the creative process

i started writing a story with heavy, morbid themes, but then i got distracted because i was hungry and also wanted to see if any wedding invitations came in the mail. (some microwaved, frozen veg mix and a cherry yogurt; and yes, one for september 24.)

and then i got further distracted by the general internet and started thinking about writing a satirical piece entitled, "date a girl who refuses to drink non-dairy creamer". As a work in progress, it only has a few lines:

Understand that she prefers electronic books to real books because real books are heavy and new books to used books because used books make her itch.
Never mess up. Everyone knows that sequels suck because they are always trying too hard.
Never propose to me over Skype. Well you can. Because I collect proposals. But I will ignore you.



i think i need coffee. with milk.


~beatrix

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

is nothing sacred anymore?

I had the best idea. Me and the boy could get civil unioned and then we could share insurance without having to get married for boring, practical reasons. Getting courthouse married would also mean either keeping it a secret from our parents or making them really angry at us for ruining the fun party part of it. And we could still get married later and get presents. And it just makes sense as I’m pretty sure we are civil unioned in practice.

As a special bonus, civil unions in New York are a bargain-- only $35.

I am brilliant. Brilliant.

Except.

The boy’s work doesn’t count civil unions unless they are between same-sex couples. So one of us would have to have a sex change to make it work and that probably costs more than insurance and I wonder if his insurance covers that because then it would have to be him and I’m not really sexually attracted to women (it’s this catch-22 situation I can elaborate upon later) and I don’t think he’d agree to it anyway. . . .

So at any rate, we can’t share insurance because we are straight.

(I mean, please don’t think I’m some awful person. I realize we have the right to get married which is cool, and I think we all deserve that. But right now I’m just pretty sure that we all deserve the rights that come from marriages or civil unions because that would mean that my plan had not been totally thwarted.)


~beatrix

a snippet-- fill-in-the-blanks

A few weeks ago, over a 3-hour ham(and chicken- and veggi-)burger dinner with Ted and my cousin and his wife:

“. . . at our wedding.”
“Wait, so when is your brother getting married?”
“The 25th.”
“What? Of July? Of this month?”
“Yeah. They got a package at a bed and breakfast for nine people.”
“Wow. I would never be able to do that.”
“Oh, no. At our wedding we had people we just had to invite. . . .”
“Did you know that Dunkin’ Donuts has ninety-nine cent iced tea now?”
“Did you just try to change the subject?”

I’ll let you figure out who said what.


~beatrix

i am so happy for you!

My hobbies are cake, flowers, party dresses, etiquette, and paper products. And my job is full of fancy parties. I could pretend that I don’t love weddings, but no one would believe me.

And when I invited myself over to Harrington’s roof on Saturday night he said it would be perfect because I could give his wedding invite list (for a party 14 months away) a once over. . . and see YouTube videos of the cocktail-hour band. . . and see the photographer’s work.

And Cooper let me know he was proposing to his girl the next day.

And Prince Charming casually mentioned that he has been engaged for a month.

And that was going to be my blog post for today-- about how everyone is getting married and how it’s obviously a race and I’m losing and how I keep just accidentally Googling wedding dresses.

And then.

And then. . . .

Ted texted me to let me know that his brother. . . his little brother. . . is engaged. It happened last night.

And that’s it. If Simon calls to say he’s getting married, I will throw up.


~beatrix

wedding of the century

Ted caught the bouquet. To keep if from hitting the floor, he says. With an outstretched arm and a measure of decisiveness, I say.

Maybe it was just a matter of perspective.

Boys can catch the bouquet, by the way, in Connecticut, where Grandmas can also marry their girlfriends in sweet ceremonies where the justice of the peace cries and the kids, grownups for all appearances, sneak rice from the restaurant kitchen in two coffee cups, to ensure a proper send-off.

We brought the cake and got in a fight in the car. We fight like my parents. That’s disturbing, but not altogether uncomfortable.

It feels familiar.

We made up after the party started. There were quick kisses and whispered apologies. It was a celebration of love, after all.

Then there was toasting and lunch and Ted clobbered his cousins so he could snatch that bouquet.

