this morning, it was easy

“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

when all else fails. . . .

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

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?

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

2008: a year in review

Prologue

I’m just lounging around in my apartment with big hair, full makeup, gigantic vintage clip-on earrings, a cut-up t shirt, and panties thinking about how, for someone who claims to date so much, I’ve been a little boring. Sure, there are always boys, but this winter I’ve been doing a lot less dating and a lot more moping and contemplating than usual. I’ve been eating a lot of pasta.

I should probably explain the kissing moratorium. And the sudden desire to simplify everything.

So to get you all up to speed, I have prepared for you a recap of last year: a work in three parts.

Enjoy.
****

Part One: Winter

I woke up in David’s bed. He wanted to marry me, and I’d been playing along. I sort of wanted to believe in it.

I woke up, and I just knew it. My whole face hurt.

I can’t remember what started it. I guess we were arguing, but I wasn’t putting up much of a fight. It had been four months; I am so predictable. And the light hurt.

He said I was immature because I wouldn’t move the sheet from my face. But I couldn’t.

I couldn’t do it. I just woke up and knew it. It was over. This time for real.

He had to go to work. It was Saturday. That’s how things were. He left. I wanted to leave. But I couldn’t. I went back to sleep.

The next day I stopped by, picked up my things, and left his key. He stashed cab money in my stuff, and I found it when I got home.

The dark months are hard.


~beatrix


part 2