Have you ever seen the movie Harold and Maude*? Happiest sad movie ever, maybe. I think. I'm not sure I really got it, but I do like Cat Stevens.
***************
It must happen all the time; the official population of New York City is 8,175,133.
Ted and I were waiting to take the elevator up to Julianna and Ed's for a Saturday catch-up party. Summer night, circle skirt, bottle of wine. We were waiting there with a lady and a puppy and when the elevator on the left finally came, there was chaos and doors closing on people and when the practical-looking nurse lady and the neat, older gentleman with the round glasses finally got out and decided which way to turn (toward the service entrance, not the main door), we had to flatten ourselves into the notch of the elevator on the right so they could wheel the stretcher away. And, pressed against that elevator door, we widened our eyes as we realized the sheet was pulled all the way up.
The lady and the puppy were still processing, but we got in the elevator. By the time we got to the sixteenth floor we were in fits of nervous giggles because sometimes big emotions come out all wrong at first.
And we had a party. We ate and laughed and celebrated and played with the puppy and forgot about it for a while.
~b
*Harold and Maude was made in 1971 and is full of awesome. It's only 90 minutes long and it's streaming on Netflix, so I suggest you just watch it for yourself.
Showing posts with label nyc. Show all posts
Showing posts with label nyc. Show all posts
22.1.11
29 or the revolt
I think they’re on to us.
They use to be so content-- blissfully unaware in their drug-induced stupor, emerging only one week out of four into a zombie-half-wakefulness, begging for chocolate, Google-ing puppies in baskets, and occasionally making me cry for no good reason.
But I don’t think I can trick them for much longer because lately. . . lately, they’ve been waking up, announcing their presence, coursing with impatience, becoming increasingly insistent in demanding more than pictures of puppies, and making me cry for what seems like a very good reason.
My ovaries have been going through the motions, faking it for more than a decade. I started taking birth control in the spring of 2000, ostensibly to clear up my still-teenage skin and to regulate my unpredictable periods. So I haven’t ovulated since I was 18, when Bill Clinton was president and we’d never even heard of Survivor.
And suddenly, or not so suddenly, after years under our strict regime, we fall out of step at the sight of a tiny foot. We Google our egg supply’s rate of decline. We feel womanly in ways that are embarrassing.
I just turned 29. Ted celebrated by taking me to one of my favorite restaurants on the Lower East Side; the universe celebrated by seating us next to a toddler singing Old McDonald where we were waited upon by a tall, blonde, and beautifully pregnant woman. And I felt old.
Because 29 is so close to 30, impossible to ignore, impossible to pretend it’s mid-20s and impossible to pretend there’s all the time in the world. And maybe all those years of forcing my hormones into hibernation has just been pushing snooze on my biological clock, and maybe if my ovaries are trying to wake up, maybe it’s time.
There was a short list of things I made, once, of things I needed before I was ready: The walls I’ve got, in Brooklyn of all places, where people come when they need space for a stroller. The health insurance is taken care of. And I’m pretty sure I’ve found the person I want to do it with. There was that time my mom laughed at me when I told her I’d rather have a washing machine than a baby. Well, I’ve got my washing machine.
My body, my choice? My education, my career, my bank account, my city, my boyfriend, my Better Judgment. . . It’s not my body that is making this choice.
I keep chemically regulating, shutting down, postponing. But at 29, the math is hard to ignore, and so is the hollow yearning that makes me feel like one of Those Women. Women, not girls anymore.
And I’m sorry I cried, sorry I got impatient, sorry I wanted more than what we have right here, now, in this apartment that feels like it chose us. I’m greedy for a lifetime of things, but most of all I want you. It’s that that makes me feel ready, and that that makes me willing to wait.
~beatrix
p.s. I do not recommend leaving this tab open on your computer for at least a week like someone might have: http://nymag.com/news/features/69789/
They use to be so content-- blissfully unaware in their drug-induced stupor, emerging only one week out of four into a zombie-half-wakefulness, begging for chocolate, Google-ing puppies in baskets, and occasionally making me cry for no good reason.
But I don’t think I can trick them for much longer because lately. . . lately, they’ve been waking up, announcing their presence, coursing with impatience, becoming increasingly insistent in demanding more than pictures of puppies, and making me cry for what seems like a very good reason.
My ovaries have been going through the motions, faking it for more than a decade. I started taking birth control in the spring of 2000, ostensibly to clear up my still-teenage skin and to regulate my unpredictable periods. So I haven’t ovulated since I was 18, when Bill Clinton was president and we’d never even heard of Survivor.
