memorial day

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.

~b

back. and mostly the same

“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

we went to a wedding-- part 1

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

what we talk about when the boys don't come to dinner

I found out my cousin’s wife was pregnant in the usual way: a photo of a pregnancy test posted on facebook. My grandma had already commented on it. I guess everyone is happy, even though my cousin’s wife just turned 21. What’s sad is that she could just start to have alcohol legally, and now she can’t drink unless she wants a broken baby. What’s crazy is that when she’s my age, she’ll have a first-grader.

Over Italian food Julianna told me she might get a puppy.

“I think I’ve almost convinced Ed,” she said. “I told him, ‘It’s better than a baby.’”

I’m not sure this newlywed-girl logic is effective. The topic turned to babies.

“I waaant one,” Jules whined. But then she told me, “When we saw Ed’s family last weekend, his cousin had a really tiny baby, like nine days old. And she just had to keep feeding it, and she had to keep a journal of every time it pooped. And it just seemed. . . hard. If I had one, my mom would have to come stay for like. . . a year.”

“I’d babysit for you,” I volunteered, “in like four years.”

Maybe Ed will just let her get that puppy.

~beatrix

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

i guess that's what you'd call it

B: I might meet Ted’s family this weekend. Like his whole family.
H: Wow. So is he your boyfriend?
B: Um, maybe? We sort of talked about not wanting to kiss anyone else.
H: That’s a big step. So can you kiss other people? Or no?
B: I don’t want to.
H: Like “I don’t want to but if I get drunk or someone trips and lands on my lips it’s okay”?
B: I probably shouldn’t let anyone accidentally fall on my lips.
H: But if you do it’s not cheating. . . . So you and Ted are voluntarily exclusive?
B: I guess that’s what you’d call it.
H: Why aren’t you boyfriend/girlfriend?
B: We just haven’t exactly used those words. I took Single off my Facebook profile.
H: That’s a good move in general.

. . . .

H: So you’re going to meet your voluntarily exclusive man-friend’s entire family. . . .

~b

technology is so hard

I think it’s time. I don’t really feel single anymore. I’m not ready for a big step, just this small one.

Once my baby brother’s name showed up in my Facebook newsfeed: “Baby Brother is now Single!”

“That’s the biggest piece of non-news ever.”

He had taken it off because he was dating some girl, and he had just changed it back.

Now I want to not be Single. And to not be In a Relationship. Just to be nothing for a while. But I don’t want to Facebook to announce to everyone that I’m in dating purgatory. But why do they keep changing it? Where are the privacy settings? I don’t want to deal with questions. I don’t want Ted to see or my brother see. . . or my mom to see. . . .


I did it anyway, and hoped for the best. Thank you Facebook for making this harder than it already was.

~beatrix

a pregnant pause

Is it just my facebook friends? Or have yours been popping up with profile pics of themselves holding pregnancy tests?

I’m thrilled for you, really. I’m glad you’re having that baby. I will make him a hat.

But did you forget that you just PEED ON THAT??


~trix

time out

Everybody. Take a deep breath. And, please, just stop getting married for a minute.

It’s making me dizzy. And a little nauseated. Though, I suppose that part could be all the Easter chocolate I ate.

Maybe I’ll just take a break from Facebook. Or maybe I’ll just take a break from it on the weekends, because nobody gets engaged on Tuesday.

Speaking of Facebook-- I don’t know why I looked up Ali in the first place. I sent him an email in January, but he didn’t answer. He un-friended me a long time ago, and I can only see his tiny profile picture. I think he got married. I don’t know when.

I guess that would explain why he’d moved out of the apartment he shared with a room mate and into a one-bedroom. And it might even explain why he was so insistent that he see me on that one specific night.

It does not explain why he wanted to see me. We had a very non-dramatic chat, and I drank some water.

And I know sometimes I’m self-centered, but I remember asking how he was and what was new.

But I guess I had asked Brian that, too.

Getting married is something that is new, something you mention.

And you know, people want to marry me. David did. Gary asked me when we were six. And once in college, three different boys asked me to marry them within two weeks. True story.

I am highly desirable.

And I am not going to turn into one of those girls. You know, the ones who are just out to find a husband.

Not me.


~beatrix