going somewhere

Do you know that I met him more than eleven months ago, in words if not in person? Eleven is almost twelve. And twelve is important, probably.

He wrote that haiku about the subway that I thought I understood. And I never even asked him what it was about.

It was cold the first time I saw him, even though I wasn’t wearing a coat. There was promise of spring, but it was winter. Like it is winter now. We’ve almost been around the seasons together. Almost.

Ten months almost. Ten is a lot, too.

He knows what foods to bring over when I’m sick, even though he doesn’t know if I like pulp in my orange juice. He knows I’d almost always rather walk a few blocks than have to transfer trains. And he knows how to make me laugh and what’s my normal morning bagel and how I like to fall asleep.

I’m the one who hears the funny things he calls out in his sleep. “Lonely float.” “Adidas.”

I know that the graphite-dot-tattoo on his palm is from being stabbed by a boy named Christopher in kindergarten. I know that there’s an oddly-appropriate freckle constellation of a grocery cart on the back of one of his calves. I can predict the order he’ll eat the things on his plate, and I know when it’s time to stop the movie by the weight of his arm.

I realized when I was falling asleep that I don’t know his shoe size. Or his favorite color. And I never know which side of the bed he’s going to want.

He’ll stop himself from asking me if we can try all the city’s beergardens this summer because it’s too much future, then he’ll ask me if we can send our kids to French immersion school, then he’ll ask me if we can go for bubble tea even though I hate both tea and anything that feels like a tadpole in my mouth. I’m almost always down for the walk to Chinatown, though.

I know there were girls before me, and I hate them. But not too much. I was no saint either. (It’s a funny thing to say, because I’m pretty sure there were some slutty saints.)

I hate that he had a life before me, but I’m glad we didn’t know each other sooner, ’cause we both know we would’ve screwed it up.

And all those other girls I’ll never want to count, I’m glad they broke him in. Broke him in without breaking him.


~beatrix



the blog has not only been around, but has been around with stuff on it for a whole year. thanks guys.
~b

serious is a relative concept

It seemed sort of serious when he let me help him with his Netflix queue. We decided to watch all the Harry Potter movies in order, interspersed with Mad Men. It took us three installments to get through the first Harry Potter because I kept falling asleep, so we’ve managed to plan our couch time for at least the next few months.

“Oh! Can we add Grey Gardens?
“That’s a girl movie”
“You don’t have to add it.”
“I’ll add it, but I’m also adding this one where Jessica Alba is a stripper.”

This from the boy for whom Netflix recommends the category “Gay & Lesbian Action & Adventure”, which seems pretty specific.

Yeah, planning what movies we are going to watch seemed serious.

He has Torah portions in his calendar along with work obligations and parties.

“Is it ever going to matter that I’m not Jewish?”

He ‘s across the room when I ask; he comes close to answer. He doesn’t say anything I don’t know.

My hands find his chest, fingers up his tee shirt sleeves. He explains, things I knew without asking: It’s important to him, he’d never expect anything from me, it would matter if there were kids.

And this is where we are and my tears are fat and falling and his are more sideways and shiny. And I need to know need to know need to know now. Can we do this? Will we do this? How do we do this?

Can you believe we're really here? Talking about babies?

“I need to know now. I can’t waste time. I need to know now. I don’t want to be old and alone.”
“You won’t be old and alone. You’re loveable. You’d find someone.”

Fatter, fallier tears. Because finding someone to love me is not a problem. Don’t you see? Don’t you see I want you? Lie to me. I promise I’ll believe. Don’t you know? I’ve wished for you over 312 smoky birthday candles, sent the hope of you up into 143 dark night skies toward that first prick of starlight, kissed my necklace clasp every time it falls to the middle with a secret thought of this, and fallen asleep 5840 nights, hoping to dream you into my reality. Don’t you see? Don’t you see how lucky you are? I want to choose you.

But, please, don’t leave.

I have his shirt clutched in my fist.

“No. No. You can’t want me to be with someone else.”

He’s back.

“You’re right. You’re going to be with me. We’ll figure the rest out.”

He picks me up, tosses me on his bed.

The rest we’ll figure out. Every day, we’ll figure out. This part, we know. This is good.

where we come from

Once, my baby brother said if I got married on Game Day, he wouldn’t come. And it’s probably true.

’Cause where we’re from, college football alliance is something like religion. “The Cliffords. . . they’re Presbyterian,” you might say about an entire, extended family, “and Tech fans.”

But maybe it’s more like ancestry. Us, for example-- we’re Scottish and Irish and some Cherokee on my maternal grandmother’s side. And we’re UGA fans (though I didn’t go there, and most of my family didn’t either), but we’re Auburn fans on my paternal grandfather’s side.

And on a Friday night, when I said, “Oh, tomorrow’s Game Day,” Ted said, no it’s not, because to him Game Day is Sunday.

So he cares about professional football and he doesn’t play golf and he’s never had a Christmas tree.