And suddenly, or not so suddenly, after years under our strict regime, we fall out of step at the sight of a tiny foot. We Google our egg supply’s rate of decline. We feel womanly in ways that are embarrassing.
I just turned 29. Ted celebrated by taking me to one of my favorite restaurants on the Lower East Side; the universe celebrated by seating us next to a toddler singing Old McDonald where we were waited upon by a tall, blonde, and beautifully pregnant woman. And I felt old.
Because 29 is so close to 30, impossible to ignore, impossible to pretend it’s mid-20s and impossible to pretend there’s all the time in the world. And maybe all those years of forcing my hormones into hibernation has just been pushing snooze on my biological clock, and maybe if my ovaries are trying to wake up, maybe it’s time.
There was a short list of things I made, once, of things I needed before I was ready: The walls I’ve got, in Brooklyn of all places, where people come when they need space for a stroller. The health insurance is taken care of. And I’m pretty sure I’ve found the person I want to do it with. There was that time my mom laughed at me when I told her I’d rather have a washing machine than a baby. Well, I’ve got my washing machine.
My body, my choice? My education, my career, my bank account, my city, my boyfriend, my Better Judgment. . . It’s not my body that is making this choice.
I keep chemically regulating, shutting down, postponing. But at 29, the math is hard to ignore, and so is the hollow yearning that makes me feel like one of Those Women. Women, not girls anymore.
And I’m sorry I cried, sorry I got impatient, sorry I wanted more than what we have right here, now, in this apartment that feels like it chose us. I’m greedy for a lifetime of things, but most of all I want you. It’s that that makes me feel ready, and that that makes me willing to wait.
~beatrix
p.s. I do not recommend leaving this tab open on your computer for at least a week like someone might have: http://nymag.com/news/features/69789/
22.10.10
fall, and why maybe i'll write again
We’ve had weeks (months?) of take out containers and piles of laundry and I’ll-be-home-soons that turned into I’ll-be-home-in-time-to-fall-asleep-and-if-we’re-lucky-make-it-out-the-door-tomorrows. The run-downs turned into some sort of cold that started with a sore throat and ended with three days of intense nausea, which would have seemed unbelievable as a sickness if we hadn’t had identical symptoms. Thursdays have really been feeling like Fridays, and I’ve felt so threadbare as to be invisible enough for an automatic door at the grocery store close on me (literally-- it hit me in the shoulder) and to have strangers sit on me on the subway even more than usual.
Last weekend, we both had the same day off for the first time in ages, and after a day of apple picking with friends and watching movies in bed, I realized that, as much as I love his reassuring presence and the way the garbage disappears and clean laundry appears, I’d missed talking to him.
My busy season ended today; Ted’s is just getting starting. I left work at 3; he should be home before 8. I feel like celebrating being able to be a good girlfriend again along with the chill in the air.
I bought a six-pound butternut squash.
~beatrix
1.9.10
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
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
31.7.10
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.
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.
11.7.10
extracurriculars
“Wait. Doesn’t Ted care that you are out with me?”
“That would be hypocritical. And I’m with you. And. . . and we live in a studio. We’d go crazy if we didn’t leave once in a while.”
I had escaped with Pete into the well-air-conditioned world of an electronics showroom with comfortable sofas in Columbus Circle after a quick bite of Whole Foods sushi on what was not just the hottest day of the year, but the hottest day in six years. We were both sporting electric 3D glasses and settled in for a past-due chat about his recent write-up in a big publication and his current status with his (crazy) girlfriend and other Important Things.
“Well. . . No. . . . You wouldn’t worry about that.”
“About what?”
“You don’t worry about ending up with someone just because it’s there and you think you owe it to them.”
“I used to, but not anymore.”
“Right.”
The afternoon before was spent with John, who was in town for a few days and soon introduced to the oasis of the Temple of Dendur which, located inside the Met and with a view of the park, is the best place on the Upper East Side to spend an unrelentingly hot day.
Ted would have joined us, but let me go alone to catch up with an old friend when I decided that would probably be better. He went to the zoo and kept cool at the movies.
I love him and he knows. And I know that love is better when it’s more about trusting than about possessing. And we both know that you can’t keep love if you squeeze it too tight.
~beatrix
27.4.10
364 days
“Congratulations!”
“Congratulations??”
