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

the boring details

It's summer and about 135 degrees. Fahrenheit. That's 57-ish if you live in Canada. A girl from Canada stayed with us for a few days, and she was like, "Is it always like this, eh? I can't dry my hair." and I was like, "Dude, it is always like this in the summer, and think about it. You are only in the very top part of this country. When I lived in the bottom part of the country, I used to have nightmares about drying my hair."

Well, anyway, I've been spending a lot a lot of time eating Italian ice. Actually, I've been spending a lot of time eating Italian ice (in heels on a corner in the East Village, on a walk through Fort Greene, at a Carrol Gardens street fair, etc.) and some time trying to figure out if I have one dollar (or two dollars if the boy wants Italian ice, too) and if not, where I can get some cash, because mostly you can't charge Italian ice.

I have a sandal tan line. I think the last time I had a sandal tan, I was in high school. It is actually a tan line, not just dirt. Sometimes it is partly dirt. The rest of my tan lines I've been changing up: scoop-neck tank top from going to Target, slightly askew oxford-shirt V from going to Trader Joe's. Currently, the most distinct print is one spaghetti straps and one extra wide handbag strap.

~b

better than television

He met a girl and she told him she worked in television. He told her he didn't watch television because his real life was so much better.

There's intrigue, girls with boyfriends, boys with anger issues, love triangles-- and more complicated geometry, the addict friend with the girlfriend he might love. It's always left to be continued. It never gets simpler, just more convoluted and harder to follow.

On the way home from a concert with his pretty friend, he stops the car and they get out to stand in the street because millions of magazine pages are raining from the sky. You want that to mean something.

He might be dating the girl from the magazine night. He's probably dating her. But it's complicated. It's always complicated.

She wanted a late-night snack. She's drunk but he's sober. You get a few months of sober when you throw up massive amounts of blood and end up spending a few days in a Bahamian hospital.*

She points out a couple a few booths away, saying they don't match because the girl's hotter than the boy. He asks if she's looked at the two of them.

He drops her off but doesn't stay. When you aren't drinking, you have to make decisions.

I'm captivated, but I want it to work out this time. I want it to work out every time.

~beatrix

*You also get very close to figuring out how quickly your parents' friends can arrange for private international flights.

the worst show on tv

I don't like scary movies. I don't like ghosts or murderers, and I really hate invisible people. But I think the absolute most terrifying thing on television is I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant. I hate it, and sometimes I watch it. I think I'm equally intrigued by the bizarre plot lines and the reenactment format. It's like some really boring improv exercise where one person describes eating a lot of green apples and throwing up while someone who looks kind of like her acts it out.

So, it's scary because you can be pregnant and not know it until a baby comes ripping out of you even if you are skinny and have your period and never want to eat pickles and ice cream together. (But, seriously, if you've been having a lot of back pain and have been wanting to eat a lot of tacos, you should probably see your doctor before you reach down to find a person coming out of your crotch. That is what I learned from The Learning Channel.)

But the scariest part would be the explaining. Like, what if you were at brunch with your friend and you just thought you had to poop but then you had a baby in a public restroom and had to explain to your friend where you got that gross naked baby. And then you'd have to call your parents, who might be upset but would probably just be confused. And then you'd have to pretend that everything was normal and put some pictures on facebook and pretend that, oh, everyone just wasn't paying attention, you were pregnant all along, and of course you didn't have a baby at brunch and think it was a poop.

TLC, I did not need another thing to worry about. I should put a lock on that show, except I don't know how to work my television. (Three remotes!)

look for it on netflix

I had insisted. It was the solstice, meant to be enjoyed outdoors. He brought his glass of wine and I'd brought my bowl of blueberries, feeding him every third or fourth one in what probably should have been an embarrassing way. If I wasn't over that by now.

Little kids were running around on the roof, babbling nonsense, and someone somewhere was smoking pot. How do you know when kids get a contact high if they act like this all the time?

The sun went down on the longest day of the year, the day's heat coming from below now, oozing back out from the concrete and metal. He kissed me. Then he kissed me for real.

And. . . fireworks. Big, literal, professional fireworks. Directly in front of us, perfectly timed.

Writing is hard, these days. We both feel it now that we're in the part of the romantic comedy that happens after the credits roll. But fireworks? The sequel to our first movie is straight to video.

~beatrix

metaphors everywhere

i was standing there holding a box and a box cutter. and when i cut my hand on the box, i thought, i wonder if this is a metaphor for my life?

~beatrix

and. . . that's how you know

We were close, you know. We shared our secrets and our dreams. I thought, this is how it will be to love someone forever. I thought I knew everything about him. I didn't really know what was left.

And then we got a stomach virus.

~b

they probably do make star wars crib bumpers

"They'd just be so nerdy."

"I'm actually afraid if they aren't, we won't be able to connect with them. I feel like if we had a baby, we should hang an embroidered sampler over it's crib -- 'Don't worry. I'm pretty sure you'll grow out of it.'"

"Or 'There's still time. No one wants to peak in high school.'"

I love him, but if you'd seen our third grade school photos, you'd be worried about our hypothetical children, too.

~b

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

happy

I could hear his heartbeat, with my head on his chest, watching Veronica Mars. The gentle scents of fresh paint and reheated stewed okra mingled in the air. . . . Whose life is this? So far away from where I was a year ago. Everything is different from two years ago. But this is how we spent our Sunday-- one year and 363 days after the Sunday we first met-- after we painted our new bookcase.

For all my falling apart lately, some days our life feels like a movie montage or a commercial for a home improvement store. How do I look playing one half of a Young and Happy Couple? I've been experimenting with new ways to braid my hair.

~b