kitchens and love

“I just want to move to a one-bedroom in the Lower East Side!” It was a declaration, “It will be cheaper. . . and nicer.”

“No, it won’t.” It didn’t make any sense. “How would a one-bedroom be cheaper than your two-bedroom with a room mate?”

“You don’t move into a one-bedroom by yourself.” he raised my hand to his lips and kissed it while we waited to cross Avenue A.

“Oh, right.”

“It will be so nice. We’ll have things like. . . counterspace. And. . . enough room to have people over for dinner.”

“And a table?”

“And a table. And it will have a big refrigerator and a set of good knives and a real oven and. . . a blender.”

“A blender?”

“Yeah.”

The boy knows how to make me moan with pleasure, whispering kitchen fantasies in my ear, and I’ve decided I’d also like a sewing machine. But our imaginary apartment was getting kind of girly, so I asked him:

“But what about you? What do you want?”

“Hmm. A big, flatscreen tv. . . .”

“Of course.”

“Aaaand. . . a paper towel holder.”

For real. The boy wants an apartment with a paper towel holder.

“What if I bought a washer and dryer?”

I gasped, and laughed at myself:

“My first thought was, I’d marry you.”

So he said he’d get me that and I wouldn’t have to worry about his choosing an ugly ring, and later he said he’d cover them in Swarovski crystals.

If things didn’t make so much sense, they wouldn’t make any sense at all.


~beatrix

i can't believe i actually had this conversation

We were on one of the trains with the orange seats. Ted smiled an embarrassed sort of smile and looked out the window at nothing.

“What?”
“Nothing. I was just thinking of something even scarier than what you said yesterday.”*
“What was it?”
“I was just thinking that if we had munchkins, there’s a good chance they’d have blue eyes. My dad has blue eyes, and my brother. And yours. . . .”
“That’d be good.”
“Yeah. Blue eyes and black hair. . . killer combination.”
“Yeah. And we’d hope for curls. . . . That’s even scarier than that dream I had.”
“The one about the dresses?”
“No. Last night. About the ugliest ring ever.”
“Well, you are just lucky I have good taste.”
“Oh, right.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll ask for a female opinion before I buy a ring.”


*I didn’t know which scary thing he was referencing, then or now.

~beatrix

decisions, decisions

The band became two in the front, diverged, left a space for a square of metal with an inset diamond. It was, in short, the ugliest ring ever. And it was at least three sizes too big.

The moral dilemma: I like this boy. A lot. I want to say yes. But I’ve spent years not only believing but preaching that an ugly ring means that a boy doesn’t know you well enough to marry you.

I was only too happy to wake up from this nightmare. It was early, and I told Ted about it, because these days I tell him everything. I told him about it before we broke the futon again and before we fell back asleep perpendicularly so as not to have to lie in the ditch of the collapsed frame.

~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

diamonds, bridges, etc.

“They just got engaged,” my brother tells us, stage whispering and motioning with his head. Through closed teeth, “And it’s a craaazy diamond.”

I pretend to look at the how-to-build-a-gigantic-suspension-bridge plaques to try to get a look at the ring. The couple is young, probably younger than me, and the ring is huge. The kind of diamond that I always imagine snagging stockings and scratching soft baby cheeks. Who even wears stockings?

The family was in town, and the four of us were at the Brooklyn Bridge. Baby Brother is suddenly an expert on diamonds, further evidenced by his definitive “I like it” and “I don’t like it” judgments at Tiffany later in the weekend.

He confides in me that he’s helping a friend buy an engagement ring. Not a huge one, but a ring nonetheless.

The friend is proposing at karaoke. And I make my brother promise not to ever let anyone propose to me in a public place.

“I’ll say no.”
“I know. You’ve told me a million times.”


~beatrix