We had falafel sandwiches in the same place where we first met each other. I made a mess, same as the first time. We call it our first date, start counting from that day, divide our lives into Before Falafel and After. I don’t know where we’d be if we hadn’t met each other.
“I’d probably still be trying to bang every girl on the Lower East Side.”
“And I’d probably be dating a banker.”
“But you wouldn’t be happy.”
“That is probably true.”
It wasn’t a glamorous day, just a really, really good one. They’re mostly good, lately.
~beatrix
“Congratulations??”
We had falafel sandwiches in the same place where we first met each other. I made a mess, same as the first time. We call it our first date, start counting from that day, divide our lives into Before Falafel and After. I don’t know where we’d be if we hadn’t met each other.
“I’d probably still be trying to bang every girl on the Lower East Side.”
“And I’d probably be dating a banker.”
“But you wouldn’t be happy.”
“That is probably true.”
It wasn’t a glamorous day, just a really, really good one. They’re mostly good, lately.
~beatrix
25.4.10
thoughts on the way to work
“Remember when that pigeon was pecking that other pigeon?”
“Um. . . yeah. . . .”
“Well, first he was walking around on the dead pigeon then he started eating him. . . .”
“Yeah, that was pretty gross.”
************
I sidestepped a furry patch on the pavement. It was a rat, most likely, before an unfortunate moment-- minutes or hours ago-- in the street where Clinton meets Houston.
I heard a long, loud list of angry obscenities across Spring, but didn’t turn my head, concentrating on Jack Johnson’s and Cat Stevens’ brilliant scoring of my walk to work.
Last night I saw a naked man roller-skate onto a stage-- more of a circus ring, really-- and my first thought was just, If I’d ever taken time to try to imagine a naked man roller-skating, that, I think, is what it would have looked like. . . . the physics, at least, if not the mohawk.
I’m just a drop sometimes, part of an underground stream capable of running up stairs before spewing onto the dirty sidewalk, eyes down-cast in order to avoid dead rats and dog poop, but, when happening to glance up, desensitized to the postcard skyline.
I don’t get asked for directions as often as I used to, but when I do, I can usually give them.
I’m not a New Yorker, I want to shout at the tourists in ugly sneakers, the bums, the F train, the three-hundred-dollar tee shirts, myself. I’m just a little girl from Georgia: witness to shooting stars so bright they must have landed just on the other side of the azalea hedge, where we should probably check in the morning; possessor of black soles, unable to recall the last time she wore shoes; creator of potent perfumes, made with the finest combination of macerated petals, sticks, dirt, and plastic-hose-water; explorer of magnolias, with rooms, big like houses; beneficiary of the night-time lullaby of frogs and crickets and the occasional train whistle.
I could be a New Yorker, most days.
I can believe it until I hear the whine of a 4- or 5-year-old child, sharp and whining, demanding of a parent or nanny that they not walk, but take a cab to their destination.
It’s a voice you’ll hear again in 15 or 20 years. It will be walking in front of you, having an indiscreet mobile conversation about an ex-best-friend’s recently acquired STD or at the next table over, discussing a mother’s most recent rehab attempt and failure. It will sound angry, even when it’s not.
It’s a voice I feel sorry for, making me wonder, In a place with no dirt driveways, where do you learn to ride a bike?
~beatrix
18.4.10
the chorus
I keep wishing the blossoms back on the trees.
Wouldn’t it be nice if we were older, then we wouldn’t have to wait so long.
That Beach Boys’ song came on today at work. I don’t think Brian Wilson* ever sang about the excitement of maybe starting a savings account together. Or apprehension at the possibility of your boyfriend getting a really amazing job in Philadelphia. Or worrying that you’ll never get your place on 6th street or 9th street and that everyone in Philadelphia will hate you and that all the jobs will be in cubicles.
. . . Maybe we could liiiiiiiive together. . . Oh, wouldn’t it beee niiiiice. . .
Sam says it’s the ultimate goal.
“What is?”
“Two people, one bedroom.”
They don’t even mention the part where you have to clear out some of your stuff so your boyfriend’s stuff will have a spot . Or how nice it will be to have both of your wardrobes in a central location. Or how all the logistics will be easier and whoever gets home first can start dinner. . . .
The Beach Boys are old now-- like Beach Grandpas****. In the late autumns of their lives, they probably aren’t wishing to be older, but instead wishing friends back into lives, lovers back into beds, babies back into play-pens, hair back onto heads, blossoms back onto trees.