~beatrix

count 'em

This makes six, I think. Not counting the implied intent of starry-eyed and slightly delusional boyfriends or bums.

There was one hand-written on three-lined paper, circa 1986. Three that one wild month junior year of college. One on an airport shuttle about five years ago.

“When are you getting married?”
“I don’t know. You’ll have to ask my boyfriend.”
“You can get married whenever you want.”
“Oh?”
“You want to get married, you let me know. You can get married whenever you want.”

One sesame bagel, toasted, with veggie cream cheese and a side of self-esteem, thanks.


~beatrix

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

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

general update

For those of you interested, I bought an entire bunch of asparagus this week. And also a copy of Martha Stewart Weddings, but that was for work-related research.

~beatrix

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

maybe you should ask him

My exes have started asking if I’m going to marry Ted.

When I asked Cooper for his address so I could send him a Christmas card, he asked if it was for a wedding invitation.

David asked. He said he thinks I’ll have a fun wedding, and it will be “so great” to see me as a bride. He’ll have to facebook stalk to see pictures, ’cause he won’t be invited.

Hugo asked, too. He says he’s going to dance with me and hang out with my brother. My baby cousins will be excited to see him.

And I might have told Hugo he can be an usher.

~beatrix

we went to a wedding-- epilogue

And afterward, with my dress and coat and shoes all over his bedroom and my hair back in its ponytail and my feet tucked under him, we were very full and very tired and it was very late. I don’t know if it mattered that we’d just seen friends get married. But our words were soft and heavy and trapped in under the covers, and we talked about prayers and love and believing, because it might matter. One day.


~beatrix

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

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

when you know

Julianna’s parents knew they were going to be together two weeks after they met. Her mom was seventeen, her dad only slightly older. They know they are lucky.

Ted’s parents dated for six weeks, were engaged for six months, and have been married for more than thirty years.

Jules and I realized that virtually all our friends have still-married parents.

My own parents have the opposite of a love-at-first-sight story. They met at school when they were five; my mom says my dad didn’t invite her to his birthday party. They went to school together and had a lot of the same friends and ran into each other in the parking lot at Disney World when they were twelve. My dad went on FFA trips with my mom’s brothers; my mom dated all my dad’s friends.

When my dad asked my mom to marry him in the driveway of her parents’ house, no one inside cared because the United States had just beat the USSR at hockey. And they already knew what it had taken my mom and dad fifteen years to figure out.

~beatrix

the hurricane

It wasn’t so long ago that Harper and I would declare that we date like boys. Something about getting out early and not getting attached for the sake of attachment and never never writing our names with boys’ last names on the inside covers of our notebooks.

Well, Harper is dating someone. And I’m dating someone. And we like the boys we’re with, and we like the boys the other is with.

And all this happiness has collided in a hurricane of crazy-girlness.

Harper might know what colors she wants for her wedding. (I’m supportive because I look good in those colors.) I confide that I am pretty much in love with a dress from the Oscar de la Renta Spring 2008 bridal collection. (Harper’s supportive, ’cause I’d look good in that, too.)

Harper’s boy has a last name that’s heavy on the constants, so bulky names don’t sound good with it. But his has a good, strong, middle name. My boy has a last name that is hopelessly a noun. Any noun names sound silly, and adjective-y names sound like something from the newspaper classifieds.

Harper and I are talking about baby names. Like for serious. And sometimes being a girl is fun.

~beatrix

missed opportunites

I was away in Boston for the weekend to see Evie, so I don’t have anything prepared for today, but you are in luck. I am giving you something from my personal archives. It was written on September 14, 2008 about a trip I had taken to Boston sometime after graduating from college and sometime before I moved to New York. Enjoy.
~beatrix of christmas present


I’m pretty sure I met my soulmate once. And by met I actually mean sat with in very close proximity without saying a word.

I was taking a morning flight from Boston to Atlanta, and they asked for volunteers to give up their seats in exchange for ticket vouchers. I’m always hoping that will happen, but it never does unless I have something very pressing and important to do at the other end or have someone practically on the way to pick me up from the airport. Not this time. So. . score.

