birthday run on

On my calendar birthday, Ted had to work. So I had early-bird dinner and ice cream with Pete at Chelsea Market. And my cousins around the corner made me cupcakes.

Simon called, not just to tell me happy birthday, of course, but to say he was in town. He said he’d let me know what he was up to later, but his never calling back meant I didn’t have to come up with any excuses not to see him. (Though he does have keys to my apartment I should give to my cousins around the corner.)

The next day I got to celebrate with my boy. We went to a crepe place that looks like a house but is in the city and we ate a lot of cheese and he gave me an eight-inch Henckels Professional S Chef’s knife, which might prove that he knows me better than any boy I’ve ever dated before (to whom I would like to say, yes, I really did want a lamp for Christmas).

And while we were dancing on the subway platform, I looked at my phone and had a message from that boy, the one I went to the movies with.

The movies were fine, except for the part where I mentioned “Ted and his brother and his girlfriend.”

“I thought you were his girlfriend.”
“His brother’s girlfriend.”

And the text said: Do you want to go to Lima with me in February?

And I ignored it and went home with Ted to watch tv and cuddle and warm up cookies in the oven and eat his ice cream.

Isn’t the best birthday present of all only having to deal with one boy’s crazy?


~beatrix

on why i cried the day before my birthday OR what good is a blog if i can't fill it with self-indulgent blather?

There comes a point where you stop expecting nothing and start expecting something bad.

And even though you tell yourself it’s just another day just another day, your birthday’s still your birthday.

Maybe I don’t remember much about my eighteenth birthday. . . except what I wore. I looked good, and I should have because I hadn’t eaten for days. I had just rung in 2000 with a ballet performance and an early night on my parents’ sofa. It turned out that my friends were really his friends and he was dating someone new. My birthday was our first day back at school, and soon after Baron’s new girlfriend started sitting at our lunch table. The restaurant I wanted to go to was closed because it was Monday.

For nineteen I was back with Baron even though we were long distance now. My parents didn’t like him, and hadn’t for years. “He didn’t give you a birthday present,” my brother pointed out. “or a Christmas present. And that is kind of bad.” He was right; I knew it. The restaurant I wanted to go to was closed because it was Tuesday.

My twentieth birthday was the first of several in-transit. I spent it with my parents before going back to school. I had a boyfriend, Steve, waiting there. Even though he tried hard, I knew it wasn’t going to last much longer. It turns out that our liking the same movies (say, Breakfast at Tiffany’s) or the same music (say, the Indigo Girls or Lisa Loeb) wasn’t such a great foundation for a relationship. I don’t need to date anyone who cries more than me. We lasted a few more days when I got back. The restaurant I wanted to go was closed for the week.

Twenty-one tried. I woke up at my parents’ house, and flew back to Hugo in New Orleans. I spent the night out with him and Harper and Knox, but no one else was really back in town. On my twenty-first birthday, I only time I showed my ID was to get on a plane.

On my twenty-second birthday, my father made me cry in a restaurant. I was worried about my thesis, but instead of saying he believed in me or that he knew I could do it, he said, “It will be easy.” Milton bought me a travel easel. He sent a picture of it to me in Georgia. I hadn’t called him for the whole of winter break. I didn’t call him when I got back to New Orleans. I didn’t even have to break up with him; he took care of that. And I never collected the travel easel.

Twenty-three and twenty-four sucked all around. I don’t even remember, but they were spent living at home, with my parents and . The restaurant I wanted to go to was closed for renovations at least one year.

For twenty-five, I was ousted from my bedroom by my parents who were ousted from theirs by my cousins who were having a crisis. My dad didn’t remember until late in the day. No one at work remembered. And my cousins didn’t understand the excitement over a new Pucci scarf.

Twenty-six was with David. Except it wasn’t with him at all. He worked all day. No presents, no plans. He called around six to ask where I wanted to meet him for dinner. I decided I’d break up with him if there was no cake, and there was no cake.

Twenty-seven was spent traveling back from Julianna’s wedding, back to a lot of old loose ends and one new promise to do better. Airports are lonely places for birthdays. The restaurant was closed because it was moving across the street.

So that might be why I cried the day before my birthday, but can we blame it on PMS?


~beatrix

happy birthday

I am barely a grownup.

I don’t have a table. And this two-person celebration has been forced to become an indoor picnic.

I cooked. And it turns out my oven does work.

I didn’t have plates. I bought two just for today. And two forks and two knives and three spoons; one of them is big.

I was going to cook meat for you because it was a special occasion. But my mother reminded me that I don’t know how. That chicken came from Whole Foods. I threw away the package.

I made your gift. So I can only hope that minutes mean more to you than money.

And it’s hard to open because I used packing tape. I ran out of the regular kind.

The ice cream melted. It seems easier to move in four months than to defrost the freezer.

I put on a party dress for you and pearls, because I thought you’d like that. I just didn’t have time to do anything to my hair.

I was going to take a picture because it will never be your 26th birthday ever again, and we should commemorate. I just forgot.

I am barely a grown up. I probably shouldn’t buy any of those cute aprons from Anthropologie. But I am in the healthiest relationship of my entire life. Thank you for that. And thank you for spending your birthday with me.

~beatrix

are you in?

I was eating a sandwich and watching Ted make a casserole. I know his birthday, and he knows mine, it turns out.

His is soon. Mine is far.

“But my birthday is always sucky,” I told him, and it’s true. For years and years it’s ranged to mediocre to really miserable.

“Well, then I have a goal for this year,” with a glance over his shoulder.

He turns back to chopping chicken and misses the wide-eyed, eyebrow-raised face I make.

I should let it go. But I want to hear him say it.

“So. You think you’ll be around for my birthday? It’s a long time.”

We count off months. It’s far. We’d both more than double our adult dating records.

“At this point, I have no reason to think I won’t be.”

And even though his casserole looks disgusting, neither do I.

~beatrix