I just want to be here for a while.
*not to be confused with my lover, and anchor of the NBC Nightly News, Brian Williams**
**not to be confused with my boyfriend, and MSNBC personality, Carl Quintanina***
***I have a thing for newsmen
****Wouldn’t it be nice if they were older and could live together in the same assisted living community?
~beatrix
11.4.10
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
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
7.4.10
the most beautiful day
I guess it was only about a week ago that my boss quit. Well, he quit on Friday and then got fired on Monday. That. . . doesn’t even make sense anywhere else.
I’m starting to feel like myself again.
Turns out I like myself.
And I told my mom about Ted moving in. That felt good.
And I’m glad he’s moving in. It feels good to think about a future with someone without panicking at the direness of it all.
I love him and I love every street I’m walking down, but I love that one in particular. Maybe we can move there next.
I love my hypothetical apartment on 6th street. It has a garden.
And I love New York. I walked through Thompson Square Park by myself, and all the aggressive homeless men have been replaced by laughing children and well-behaved dogs. And the sun is at the most perfect angle to reflect off the windows and on the other side the daffodils are blooming. When did this even happen? Maybe I should take a picture.
But when I look back at where I came from, the shadows aren’t as nice. I’ll just remember.
We have dinner plans with friends. Oh, and I got a raise today.
I like where this is going.
~beatrix
I’m starting to feel like myself again.
Turns out I like myself.
And I told my mom about Ted moving in. That felt good.
And I’m glad he’s moving in. It feels good to think about a future with someone without panicking at the direness of it all.
I love him and I love every street I’m walking down, but I love that one in particular. Maybe we can move there next.
I love my hypothetical apartment on 6th street. It has a garden.
And I love New York. I walked through Thompson Square Park by myself, and all the aggressive homeless men have been replaced by laughing children and well-behaved dogs. And the sun is at the most perfect angle to reflect off the windows and on the other side the daffodils are blooming. When did this even happen? Maybe I should take a picture.
But when I look back at where I came from, the shadows aren’t as nice. I’ll just remember.
We have dinner plans with friends. Oh, and I got a raise today.
I like where this is going.
~beatrix
2.4.10
once upon a time
I met up with Fred who was in town to visit Mateo who I never see even though he lives 4 blocks from Ted. Mateo got married, I remembered, recently. And his wife was there, too.
And I wondered, like I always do, why things are so awkward between me and Mateo.
Then I remembered, like I usually do. There was that time we were all hanging out and drunk and getting asked politely to please go home so they could close the bar and we all said we should go watch belly dancing soon. And then Mateo called to ask if I wanted to go watch flamenco dancing at that same restaurant, and when I asked him who was coming, he said Paul and some people. But he showed up alone in Fred’s borrowed car and he paid and it was supposed to be a date.
So I pretended I was busy for a while then dated his room mate.
Ten million years ago. So easy to forget. I bet his wife doesn’t know that story.
~beatrix
And I wondered, like I always do, why things are so awkward between me and Mateo.
Then I remembered, like I usually do. There was that time we were all hanging out and drunk and getting asked politely to please go home so they could close the bar and we all said we should go watch belly dancing soon. And then Mateo called to ask if I wanted to go watch flamenco dancing at that same restaurant, and when I asked him who was coming, he said Paul and some people. But he showed up alone in Fred’s borrowed car and he paid and it was supposed to be a date.
So I pretended I was busy for a while then dated his room mate.
Ten million years ago. So easy to forget. I bet his wife doesn’t know that story.
~beatrix
22.3.10
bumps in the road
“We are walking so leisurely.”
“I’m just. . . tired.”
Things had degenerated rapidly, and Sam looked like I felt: bedraggled, exhausted, confused, caught-in-headlights-then-hit-by-a-bus.
What if we just never went back to that job ever again?
“Too bad I’m not pregnant,” Sam said.
That would be some trick of science, and he’d have to buy all new clothes.
But when we sat down on a SoHo stoop, everyone who didn’t have a stroller had a convex bellybutton straining at their knitwear.
Does it say something about your job when cleaning up poop is starting to sound more pleasant?
“I’m just. . . tired.”
Things had degenerated rapidly, and Sam looked like I felt: bedraggled, exhausted, confused, caught-in-headlights-then-hit-by-a-bus.
What if we just never went back to that job ever again?
“Too bad I’m not pregnant,” Sam said.
