is this being a grown up?

Living with a boy is the weirdest. There are some questions I've just stopped asking because I either know the answer or there is just no good answer:

How could you forget that we have two brushes specifically for the bathtub?

Do you want to watch this David Tutera wedding show?

Do my arms look chubby?

Remember that episode of Sex and the City?

Why was there a copy of the New Yorker and a strawberry-banana yogurt on the lid of the toilet when I came home?

Are we keeping this snake thing preserved in a bottle of liquid?

Do you want to have sex?

~beatrix

about sex and chores and other big news

He came home and took off his clothes and pressed against me.

I said, “What’s that?”, and he said,

“I’m reaching out to you.”

I said, “We can have sex if you wash the dishes after, while I wash my hair.” but he just kept searching my face with his lips.

And I dodged those lips and asked if he promised until he promised.

I came out the winner all-around.

We found a new apartment, ready in a few months around the same time we are. We’ve been faxing a lot of things, but cross your fingers that the prize for all the paperwork is a washer and dryer and some walls.


~beatrix

two people in a studio is kinda nice, now that i think about it

Ted’s out of town all weekend, and I have the house to myself for two nights and three days.

I can do whatever I want.

I can eat baguette with tomato and hard-boiled eggs and mayonnaise for dinner. . . again. . . without worrying that someone else will be tired of that. And I can eat almost an entire bag of chocolate cookies and watch that movie about childbirth that everyone else has seen. . . but not at the same time because Ricki Lake, naked in a bathtub, isn’t exactly appetizing. I can get up whenever I want and watch So You Think You Can Dance in fastforward and Father of the Bride and In Her Shoes (again) and drink coffee and call my mom from bed. I can braid my hair and unbraid my hair and braid my hair. . . until my arms are tired. I could even give in to my compulsion to cut hair. . . and I still might. I can Google diamonds and what kind of house we could buy if we moved where my parents live. I can leave magazines and bobby pins and chip clips and the remote in bed. I can take as long as I want to get dressed; I don’t have to get dressed until 5:30 if that’s what I want to do.

I guess there are trade-offs.

No one will turn off the lights when I fall asleep reading, and I’ll wake up at 4:38 with the lamp on. And no one will have park breakfast with me by the Peter Pan statue, and if I went alone, no one would protect me from the persistent squirrels. And I won’t have a dance party partner except for my reflection in the television. And I might even have to take the trash out myself.

~beatrix

p.s. i cut my hair. um, kind of a lot. i had my scissor privileges revoked regularly when i was a child.

how's it gonna be

“I feel better.” Even though it was just a sip of coffee.

“I have got to remember to feed you when you get crabby.”

***********

I am hot and ironing his work clothes on Saturday afternoon and he farts and laughs.

I think, Is this how it’s going to be?

He says he loves my face and puts his arms around me from behind and I stop ironing because these pants are at least better than they were before.

Is this how it’s going to be?