“If you ever live with me, you’ll get to have a Christmas tree.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. You can put whatever you want on it.”
“Whatever I want?”
“Yeah.”
“Jew-y things?”
“Yeah, if you want. We always had a Star of David on our tree.”

Which is true because one Christmas Eve my dad brought home two department-store presents, one in in red and green with a Christmas ornament, and one blue and white with a Chanukah ornament. They turned out to be gloves for me and my mom, but they didn’t fit and we returned them.

~beatrix

gram

I met Ted’s grandma finally, which was nice. She’s really sweet and cute and all the things a gramma should be. Lots of smiles and hugs to go around.

And after the matzoh ball soup, she turned to Ted’s mom and, with a gesture in my direction, asked, “Is she Jewish?”

Then she asked me where I’m from and I told her, slowly, and she relayed it in signs to her plus-one Margo.

’Cause Grandma is Jewish, but she’s also deaf. And a lesbian.

~beatrix

word of the day: payots

I called my mom while I was walking because that is what I do. I told her how I’m going to Ted’s parents to celebrate Rosh Hoshanna, and she told me about a conversation with the wife of one of my father’s very conservative business colleagues.

“She said her husband never would have let their daughter date someone who wasn’t Episcopalian, or whatever they are, and I said, ‘Beatrix is a grownup. She doesn’t live in my house; I can’t tell her what to do. And. . . and I trust her.’”

And that was cool, so I took a few minutes to gush about my boyfriend and talk about how the two of us should come visit her and my dad some time soon. I think she’s excited about this.

And, well, then she said that it was fine that I have a Jewish boyfriend as long as her grandchildren didn’t have to have those dreadlocks, by which she meant the curls, by which she meant payots, which I had to look up: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sidelocks

I really think she means well.

~beatrix


so, i had the kind of day that may or may not have involved my shouting at my boss that i he can't try to make me feel guilty for not wanting to work weekends (even though he knows i will) but he should thank me for being at work at all. and then i cried. a lot. and now i'm eating more pizza than i should. and i think i might have a cold and i just hope i don't have what sammy has 'cause it's GROSS, trust me, he emailed me a picture.

so anyway. feel free to tell me i'm pretty.

~b

eternal fates

We were facing west, bright orange sunset glow all around us. Just the two of us, on the beach. When my mother told me,

“Just. . . please don’t marry a Jewish boy.”

She asked, really.

I must have been twenty. Growing up in a town with two temples, I had three Jewish friends, had attended a single Bat Mitzvah, and had two Jewish acquaintances from my ballet studio I probably would have counted as enemies if they’d ever acknowledged my existence. But now I was going to a college that was one-third Catholic, one-third Jewish, and one-third Other. I’m pretty sure I’d never been Other before.

A family friend a few years older than me had recently gotten married and converted, and my mom was concerned about the eternal fates of the souls of her unborn grandchildren.

I’m pretty sure I didn’t make any promises.

So the Jew thing doesn’t throw me, even though he might not love questions like, “If you’re kosher, is it ok to eat chicken with eggs?” (I’d been wondering that for a while.) And I’m doing a pretty good job of ignoring the fact that he’s 25 because he’s almost 26. And anyway, he’s cute enough and clever enough, and it’s just for fun.

“Did you ever play an instrument?”
“Flute in middle school band. And I can, like, play a song on a piano. How ’bout you?”
“I played clarinet.”

It’s this that stops me in my tracks. I think he’s joking, this boy who has access to so many of my secrets. I don’t believe him at first, but when I realize he’s serious, I’m disappointed.

“What’s wrong?”
“It’s just. . . that’s sort of a dealbreaker.”

He must think I’m joking.

I fall asleep, all wrapped up in his arms, mumbling something about just wanting to find a nice WASPy boy who plays something like. . . a trumpet.

~beatrix

thank you note

Dear Grandma,

Thank you for the Valentine’s Day card and for the enclosed ten dollars. You will be happy to know that I used it to get snockered [sic] with my coworkers. Absolutely snockered [sic] on lychee martinis. Do you know what a lychee is, Grandma? Me either, but I’m pretty sure it’s Chinese or something.

Anyway, the buzz is great, so I’m going to call this boy I like. I know you’ve given up on my ever getting married, but I have hope yet. And I think this guy might have potential, even though you’ll be sorry to know that he’s Hindu. So we'll have lots of heathen babies who believe in hundreds of gods, one of whom even has eight arms.

Thanks for your contribution to my courage fund, Grandma.

Happy Valentine’s Day, and lots of love,

~[drunk] beatrix

[Note: This letter was written when I was still quite drunk from those martinis. It was about 8:45 pm; this is what happens when I go out with my coworkers. (By the way, I know a great happy hour on the Lower East Side, if you are interested. I spent more than the $10 mentioned in my drunk letter, but not much.) This letter was not actually sent to my grandmother. Also, I knew what a lychee looked like in my drink, but I wikipedia-ed it, and now I know what the tree looks like, too. (And it is Chinese.) ~ sober beatrix]