanting this to happen to my life.

On the way home from Christmas at my grandma’s my brother and I were talking about how awful our baby cousins are.

“I think I could be ready for a little niece or nephew, though,” he said, looking at me.

“Well,” I glared back, “I think I could be ready for a niece or nephew, too.”

Neither of us would budge, so we decided the best course of action would to have our parents to adopt someone with a (well-behaved) kid.

~beatrix

birthday run on

2010-02-03T19:10:00.001-06:00

On my calendar birthday, Ted had to work. So I had early-bird dinner and ice cream with Pete at Chelsea Market. And my cousins around the corner made me cupcakes.

Simon called, not just to tell me happy birthday, of course, but to say he was in town. He said he’d let me know what he was up to later, but his never calling back meant I didn’t have to come up with any excuses not to see him. (Though he does have keys to my apartment I should give to my cousins around the corner.)

The next day I got to celebrate with my boy. We went to a crepe place that looks like a house but is in the city and we ate a lot of cheese and he gave me an eight-inch Henckels Professional S Chef’s knife, which might prove that he knows me better than any boy I’ve ever dated before (to whom I would like to say, yes, I really did want a lamp for Christmas).

And while we were dancing on the subway platform, I looked at my phone and had a message from that boy, the one I went to the movies with.

The movies were fine, except for the part where I mentioned “Ted and his brother and his girlfriend.”

“I thought you were his girlfriend.”
“His brother’s girlfriend.”

And the text said: Do you want to go to Lima with me in February?

And I ignored it and went home with Ted to watch tv and cuddle and warm up cookies in the oven and eat his ice cream.

Isn’t the best birthday present of all only having to deal with one boy’s crazy?

~beatrix

going somewhere

2010-02-02T18:52:00.003-06:00

Do you know that I met him more than eleven months ago, in words if not in person? Eleven is almost twelve. And twelve is important, probably.

He wrote that haiku about the subway that I thought I understood. And I never even asked him what it was about.

It was cold the first time I saw him, even though I wasn’t wearing a coat. There was promise of spring, but it was winter. Like it is winter now. We’ve almost been around the seasons together. Almost.

Ten months almost. Ten is a lot, too.

He knows what foods to bring over when I’m sick, even though he doesn’t know if I like pulp in my orange juice. He knows I’d almost always rather walk a few blocks than have to transfer trains. And he knows how to make me laugh and what’s my normal morning bagel and how I like to fall asleep.

I’m the one who hears the funny things he calls out in his sleep. “Lonely float.” “Adidas.”

I know that the graphite-dot-tattoo on his palm is from being stabbed by a boy named Christopher in kindergarten. I know that there’s an oddly-appropriate freckle constellation of a grocery cart on the back of one of his calves. I can predict the order he’ll eat the things on his plate, and I know when it’s time to stop the movie by the weight of his arm.

I realized when I was falling asleep that I don’t know his shoe size. Or his favorite color. And I never know which side of the bed he’s going to want.

He’ll stop himself from asking me if we can try all the city’s beergardens this summer because it’s too much future, then he’ll ask me if we can send our kids to French immersion school, then he’ll ask me if we can go for bubble tea even though I hate both tea and anything that feels like a tadpole in my mouth. I’m almost always down for the walk to Chinatown, though.

I know there were girls before me, and I hate them. But not too much. I was no saint either. (It’s a funny thing to say, because I’m pretty sure there were some slutty saints.)

I hate that he had a life before me, but I’m glad we didn’t know each other sooner, ’cause we both know we would’ve screwed it up.

And all those other girls I’ll never want to count, I’m glad they broke him in. Broke him in without breaking him.

~beatrix

the blog has not only been around, but has been around with stuff on it for a whole year. thanks guys.
~b

practically live blogging the flu

2010-01-31T13:25:00.000-06:00

I was going to try to write something real, but a nap seems like a better use of my time. Then I might try to shower today. It seems like a good idea at this point, but it would mean standing up for so long.

I feel better. The boy brought food-- not just juice and soup and bananas, but also chocolate pudding and my favorite kind of hummus and cookies and an avocado. And he told jokes and cuddled.

I hope he doesn’t catch it. I mean, that would really suck for him, but I don’t want to have to take care of him if he’s even half as whiney as I’ve been.

~beatrix

i'm subjecting you to my boredom

2010-01-29T18:39:00.001-06:00

I am having a sick day. It is really boring; I don’t know how people do this. I’ve had four of them before today, and the last one was probably because I was hungover.

I’ve spend 9 hours today in bed, so for now I’m doing exciting things like sitting up and posting non-news the blog. I’m also making rice because that’s the only food around except some GoLean Crunch, and it’s too cold to go outside.

