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

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

for i have sinned OR life's lessons

Hugo’s how I know.

I learned three things that night:

At nearly 22, I was too old for frat parties.

People will give you money if you ask them for it.

I am capable of cheating.

******

It was a girls’ night with a full slate. There were probably eight or ten of us, and we went to a little house party then stopped in at the volleyball game. Outside the arena, there was car fancy enough to catch our attention. One of the girls called dibs on the owner.

“I want to meet him,” I said, then asked jokingly, “Why do you get him?”
Jules looked at me with a serious face, “Because you have a boyfriend.”

He was forgettable, which is not an excuse.

We watched a little of the game, then grabbed dinner before our next two stops.

It must have been November, because one of the fraternities was throwing a Cowboy Christmas party. I was excited. The truth is, I look great in a cowgirl hat, even if it is paired with the preppiest of pink polos. But when we got to the party, I realized it wasn’t the house full of fun I’d first experienced as a fresh- and slightly numb-faced freshman. The ground was disgusting, the bodies were sticky, there was a gross smell, and no one ever really wants to drink a lukewarm can of Mad Dog. I knew I could live the rest of my life without ever seeing another frat boy in a grubby Santa suit, and I realized that maybe, just maybe, I’d actually be ready to leave this place in June.

Our next stop was a charity dating/kiss auction. The “charity” was ambiguous, and the premise didn’t quite make sense. But the girls and I had the tipsy idea that geeky and awkward Annette should buy our lovable but even-more-awkward friend Harrington. We were sure it would be a match made in the heaven of an uptown dive, but we didn’t necessarily want to bankroll it.

I guess I was just drunk enough to do it. I asked a guy I knew for money, and before I could even explain, he handed me a twenty. In a matter of minutes, a couple of us raised about a hundred dollars, and pulled off our little scheme.

Hugo was there. He told me I looked good. He was drunk enough to slur his words a little. Maybe it was the hat, he said. I was still wearing my hat, because that’s a night-long commitment. Maybe it was.

“If you wanted to go home with someone tonight, I’m sure you could.”

I laughed. He was drunk. He wasn’t making sense.

We circled each other for a while before he came up to me again.

“Earlier.” he said, “When I said you could go home with someone. Someone. I meant me.”

I rolled my eyes. Pretended his drunk offer meant nothing. Knew I couldn’t.

He shrugged, “You could call.”

When I got home it was late. I might have been drunk, but I don’t remember. My girl friends had gone home; my room mates were asleep; there was no one around to judge me, which is not an excuse. It seemed possible that the worst thing to do might really be the best thing. That maybe somehow, nine months later, I could put everything back together.

I scrolled to the name, and looked at it. The dial button was far too easy to press. The message was too easy to leave. Forgive me, for this sin was too easy to commit.

*****

I don’t know if it would make me a different person if he had answered. I don’t know if my course would have altered if he’d called back.. . if I hadn’t woken up the next day with the phone next to my head, full of anxiety and dodging calls from my boyfriend until five or six p.m.

I don’t know if things would be different if Hugo’s phone battery hadn’t died and he hadn’t lost his keys. And even though I know what I would have done, I guess I don’t know for sure what he would have done. Though, in the end, I suppose it was just logistics that saved me from my fate.

And that is not an excuse.

ghosts

I talked to Hugo. We’ve talked a few times since he broke up with his girlfriend. I told him a funny story, and he recalled that time we made cupcakes. Then he told me he can’t even eat a muffin without getting a boner. His word, not mine. He was drunk.

He was hanging out with college friends before going to a wedding rehearsal dinner, and they were rowdy-wasted.

“That doesn’t really seem appropriate.”
“We’re too drunk to remember what’s appropriate. Or acceptable. Or platonic.”

I could hear his old room mate in the background, and Hugo told me, “Knox says you look hot in the Facebook photos Harper posted.”
“From New Orleans? Am I wearing the lowest v-neck ever?”
“I don’t know. But I’m going to save those pictures to my desktop.”
“Yeah, I don’t know how Ted would feel about that.”
“Is he the boss of your Facebook photos?”
“No. I guess he should just be flattered.”
“He should be flattered.”

There were days. . . and months. . . and years. . . when this ten-minute conversation would have shaken my entire life. I would have counted my every mistake. I would have remembered every scrap of hope he’d ever given me. I would have recited the letter he gave me that night. And, for the ten-thousandth time, I would have written the happy ending the way I knew it could still happen.

