movie plot-- edit

I broke a rule. A big one.

I think he has a pretty significant informational advantage, even though he says I can read his archives.

I’m sure there are people out there who have a blog crush on someone for years and it never goes anywhere because the crush lives across the country, etc. etc. Me? We’ve had a blog for. . . what? . . three months? . . and I’m going on a third (or second depending on how we’re counting) date with someone who found me through it. Or I found him. I can’t quite remember how this happened.

I know. I know. Feel sorry for me. The Gap has size-inflated and I have to wear a 0 now, and I can’t stop finding boys to date. I know.

But now my movie plot is starting to feel more like this:

I declare openly and publicly that my blog is anonymous. He and his buddies take this as a personal challenge, and one (we’ll cast a tall guy with dark, spikey hair and dress him in a t shirt that’s almost too small) bets him that he can’t go out with me/sleep with me/take me to prom (because this is clearly about to turn into a teen movie).

So after he convinces me to meet him in person, tricks me into telling him my real name, and generally woos me, I see two directions the plot can take:

In one, I see through this ruse and manage to humiliate him. I’ll then end up with my best friend/sidekick/his brother/no one (because I’m so independent and strong (lame)).


In the other, it turns out that that we really do like each other. It might end with a dramatic cab/car chase scene. Or it might end with one of us getting dressed up for prom and, through some misunderstanding, being stood up by the other one. The situation will be rectified in the middle of the prom dance floor, and we will kiss in our own magical spotlight.

At any rate, this movie sucks.

And the boy. Well, he knows too much. Not only the things he shouldn’t know, like how I slept with my friend from high school two weeks ago or how I woke up in some other boy’s bed the morning of the day I met him, but rules. Secrets. How to get ahead.

And he’s probably reading this now.

~beatrix

recognition

Wendy from Wendy’s Adventures in LaLaLand chose me for one of these things where you answer a bunch of questions about yourself. Wendy’s great-- charming and interesting and rather clever. If you don’t know her already, I’m happy to introduce you.

But even though I am physically unable to climb the fence at Union Square Park to lounge on the grass four days before it opens officially (even though quite a number of other people have done it), we all know I am, at heart, a rule breaker. And even though my seventh grade geography/world history teacher praised my brilliant succinctness, I’m sure you’ve all noticed that I can write sort of a lot about nothing. So, I’ve elected to answer only one question from the list, though I encourage you to answer all the questions. There. Tag, or whatever.


I have some really great jewelry: Some diamonds from special occasions like my 21st birthday and college graduation. The usual pearls. A circle pin of my great-grandmother’s that looks good in my hair. A charm bracelet with about 25 interesting charms. An enormous cocktail ring, swiped from my mom’s jewelry box, with a stone the color of Windex. A small collection of carved cinnabar bracelets.

But there’s one piece I truly love.

I was out for a walk in my new neighborhood. I’d just moved to New York. I don’t know when it was, but I’d moved in the summer, and it was still hot. Very hot. And I was still basking in the freedom of anonymity and. . . aloneness. I was happy. It had been a while.

I don’t remember what street it was on, but there was this sort-of sidewalk fair. It was more flea market than anything else, with a whole table full of huge, vintage clip-on earrings. They are just so fabulous. And shiny. They make me feel glamorous, even though I never know where or when I can wear them, and if I ever do, I wonder why I’m so crabby and have such a dull headache before I remember I have something like 500 pounds of pressure per square inch on each of my earlobes*. So I mostly end up wearing them around my house when I need to feel pretty.

I bought some. It was a four-dollar splurge: one ridiculous pair of green rhinestone flowers. But then I saw it.

It was sweet, etched with some flourishes and flowers. A locket, gold, a little bigger than a nickel. I saw it and I loved it and it was mine. I recognized it like the baby Dalai Lama must recognize his stuff.

When I picked it up for a closer look, I saw that it had originally been colored. The green of the flourishes had mostly rubbed off, and the flowers had been pink. But I knew it really was mine. The monogram in the center? It was my letter.

The lady on the other side of the table apologized that it cost more than everything else. It was older, she said. I had just moved and started school and spent all of my savings. I should have used the money for food, but I didn’t.

It cost twelve dollars or sixteen dollars, and felt altogether irresponsible. But it was mine. This locket is a time, a place, and a philosophy.

You chose the life you live mostly, but sometimes your life just chooses you. Luck and fate and chance and destiny-- I don’t know what to believe, but I have to believe something. People wander through, but sometimes someone shows up, and you know that they’re meant to stay. I have to believe that I can recognize my people. That some day I’ll recognize my place. My person.

I have to believe that life will give me the things I need and that all I’ll have to do is recognize them when they show up.


*I made this up. But it does hurt.

~beatrix

what i'm not telling you is this. . .

I had only been to coffee and for a walk with Cooper once when he called and wanted to hang out again. It was last summer on a grey, rainy Saturday, and he wanted me to come over and watch a movie. I had just met him and barely knew him, and I am generally responsible, so I said I didn’t think it was a good idea.

“Well, I’m not sure this is a good idea, either,” he told me over the phone, “but go to this website. . . “

It was a blog. It took a moment to process. It was his blog. . . about his very busy dating life. . . and it mentioned me. And his blog said I was pretty. Awesome. But weird. I didn’t know what to think.

He was still on the phone, and his logic was this: if he were very scary and dangerous, someone would have alerted the internet and ruined his blog.

I guess it made sense. At any rate, I ended up at his apartment. And we had brunch the next morning. We decided that it counted as both our second and third dates.

Cooper and his blog are the reason this blog is so anonymous. Because dating Cooper was a two part process. First I dated him in real life, then I read the blog to see how it went. And then I checked back to see what readers had to say about it. Then I called him to say he’d misquoted me or that I didn’t quite understand what he’d written about me. It was far too complicated.

So this blog is going to stay completely anonymous.

The only foreseeable problem is that the whole story turns into a blockbuster romantic comedy. I’ll meet some amazing boy. We’ll get caught in the rain and he’ll discover that I’m knowledgeable about and/or competent at his childhood passion. His dog will love me, and my friends will adore him. But then he’ll discover my secret blog in a New York Times exposé, and he’ll believe that I was only using him for the material. He’ll break up with me. We will both be very sad and see lots of things and places that remind us of one another. Finally, I will write a big apology blog post (which he will read in a voice over). But one of us will already be on the way to the airport to go far away forever. The other will need to follow in a taxi, but will get stuck in traffic, which will inevitably necessitate getting out to follow on foot. Maybe the boy can be reading the blog post on his iPhone while actually on the way to the airport. Then he’ll turn around, too. And we’ll kiss in the street, probably on a bridge. And there will be lots of honking, but we won’t care. Pan out. Roll credits.

I’m not worried about the anonymous blog. These things always have happy endings. Right?


~beatrix