i can sleep alone, but it doesn't mean i like it

Unlocking the door of my apartment, I realize that it’s Tuesday and that I haven’t slept in my bed since Tuesday. It just worked out. And we were busy. And I’ve been here to visit and get clothes and blog and even just hang out. And I really didn’t mean to leave my phone at Ted’s, but once I was back there, it made sense just to sleep in his bed.

And I’m not annoyed at having to take the train to see him or of always having underpants in my bag or even of finding an elbow where I might want to roll over.

What if we fell asleep together every night?

I don’t want to shove with both hands. No get-out-of-my-bed get-out-of my-space get-out-of-my-life. That’s a feeling so familiar, I think I’d recognize it creeping up.

“It would be fun. . . lots of weekend activities and delicious things to eat. . . .”

“There would be a lot of boring parts, too, like making dinner and stuff.”

There’d be all the paying bills and cleaning the bathtub and don’t-forget-to-take-the-trash-when-you-go-out. Just life. There’d be all the life in-between.

~beatrix

The return of Harper

Trix is very happy. She and Ted spend weekends going to Ikea and eating pie in bed and they even have a cookie ritual. I bet when she and Ted tell these stories in person, they finish each other's sentences and break into synchronized laughter at the particularly charming moments. If they were any sweeter I'd be vomiting tiny marshmallows all over my keyboard.

I'm sorry, I'm being hateful. I really am very happy for her. She's one of my most favorite people in the world and she deserves to be with a guy who understands the importance of dessert, particularly for breakfast. But I do sort of miss the stories of her stuffing underwear in her purse and staggering home in the morning from somewhere she shouldn't have been.

I am a terrible blogger. I have abandoned my responsibilities and left it to Trix to entertain the masses. And look what happened-- stories of kittens and babies and sunshine and pppttthhh. So I have returned to bring you tales of poor judgement, alcohol abuse, and, yes, missing underwear.

Kisses,
Harper

just be yourself

“So help me out. What should I be doing differently to make girls like me?”
“You should just be yourself.”

Pete and I were on one of our impromptu Lower East Side food tours, and were heading back to SoHo so he could sit in Bloomingdale’s comfy chairs while I pretended to shoe shop.

“Don’t you just want to be with someone you can tell, ‘I’m just sitting around in my underpants eating gnocchi,’ and she’ll think it’s awesome?”
“That’s disgusting.”
“Oh. Well, it’s reassuring to know that you’re not my person.”

~beatrix

artifacts

“I’m helping my boyfriend move.”

This sentence kept rattling around in my head as I packed his closet and helped take apart his bed.

“I’m helping my boyfriend move. I have a boyfriend. We do important things together. Someday, we could look back and say, 'Remember that place in Park Slope?'”

Ugh. Ok, that was too far. Anyway. . . .

I helped him move the clothes from his chest into a box. The last thing out was a pair of fuchsia panties.

He seemed embarrassed, but I didn't really mind.

“Well, I have. . . .”
“It’s like girls with boys’ t shirts.”
“Yes. It’s like that.”

Except I hope he never wears his artifacts of lost relationships.


~beatrix