But today I can laugh sincerely. I tell him yes, it’s ok if he sends me drunken text messages tonight and even ok if he and Knox drunk dial. I can say goodbye without opening the scar that runs from sternum to navel. And I’m pretty sure I can move on.

(Also, to my knowledge, Harper hasn’t posted any photos of me in ages. So who knows.)

~beatrix

laughing through tears. . .

One time my mom was sick and in the hospital, and I was in New York and with David who couldn’t understand why I didn’t want to go to a birthday party with him. He was angry and frustrated at my tears, and he said, “Do you know what I did when my dad died? I went for a run.”

I didn’t even know what that meant. My mom wasn’t dying, but I cried harder. And a run is not a birthday party for a friend he’s never even mentioned before.

I met Ted on Friday after work. The week was long: a fight with Fin, a project that just would not come out right, a million things left on the to-do list. We’d deserved the gimmlets we had before we left that afternoon. As I was getting in the elevator, my mom called to tell me some bad news. Her voice broke; she sounded so sad.

I felt like I’d forgotten something while I was walking, and I wished it would stop raining because I was getting sort of wet. Fifteen blocks later, I realized I’d forgotten my umbrella. I might have been a little drunk when I got to Ted’s.

And we split some pita chips and a six-pack (proportionally according to weight and alcohol tolerance, meaning I had 2 and he had 4) while we watched a movie. I could blame it all on being a little drunk.

Because even I was surprised when my breathing caught in my chest and fat tears showed up on my cheeks. I’m sobbing. And I’m honest-- when we say nothing’s wrong, we don’t mean it. I made a list-- a long, liberating list of worries.

And he’s beautiful. He’s just rational enough to be believable. He takes me seriously while he squelches my irrational fears. This boy says all the right things.

And it’s the strangest feeling. The tears are still flowing like mad, and I’m pretty sure I deserve every one after this week. But I’m laughing. Because I’m unbelievably happy. It’s unbelievable in the truest sense of the word. It feels like shedding a skin or like a seed must feel when it sprouts.

So maybe I’m drunk. Or maybe I’m crazy or maybe I’m just caught up in this whole love business. But I could get used to being myself. For someone who seems to get it.

~beatrix

The return of Harper

Trix is very happy. She and Ted spend weekends going to Ikea and eating pie in bed and they even have a cookie ritual. I bet when she and Ted tell these stories in person, they finish each other's sentences and break into synchronized laughter at the particularly charming moments. If they were any sweeter I'd be vomiting tiny marshmallows all over my keyboard.

I'm sorry, I'm being hateful. I really am very happy for her. She's one of my most favorite people in the world and she deserves to be with a guy who understands the importance of dessert, particularly for breakfast. But I do sort of miss the stories of her stuffing underwear in her purse and staggering home in the morning from somewhere she shouldn't have been.

I am a terrible blogger. I have abandoned my responsibilities and left it to Trix to entertain the masses. And look what happened-- stories of kittens and babies and sunshine and pppttthhh. So I have returned to bring you tales of poor judgement, alcohol abuse, and, yes, missing underwear.

Kisses,
Harper

the tale of the magic hat

Pete told me that his friend, a voiceover artist, decided to experiment. He put on a British accent, went out to a bar, and within minutes was having sex against a wall by the bathroom. Pete wishes he had a better accent.

I don’t generally need a gimmick to meet boys, but I discovered a rather effective one quite by accident.

Back when I was still with David, Harper came to visit, and Prince Charming threw a party. I got there a little late, and was happy to see Harper. I gave her a hug, and she handed me a bottle of champagne before going to the bathroom. I didn’t know the girls she’d been talking to, but I took a sip from the champagne and introduced myself.

They stared at me with open mouths.

Finally one of them said, “You just drank. . . out of the bottle.”

Not seeing a problem here, all I could think to say was, “Yeah, but Harper won’t mind.”

So my amazing gimmick isn’t getting very very drunk, but the fact is that I was. And I when we all went out, I left Prince Charming’s apartment wearing a dress, knee boots, and his Detroit Tigers baseball cap.

And I met every boy on Spring Street.

It was incredible. I met boys in bars and on the sidewalk and boys in passing cars. I didn’t have to do a thing, because this gross hat started my conversations for me.

It’s an approach I’ve been meaning to try again, just to see if I can replicate the results.


~beatrix