Then you know that game you play with yourself while you’re waiting for a flight? The one where you sit there and think, “I guess that I will I end up sitting next to that incredibly attractive and well-dressed fellow there reading that interesting magazine”? But then you lose the game and wind up sitting next to a chubby guy who immediately falls asleep with his mouth open and taking up one third of your allotted space or an old lady with a scratchy sweater who doesn’t speak English and gets her tv screen stuck on or some guy who enlightens you on how to fly a plane yourself, complete with a full-on reenactment? Well, this one time I won.

I picked this guy with a square jaw and a cap, and when I got on the plane he was. . . right there, taking something out of his bag then putting it in the overhead bin. And I realized that I had made a great choice because his beefy shoulder was just the absolute perfect height on which to lie my head. But I didn’t do that. Then he sat next to the window, and for the first and only time in my entire life, I was happy to be in the middle seat-- next to him. Ding ding ding. Winner again.


So that’s not all. The things that he had taken from his bag? The Wall Street Journal and East of Eden. He flipped through the Journal, then stuck it in the seat pocket. Nothing too exciting, but at least he probably had a job, right? The Steinbeck book, though? That’s my favorite book. . . No kidding. And he sat there and read it for almost two hours. With his arm well over the armrest, pressing against mine. And I didn’t move my arm-- he felt amazing and I was in love. I just sat there and pretended to read, wishing I’d brought something a little smarter and trying to talk myself into saying “You know, that’s my favorite book.” so we could start a conversation and live happily ever after.

I spent the entire trip counting down how long I had left to finally talk to him, but I couldn’t make the words come out. It was over all too soon, and I had to pull my arm away from him so I could put my stupid book back in my bag. I don’t even remember seeing him at baggage claim.

So I’m pretty sure that’s why I’m alone now. I was supposed to meet my soulmate on a plane between Boston and Atlanta, and I didn’t take the chance that fate handed me. It’s a sad story. And if I’d talked to him, I’d probably be with him right now, eating a lovely dinner off our wedding china instead of eating take-away pizza out of the box.

~beatrix of christmas past



and, as i thought this post needed even more italics, i got one of those twitters. we can be friends and stuff: beatrix_here
~beatrix of christmas future

dressing

You should know that I will buy party dresses before I will buy furniture. I might buy party dresses before I will buy food, which is sort of a cyclical budget and a diet plan all in one. I know some girls like shoes to the point that it’s really just a cliché, and you know I like shoes fine because you’re always tripping over that pile of mine by my closet, but party dresses are like therapy and maybe you need to feel pretty while you check your email once in a while.

You like this one, I think. I’ll wear it to your friend’s wedding with these shoes, probably, because they are good for dancing a lot, but I’ll need another black accessory to help them make more sense. You probably don’t care about the details, but yeah, I’m pretty sure you really like it. . . . That’s another thing about party dresses: your boy hands have an easy time convincing me I’m sexy when they find my scrawny curves through a layer of tailored satin.

You can twirl me, tell me you’re lucky ’cause you like me every day in ponytails and jeans and boots that keep out rain and cold, but sometimes I’m extra show-off-able for your friends. You can keep touching me, baby, but let me take it off before we get too far. . . . I haven’t even worn it out of the house yet. . . .


~beatrix

the night with the magic daiquiris or what if nobody wants to marry me before i'm 36

Almost seven years ago, I met Harper’s brother, we fell in love, and he proposed.

It was Mardi Gras, and he arrived at our house one night after we’d had 32-ounce daiquiris (and also some beer from a weimaraner and his boy until the boy’s girlfriend disallowed him from talking to me). I couldn’t feel my face, and Harper’s brother looked like Tom Cruise. He bought me a slice of pizza, I dropped it on the sidewalk, and he bought me another one. He made sure I didn’t walk in the street. He was perfect.

What should have been one magical (and hangover-free) night, became something more on the internet. He became my backup boyfriend, someone to be around when I came home alone, a sort of safety net. And we made one of those pacts: if we aren’t married by a certain time, we’ll just marry each other.

Harper’s brother got engaged. . . to some other girl. And there goes my safety net.

~beatrix