once upon a time

I met up with Fred who was in town to visit Mateo who I never see even though he lives 4 blocks from Ted. Mateo got married, I remembered, recently. And his wife was there, too.

And I wondered, like I always do, why things are so awkward between me and Mateo.

Then I remembered, like I usually do. There was that time we were all hanging out and drunk and getting asked politely to please go home so they could close the bar and we all said we should go watch belly dancing soon. And then Mateo called to ask if I wanted to go watch flamenco dancing at that same restaurant, and when I asked him who was coming, he said Paul and some people. But he showed up alone in Fred’s borrowed car and he paid and it was supposed to be a date.

So I pretended I was busy for a while then dated his room mate.

Ten million years ago. So easy to forget. I bet his wife doesn’t know that story.

~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

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

battle scars

A snippet of drunken poetry via text message:

Aww I’m dill
At stacia’s buy I’ll call you if I
Am coming to teds
At a
Reasonable
Time

I assumed Sam was having a fun night, especially when, at 3 a.m., as Ted and I were recycling the bottles from the third installment of his birthday celebration, he texted again to tell me he was in a neighborhood far from home. But if he was having so much fun, what was he doing texting me?

“He BIT me. I have BITE MARKS,” Sam told me the next morning.

It was the worst hookup of his life, he claimed, and when I saw the damage on Monday morning, I believed him. A devastating hickey, teeth prints, the works.

And he’s dodging phone calls and texts and facebook friend requests from the culprit, unsure if he should somehow tell this boy that he’s doing it all wrong.

(Also we learned about some gel you can get from Whole Foods that makes bruises go away. Despite my skepticism, it seems to work.)

~beatrix

this is just a reminder

“I want to see Ted tonight, but I’m seeing him tomorrow.”
“Yeah, that’s hard,” Sam agreed as we were walking around the farmer’s market.

But drunk “I miss you” texts around 10:30 remind me that I should just tell him what I’m thinking.

~beatrix

psa: nola love

You should go to New Orleans. I promise you will love it.

You’ll love the way the air is always thick. And the way the sidewalks are all broken in every direction, and you’ll love the million-year-old oak trees that made them that way. You’ll love the way you can just pop into some divey bar to use the bathrooms while your friends wait in line to go to the real bar and how while you’re there you can pick up one drink and three beers for $11 and they’ll pour it all in plastic cups so you can bring it out on the street with you. And you’ll love the food, no matter what you’re eating.

You’ll love that it’s always a party. You’ll love the ghost-faced bum on the sidewalk who does nothing but wish you well. And you’ll love the ghost-faced shotgun houses on the side streets, not just the wedding cake ones on St. Charles. You’ll love the way there’s still something getting started at 4 a.m. and how it’s ok to have a drink and some fried seafood no matter what time you wake up.

You’ll love the street names you can’t pronounce; you’ll love Tchopitoulas and Freret and Carondelet. And you’ll love the couple, still on the sidewalk of the bar you left hours ago, bickering and pausing only to make out and share sips of what you imagine, at 10:45 a.m., to be a very warm, very stale Bud Light. You’ll love cab drivers who take off without asking where you’re going because they need to tell you their stories so badly. And you’ll love the comfortable shabbiness of it all.

You might even love the way the water from the cold tap is lukewarm at best or how it could rain at any time or the way your hair smells that forgotten, actual bar smell the morning after.

New Orleans isn’t all Mardi Gras and hurricanes; it’s the best city in the country. And it still needs us. You should go.

~beatrix