My boy has to work late, so if anybody wants to bring me some juice, feel free.

~beatrix

on why i cried the day before my birthday OR what good is a blog if i can't fill it with self-indulgent blather?

2010-01-27T18:25:00.001-06:00

There comes a point where you stop expecting nothing and start expecting something bad.

And even though you tell yourself it’s just another day just another day, your birthday’s still your birthday.

Maybe I don’t remember much about my eighteenth birthday. . . except what I wore. I looked good, and I should have because I hadn’t eaten for days. I had just rung in 2000 with a ballet performance and an early night on my parents’ sofa. It turned out that my friends were really his friends and he was dating someone new. My birthday was our first day back at school, and soon after Baron’s new girlfriend started sitting at our lunch table. The restaurant I wanted to go to was closed because it was Monday.

For nineteen I was back with Baron even though we were long distance now. My parents didn’t like him, and hadn’t for years. “He didn’t give you a birthday present,” my brother pointed out. “or a Christmas present. And that is kind of bad.” He was right; I knew it. The restaurant I wanted to go to was closed because it was Tuesday.

My twentieth birthday was the first of several in-transit. I spent it with my parents before going back to school. I had a boyfriend, Steve, waiting there. Even though he tried hard, I knew it wasn’t going to last much longer. It turns out that our liking the same movies (say, Breakfast at Tiffany’s) or the same music (say, the Indigo Girls or Lisa Loeb) wasn’t such a great foundation for a relationship. I don’t need to date anyone who cries more than me. We lasted a few more days when I got back. The restaurant I wanted to go was closed for the week.

Twenty-one tried. I woke up at my parents’ house, and flew back to Hugo in New Orleans. I spent the night out with him and Harper and Knox, but no one else was really back in town. On my twenty-first birthday, I only time I showed my ID was to get on a plane.

On my twenty-second birthday, my father made me cry in a restaurant. I was worried about my thesis, but instead of saying he believed in me or that he knew I could do it, he said, “It will be easy.” Milton bought me a travel easel. He sent a picture of it to me in Georgia. I hadn’t called him for the whole of winter break. I didn’t call him when I got back to New Orleans. I didn’t even have to break up with him; he took care of that. And I never collected the travel easel.

Twenty-three and twenty-four sucked all around. I don’t even remember, but they were spent living at home, with my parents and . The restaurant I wanted to go to was closed for renovations at least one year.

For twenty-five, I was ousted from my bedroom by my parents who were ousted from theirs by my cousins who were having a crisis. My dad didn’t remember until late in the day. No one at work remembered. And my cousins didn’t understand the excitement over a new Pucci scarf.

Twenty-six was with David. Except it wasn’t with him at all. He worked all day. No presents, no plans. He called around six to ask where I wanted to meet him for dinner. I decided I’d break up with him if there was no cake, and there was no cake.

Twenty-seven was spent traveling back from Julianna’s wedding, back to a lot of old loose ends and one new promise to do better. Airports are lonely places for birthdays. The restaurant was closed because it was moving across the street.

So that might be why I cried the day before my birthday, but can we blame it on PMS?

~beatrix

sleep over. please

2010-01-26T17:08:00.001-06:00

I want to go to the movies with a guy friend, and I want you to do whatever it is you do with your boys until 4:30 am*. But, in the end, I want you to wind up in my bed.

love
beatrix

*Excluding falling asleep on the subway. Or falling asleep sitting up in people’s chairs. Yes, I have seen those photos on facebook.

in honor of what is reportedly the most depressing day of the year

2010-01-25T16:16:00.001-06:00

I am tired of wearing boots and there’s not a number over freezing on the ten-day forecast and it’s still getting dark at 4:30. I’m not dressed at 5:30, and I’m not sure how long those dishes have been in my sink. I was going to do Projects before I have to go back to work on Monday, but maybe showering counts as a Project. Fruitcake does not count as dinner. I haven’t been drinking enough water.

Happy New Year.

I effing hate January.

I’m going to turn 28 on Tuesday. Twenty-eight seems old. I know the date and details of my 10-year high school reunion. I should have done Something by now. Maybe not getting fat counts as Doing Something.

I remember my parents when they were 28. I was five and they were grownups who were Responsible Caretakers.

I am Happy. I have a boyfriend I like and a job that other people want and some days I realize that I live a life of suburban daydreams. I have Plans and at least one really good Idea.

I am accepting invitations and finding activities, because I know that the clutching sensation at my back, creeping down the undersides of my arms is just from too many carbs and the January-ness of it all.

~beatrix

i guess i have been dating the same boy for nine (9!) months

2010-01-23T17:29:00.001-06:00

Have I really been out of all of this so long that I can’t tell if this invitation to see a movie together is completely innocent or totally inappropriate?