That would be some trick of science, and he’d have to buy all new clothes.
But when we sat down on a SoHo stoop, everyone who didn’t have a stroller had a convex bellybutton straining at their knitwear.
Does it say something about your job when cleaning up poop is starting to sound more pleasant?
10.3.10
advice
Sam says, “Aww.” when I mention it to him.
Logan and Laurie say whatever I do don’t do it.
Jules says people kept telling her that the first year would be the hardest, but that moving in with Ed was the easiest thing ever.
My brother says my parents might not mind as much as I think they will.
And Ted’s mom says that if it turns out having too little space and not enough walls is an issue, he can move back with her and his dad until we can get a place with doors.
We have a month to decide.
~beatrix
Logan and Laurie say whatever I do don’t do it.
Jules says people kept telling her that the first year would be the hardest, but that moving in with Ed was the easiest thing ever.
My brother says my parents might not mind as much as I think they will.
And Ted’s mom says that if it turns out having too little space and not enough walls is an issue, he can move back with her and his dad until we can get a place with doors.
We have a month to decide.
~beatrix
5.3.10
as far as i can tell, the good kind of what ifs
Maybe what I mean when we talk about the finances of it all and buying furniture and the groceries and if it will matter for seven months if there is no wall and how maybe a garage will be necessary because parking uptown is a nuisance. . . is that if I buy an immersion blender or a sofa I want it to be ours and not mine. . . and that I don’t really want to be your room mate, exactly. . . . Maybe I wouldn’t mind if our lives got jumbled up along with our things. . . . Maybe what I mean is that I might like to build my life with yours.
~beatrix
~beatrix
3.3.10
the bad kind of what-ifs
Ted has a lifetime of acquaintances in this city, and I think he’s better at looking up when he walks than I am. And being with him makes the East Village feel like an actual neighborhood. We run into people.
Ted asked if he was going our way, and the answer told everything without a detail. ’Cause if he’s going uptown, he’s not going to the girl whose name, with his, has become such an easy pair.
His skin was transparent, his face bonier than I remembered. Jumpy, unfocused, he has the wide, empty eyes of a stray dog who distrusts human contact as much as he craves it.
He’s going uptown, and I forgot the M is even a train. Walking away, I wished I’d given him a more honest hug, and I wished I’d given him the trail mix out of my bag. I don’t know if he’s going home, but he’s going somewhere to sleep, and Queens is a long way from here.
My boy and I laughed at the intersection of 2nd and A where he always falls in that shallow hole.
But I’ve looked out hollow ghost-eyes, eyes that never want to close, but don’t want to see anything either. I’ve stopped eating, tried to start over from the inside out. I’ve developed a quiver in my hands, my jaw, my gut I was sure was visible from the outside. I’ve been not just not my self, but not anyone.
When he pulls his shirt off over his head, he blocks the overhead light from my face. If this were a metaphor, he would be the moon in this solar eclipse and he’d control my tides. That’s a little sweet, but mostly gross. And anyway, no matter how much the earth stretches for the moon, she’ll never touch him.
And I just can’t get close enough.
I lie my head in the crook of his arm, run my fingers up and down his chest. But what I really want to do is pound it:
Never do that to me. Never do that to me. Never, ever do that to me.
~beatrix
Ted asked if he was going our way, and the answer told everything without a detail. ’Cause if he’s going uptown, he’s not going to the girl whose name, with his, has become such an easy pair.
His skin was transparent, his face bonier than I remembered. Jumpy, unfocused, he has the wide, empty eyes of a stray dog who distrusts human contact as much as he craves it.
He’s going uptown, and I forgot the M is even a train. Walking away, I wished I’d given him a more honest hug, and I wished I’d given him the trail mix out of my bag. I don’t know if he’s going home, but he’s going somewhere to sleep, and Queens is a long way from here.
My boy and I laughed at the intersection of 2nd and A where he always falls in that shallow hole.
But I’ve looked out hollow ghost-eyes, eyes that never want to close, but don’t want to see anything either. I’ve stopped eating, tried to start over from the inside out. I’ve developed a quiver in my hands, my jaw, my gut I was sure was visible from the outside. I’ve been not just not my self, but not anyone.
When he pulls his shirt off over his head, he blocks the overhead light from my face. If this were a metaphor, he would be the moon in this solar eclipse and he’d control my tides. That’s a little sweet, but mostly gross. And anyway, no matter how much the earth stretches for the moon, she’ll never touch him.
