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

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

just saturday

I had things to do when I left Gyan’s Saturday morning, but not urgent things.

So while I’m lounging around in bed, I get a message from Christophe:

“Hi, Beatrix. Can we talk? I don't want you to be upset with me. I'm sorry.”

In a way I’m flattered that he thinks I’m such a prude that I’d be offended by his grampa cheek-kiss. I wonder what he’d think of me if he had any idea what happened last night at Gyan’s.

And then I feel terribly guilty. Cooper reassured me that it was better to just let him think it was the kiss, to let him have a reason so he could just move on. But I don’t want to scar the boy into never kissing a girl on the cheek again.

I don’t know what to do, but I do what I always do when things are hard: think about something else. I meet up with my boss, run an errand at the Plaza, talk to a boy and set up a date for Sunday, and go to Barnes and Noble to sit on the floor with Pete.

Pete would be a recurring peripheral character on the Harper and Beatrix Show. As I’m having trouble with a desperate and needy boy, Pete’s being one. I read a few million lines of a chat he had with some girls he’s crazy over and try to tell him gently that he needs to calm down a little and not scare the girl away.

He knows, though, and the conversation turns to more Overheard-in-New-York-worthy topics. Pete once slept with a girl on a first date after they played hangman. And, unsolicited, he’s trying to help his pretty friend make extra money by hiring her out as a wingwoman. His Craigslist ad is brilliant, and has already gotten two responses. I’m laughing so hard, I seriously hope other people are enjoying this conversation.

“You want cookies?” he asks me.

We have some pre-dessert dumplings, then head to Milk Bar. I’m not feeling great, so he won’t let me touch the cookies we get. Instead he breaks them all and gives me halves.

“You realize the kind of relationship it looks like we have, don’t you?”

Before I go in the subway, he asks me when my next date is.

“Tomorrow at 12. No plan-- I’m just supposed to meet him in Union Square. The real question is should I go hungry or full?”

He assures me that there will be food since the date is at prime brunch time, but advises me to eat something small (he suggests a yogurt) before I go.

~beatrix

i'm afraid i'm moving backwards

I am, like, the effing Benjamin Button of dating.

I haven’t seen the movie, so please excuse the terrible pop culture analogy. What I mean to say is that sometimes I feel like I’m getting worse at dating instead of better. . . you know, moving backwards.

I had my first marriage proposal when I was in kindergarten. My mom found it in a box of my old school stuff when she and my dad were moving. It’s on three-lined paper and says, “Dear Beatrix, You are prety. Will you mery me? I love you. Love, Gary.” I was six.

My second grade boyfriend and I had an easy-going, symbiotic relationship of people who’ve been together forever. We’d swing in opposite directions during recess so we could look at each other. We’d always sit next to each other at lunch, and he’d open my yogurt for me.

My high school boyfriend and I had a relationship that fluctuated between giddiness and jealousy. We talked futures and baby names.

College was a string of short, but meaningful relationships, none lasting longer than 4 months. These often ended suddenly and dramatically.

I’ve spent the past year casually dating and juggling multiple, fleeting crushes.

And now I am 27 and fighting the strong and persistent urge to send an email (the grownup, 2009 equivalent of passing a folded-up note) that says “I like you. Do you like me? __yes __no __maybe” (I’d take the maybe if I could get it, but I’m saving up my courage to make an actual phone call instead.)

At this rate, I’ll be plastering my walls with boy band posters when I’m 45 and afraid to touch the boys at the nursing home for fear of catching cooties.


~beatrix

grocery shopping

Maybe some people want to pick up boys in the grocery store, so here is some advice on how to make sure the boys there know you are single:

Buy one can of tomato soup, one big orange, two containers of (full fat) greek yogurt, a pound of butter, and a bag of egg noodles that costs $1.69. No one will ever think you are going home to cook dinner for your boy.

And forget to get a basket and balance all your groceries to the register. Never mind. . . Looking ridiculous might not actually help your cause.

~beatrix