I should be able to tell.

And I should not fail to mention that I met this boy at my boyfriend’s birthday party.

~beatrix

to happy new years

2010-01-20T18:45:00.002-06:00

“It might snow today,” Ted’s phone thinks it’s so clever, but it didn’t tell us anything I didn’t know when I opened the curtains or anything he didn’t notice when he went outside to alternate his parking.

2009 ended a lot better than it started.

The snowflakes were so fat, and everything was already covered.

We ate lunch at a restaurant I’d never noticed before, even though it‘s in my own neighborhood. It’s a carriage house with plaid table cloths, blue willow on the walls, and the most beautiful omelette I’ve ever seen. I hope we remember where it is. It appeared so suddenly in our path, I hope it’s real.

“Have you ever made a snow angel?”
“Um, yeah.”
“Oh. I’ve never done it. I’m from a warm place, and IF there’s snow, and IF you flop down in it, you just get all soggy.”

I was taking my gloves off to touch the snow because they were new and I didn’t want them to get spotty. He threw himself on the ground and scissored his arms and legs.

There really wasn’t that much snow, and the sand of the Central Park bocce ball court showed through. I laughed.

“I’ve made sand angels. . . plenty of times at the beach.”

At the zoo, Ted voiced over the chinstrap penguins. I had decided they were from New Jersey, and the performance was miles better than Jersey Shore. He said I could get a bufflehead and let it live in the bathtub. The crane was shivering in the snow. (I’m pretty sure he needed some very long skinny socks.) And the red panda hasn’t escaped, as I suspected, but was padding around in his fur like footie pyjamas.

I wore my new earmuffs, and they kept my ears toasty.

We warmed up and read in bed, set an alarm just in case, and woke up two hours later.

The party part was fine, but we decided we should have our own next year. If you have your own New Year’s Eve party, you don’t have to go outside. I think ours will be pyjama and breakfast themed.

~beatrix

p.s. loveharder.org

p.p.s. please be my friend on twitter because if not i don't want to play anymore. beatrix_here

dirt footprint

2010-01-18T21:52:00.001-06:00

Ted’s cousin has been dating his girlfriend for three months. They’ve lived together for two.

New York pushes you into people. It squishes you into subway cars so crowded I once spent most of a morning commute standing on one foot. Sidewalks are packed and grocery stores are tiny and you’re almost always brushing by someone.

When I was little I lived in a place too far from town to have cable. There was a dog and maybe some cats in the yard and ponies out back and trees and grass and a sandbox and a tire swing. Here, twenty-four apartments, an Irish bar, and a bagel place share the dirty footprint of this little building. Here, I pay loads for my tiny share of the earth, three stories below.

The most cost effective way to live here, or anywhere I suppose, is to get married, or at the very least shack-up, as the kids say. You can’t beat having two incomes but only needing room for one bed.

It had come up before, but never with a sense of schedule other than “future” or “later” or “one day”. ’Til now. It was breakdown of timing, not an invitation or plan, just a notification.

I’m already decorating in my head.

~beatrix

the hurricane

2010-01-17T15:18:00.001-06:00

It wasn’t so long ago that Harper and I would declare that we date like boys. Something about getting out early and not getting attached for the sake of attachment and never never writing our names with boys’ last names on the inside covers of our notebooks.

Well, Harper is dating someone. And I’m dating someone. And we like the boys we’re with, and we like the boys the other is with.

And all this happiness has collided in a hurricane of crazy-girlness.

Harper might know what colors she wants for her wedding. (I’m supportive because I look good in those colors.) I confide that I am pretty much in love with a dress from the Oscar de la Renta Spring 2008 bridal collection. (Harper’s supportive, ’cause I’d look good in that, too.)

Harper’s boy has a last name that’s heavy on the constants, so bulky names don’t sound good with it. But his has a good, strong, middle name. My boy has a last name that is hopelessly a noun. Any noun names sound silly, and adjective-y names sound like something from the newspaper classifieds.

Harper and I are talking about baby names. Like for serious. And sometimes being a girl is fun.

~beatrix

conflict resolution

2010-01-15T19:14:00.001-06:00

The first time I met Pete in person, we went for a walk, had a snack, and he fell asleep on a sofa in Urban Outfitters while I read a book about Banksey.

I would consider that a fitting start to our friendship.

So today we were hanging out in Saks. There’s a black and white sofa in the Carolina Herrera section on the extra fancy floor. It’s really comfortable if you don’t mind being stared down by a saleslady in a pantsuit.

We eventually moved to St. Patrick’s Cathedral where the chairs are harder but they are more tolerant of loiterers.

Pete and his girlfriend Pamela are having some. . . issues.