And I just can’t get close enough.
I lie my head in the crook of his arm, run my fingers up and down his chest. But what I really want to do is pound it:
Never do that to me. Never do that to me. Never, ever do that to me.
~beatrix
21.2.10
there are some things, like rollercoasters, that are fun and not fun at the same time
The thought is that if he moves into my studio when his lease is up, we’ll save a ton of money. Then we can go on vacation.
And we’d rather see each other every night anyway.
It’s just a thought. It seemed like a great idea.
I didn’t know why butterflies had taken up residence in my abdomen today. At 10:15 pm, I made the connection.
I might throw up.
~beatrix
And we’d rather see each other every night anyway.
It’s just a thought. It seemed like a great idea.
I didn’t know why butterflies had taken up residence in my abdomen today. At 10:15 pm, I made the connection.
I might throw up.
~beatrix
19.2.10
it makes my last post seem a little less crazy. . . a little
I had turned my back to the boys, and beer was running down my chin. Two-thirds of the way in, I gasped for air before beginning again.
College was worth it like never before, and those sorority dues were paying off.
Ted had assured me I didn’t have to do this if I thought it would end badly, but it was going great, and I could hear them getting excited.
Ted’s friend I’d only just met declared, “If she’s pulls this off, you’ve got to marry her.”
And Ted’s brother claimed, “That is my future sister-in-law.”
I turned around as triumphantly as is possible when you are wiping beer from your face with the back of your hand, and raised the empty pitcher.
Those boys were easily impressed. There was only a glass and a half of beer in that pitcher, maximum. And once you say you can do something, you kind of have to do it.
“That’s my girlfriend,” Ted put his arm around my waist. No one ever said he fell in love with me ’cause I’m so classy.
Later I was standing on the sidewalk waiting for people who were still inside, a course your night tends to take when you’ve been drinking beer out of pitchers.
I don’t know how Ted’s brother’s thought began, but it ended, “. . . when you get married. Or maybe I’ll be in the wedding. . . ,” with a characteristic raised palm and shifted chin that means question mark.
“Of course you’ll be in the wedding,” Ted told him.
I told Ted I only want three bridesmaids, and he said he could probably narrow his people down to three.
“Oh, and my brother,” I added.
“But will he go on your side or my side?”
“My side.”
And then Ted told his brother’s friend he could be an usher.
~beatrix
17.2.10
wealth management
Sometimes I panic, not because it doesn’t feel right, just because it doesn’t feel real.
**********
He was driving down the West Side, and we were stopped at a light.
“People don’t understand sometimes. Being single is just. . . .”
“Exhausting,” we said it together.
Sometimes having a blog puts one in an interesting position to reflect. A quick scan reveals that I have written about relationships, however distant, brief, or insignificant, with no fewer than 41 boys. Stories from a kindergarten proposal to everyday adventures with the boy I woke up with this morning.
No wonder I was tired.
For a while I thought I was lucky, and maybe I am. But maybe I just deserve this.
I’ve worked hard.
There’s a Bright Eyes song that says
With these things there’s no telling, you just have to wait and see.
But I’d rather be working for a paycheck than waiting to win the lottery.
I think it’s a love song.
I always thought I’d just keep pressing my luck, but it turns out that even if you hit the jackpot, you still have to manage your investments.
~beatrix
10.2.10
we went to a wedding-- part 2
“It’s like we’re dead!”
I guess I got excited and said that out loud before I thought about how it might sound to his high school friend and her boring banker boyfriend.
But on the roof, city behind us, looking through a skylight, at this particularly angled view of the dance floor inside. . .
“Ha. Yeah,” I should have known my boy would get it. And he tries to explain it to their wrinkled foreheads and gaping lips. He’s unsuccessful, but I’m thankful he saved me from having to try.
We point them in the direction of the spot we found to have a Moment before we head back inside.
It’s still winter, after all.
~beatrix
I guess I got excited and said that out loud before I thought about how it might sound to his high school friend and her boring banker boyfriend.
But on the roof, city behind us, looking through a skylight, at this particularly angled view of the dance floor inside. . .
“Ha. Yeah,” I should have known my boy would get it. And he tries to explain it to their wrinkled foreheads and gaping lips. He’s unsuccessful, but I’m thankful he saved me from having to try.
We point them in the direction of the spot we found to have a Moment before we head back inside.
It’s still winter, after all.
~beatrix
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