“. . . and we didn’t really reach a conclusion. It’s important to know how someone resolves conflict, and I don’t think we are very good at it. How is it with you and Ted?”

Despite his habit of public napping, Pete is a lawyer at heart.

“Well, we don’t really fight. I mean there was that one time.”

The story about our one-time “fight” seems less dramatic and more ridiculous with each retelling.

But Pete does have a point: we should know how it’s going to be when it, inevitably, happens. So maybe we should test it.

“I guess I could pick a fight with him. . . .”

Pete, along with the three saint statues behind him, gives me a Look.

“I guess that is a bad idea. . . .”

~beatrix

holiday correspondence

2010-01-12T22:07:00.001-06:00

“Do you know a Dave and Patricia? How about a William and something that starts with an E or an L? Enid? Louis? Do you know a William and Louis?”

My mom had been out to check the mail and came in with a stack of envelopes and some boxes. I opened the Christmas cards-- all from people I’d never heard of-- and she opened a save-the-date for her college room mate’s daughter’s wedding.

It seemed impossible because Margaret is a little girl. She’s enough younger than my brother and me that we called her Baby Maggie until . . well. . . now. But the truth is that she’s graduating from college this spring and getting married this summer and that that’s not so unusual.

It was a magnet.

One box was a coat my mom had ordered. The other was a surprise, addressed to my parents. Inside was a gift basket.

“Read the card,” my mom ordered, mouth corners twitching.

It was from Ted.

It was full of delicious things, and my mom told me the history of the company that made the basket itself, and I was thinking how I’m glad he cares enough to do something like this.

“I’m impressed,” my mom said during dinner, looking across the room at the still fully intact basket of treats.

I laughed, “That might say something about the quality of boys I’ve dated before.”

~beatrix

missed opportunites

2010-01-11T17:57:00.003-06:00

I was away in Boston for the weekend to see Evie, so I don’t have anything prepared for today, but you are in luck. I am giving you something from my personal archives. It was written on September 14, 2008 about a trip I had taken to Boston sometime after graduating from college and sometime before I moved to New York. Enjoy.
~beatrix of christmas present

I’m pretty sure I met my soulmate once. And by met I actually mean sat with in very close proximity without saying a word.

I was taking a morning flight from Boston to Atlanta, and they asked for volunteers to give up their seats in exchange for ticket vouchers. I’m always hoping that will happen, but it never does unless I have something very pressing and important to do at the other end or have someone practically on the way to pick me up from the airport. Not this time. So. . score.

Then you know that game you play with yourself while you’re waiting for a flight? The one where you sit there and think, “I guess that I will I end up sitting next to that incredibly attractive and well-dressed fellow there reading that interesting magazine”? But then you lose the game and wind up sitting next to a chubby guy who immediately falls asleep with his mouth open and taking up one third of your allotted space or an old lady with a scratchy sweater who doesn’t speak English and gets her tv screen stuck on or some guy who enlightens you on how to fly a plane yourself, complete with a full-on reenactment? Well, this one time I won.

I picked this guy with a square jaw and a cap, and when I got on the plane he was. . . right there, taking something out of his bag then putting it in the overhead bin. And I realized that I had made a great choice because his beefy shoulder was just the absolute perfect height on which to lie my head. But I didn’t do that. Then he sat next to the window, and for the first and only time in my entire life, I was happy to be in the middle seat-- next to him. Ding ding ding. Winner again.

So that’s not all. The things that he had taken from his bag? The Wall Street Journal and East of Eden. He flipped through the Journal, then stuck it in the seat pocket. Nothing too exciting, but at least he probably had a job, right? The Steinbeck book, though? That’s my favorite book. . . No kidding. And he sat there and read it for almost two hours. With his arm well over the armrest, pressing against mine. And I didn’t move my arm-- he felt amazing and I was in love. I just sat there and pretended to read, wishing I’d brought something a little smarter and trying to talk myself into saying “You know, that’s my favorite book.” so we could start a conversation and live happily ever after.

I spent the entire trip counting down how long I had left to finally talk to him, but I couldn’t make the words come out. It was over all too soon, and I had to pull my arm away from him so I could put my stupid book back in my bag. I don’t even remember seeing him at baggage claim.

So I’m pretty sure that’s why I’m alone now. I was supposed to meet my soulmate on a plane between Boston and Atlanta, and I didn’t take the chance that fate handed me. It’s a sad story. And if I’d talked to him, I’d probably be with him right now, eating a lovely dinner off our wedding china instead of eating take-away pizza out of the box.

~beatrix of christmas past

and, as i thought this post needed even more italics, i got one of those twitters. we can be friends and stuff: beatrix_here
~beatrix of christmas future