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!)

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

domesticity

We had to change laundries because it seemed like the strange frilly knickers we were getting back might somehow correlate to my sudden shortage of underpants.

Our savings account earned three cents, but is seeming more real this months as it is now four digits.

We go for walks and watch Hell’s Kitchen.

And the sink is broken. It was draining slow, then not at all, then working again. And finally it began silently regurgitating filthy brown water. The super’s number, stored in my phone, usually a direct line to a crabby wife, is being answered by a woman named Susan. My landlord answered one email and has since been MIA.

The dirty dishes are piling up, but it’s too hot to cook anyway.

~beatrix

this morning, it was easy

“Love is a choice. You have to wake up every day and decide to do it.”

Hugo’s going through a breakup and waxing philosophical to his only ex who’s not still too angry to listen.

He’s right, though.

This week Ted and I chose to not fight about the electricity bill. We chose to watch a lot of t.v. on the couch. I chose to cook dinner; he chose to do some dishes. We chose to go for a walk, but it started raining, so we re-chose to watch more t.v.

~b

something to worry about

i touch my computer, it breaks, stops responding, etc. ted turns it on, and it works. i guess there's a reason i keep him around. you can thank him for this lovely post about t.v. and my period.

~b



I mean. . . I probably shouldn’t be getting sex ed. information from Mad Men.

“That’s not a thing, right? I mean, that doesn’t mean you’re pregnant. I don’t think that’s a thing.”
“I don’t know. I’ve never been pregnant.”
“Well, that happened to me. . . and. . . I think that’s not a thing. It’s not a thing, right? Right?”
“I don’t want to tell you it’s not a thing if it is a thing.”

My cousin is two years older than me and has been trying to get pregnant for at least five years with no luck at all, only teary spells from the hormones. And what if I wasted my fertility on frat parties and hangovers and waking up in strange beds? And even worse, what if I had a baby? Where would I put it in my studio? In a suitcase? The top kitchen shelf I have to stand on a chair to reach? Or worse than worse, what if I’m not a cute mom with outfits, but one of those old ones with the saggy eyes??

It’s hard enough on regular days, thinking about it, even without Betty Draper with her perfect hair and her perfect skin and her perfect waist teaching us this lesson via Netflix.

So Ted Googled it. And of course it’s a thing because everything is a symptom of pregnancy. And when everything is a symptom, I have them all.

And that was something to worry about.

“What would we do?”
“I don’t know. It would make things harder, but I guess we’d deal with it. But let’s not worry about it until it’s a thing.”

I don’t know what I wanted him to say. (“Love it.”? That would be a little cliché and a little more insincere.)

In a book of short stories, I once read an interesting thought about how we spend our twenties trying not to get pregnant and our thirties trying to have babies. I wish I could remember the sentence, the author, the book. . . .

I worried ‘til I fell asleep, didn’t have to worry long after I woke up.

About that.

There’s always something to worry about.

~beatrix

nest

I want to flip through books of paint chips. I want to sew long, straight curtain seams and hang botanical prints and photos we took on vacation. I want to reupholster.

I need a two-tiered, wire bin for onions and potatoes and a magnet strip to hold my knives. I need a bench for the foot of the bed and a four-story shoe rack and a shag rug. I need an immersion blender, a stand mixer, and a set of All-Clad (sans Teflon, please). . . a waffle iron, a mandoline. . . an assortment of Le Creuset (I haven’t decided on a color). . . .

I want to make tiny brioche buns for tiny hamburgers, so we’ll need a tiny barbeque grill on a tiny balcony, overlooking a tiny garden (if you don’t mind). I’ll need a big tray to serve them and several pretty pitchers for offering refills. And I will probably need a crinolined-dress and an apron that was never meant to get dirty. . . .

We went to Crate and Barrel. And maybe I’ve been watching too much Mad Men.

I wonder if this is what it feels like to nest. That’s a thing, right?

I got the most adorable little lidded casserole. It will be so perfect for baked dips and maybe pasta for two and this strawberry clafoutis recipe I’m dying to try.

Hesitant at first, Ted then spent the next twenty minutes deciding on high-ball glasses. And we got some tiny martini glasses, because, even though Ted insists that I never drink, I’m pretty sure I couldn’t have lived without them.

These are our first together-things, full of happiness and hope and potential.

Now we just need to buy some plants. . . and a muffin tin. . . and a new duvet. . . .



~beatrix

serious is a relative concept

It seemed sort of serious when he let me help him with his Netflix queue. We decided to watch all the Harry Potter movies in order, interspersed with Mad Men. It took us three installments to get through the first Harry Potter because I kept falling asleep, so we’ve managed to plan our couch time for at least the next few months.

“Oh! Can we add Grey Gardens?
“That’s a girl movie”
“You don’t have to add it.”
“I’ll add it, but I’m also adding this one where Jessica Alba is a stripper.”

This from the boy for whom Netflix recommends the category “Gay & Lesbian Action & Adventure”, which seems pretty specific.

Yeah, planning what movies we are going to watch seemed serious.

He has Torah portions in his calendar along with work obligations and parties.

“Is it ever going to matter that I’m not Jewish?”

He ‘s across the room when I ask; he comes close to answer. He doesn’t say anything I don’t know.

My hands find his chest, fingers up his tee shirt sleeves. He explains, things I knew without asking: It’s important to him, he’d never expect anything from me, it would matter if there were kids.

And this is where we are and my tears are fat and falling and his are more sideways and shiny. And I need to know need to know need to know now. Can we do this? Will we do this? How do we do this?

Can you believe we're really here? Talking about babies?

“I need to know now. I can’t waste time. I need to know now. I don’t want to be old and alone.”
“You won’t be old and alone. You’re loveable. You’d find someone.”

Fatter, fallier tears. Because finding someone to love me is not a problem. Don’t you see? Don’t you see I want you? Lie to me. I promise I’ll believe. Don’t you know? I’ve wished for you over 312 smoky birthday candles, sent the hope of you up into 143 dark night skies toward that first prick of starlight, kissed my necklace clasp every time it falls to the middle with a secret thought of this, and fallen asleep 5840 nights, hoping to dream you into my reality. Don’t you see? Don’t you see how lucky you are? I want to choose you.

But, please, don’t leave.

I have his shirt clutched in my fist.

“No. No. You can’t want me to be with someone else.”

He’s back.

“You’re right. You’re going to be with me. We’ll figure the rest out.”

He picks me up, tosses me on his bed.

The rest we’ll figure out. Every day, we’ll figure out. This part, we know. This is good.

perhaps i should go home now

I was watching The Food Network and trying to fill Sandeep in on the plots. But when the guy with the spiky blonde hair came on, I changed the channel.

“What is this?” he asked me.

“Mary Poppins!”

It’s not how I should be spending Easter morning.

I’m sprawled out on his couch, and he looks away from his laptop, down at me.

“Do you want to go to the beach some time next month?”

Definitely not how I should be spending it.


~beatrix

this end of things

I just wanted to watch a pasta factory on Unwrapped, but I told him he could change the channel. Dancing with the Stars. Then I just wanted to watch that. But of course he started kissing me. And he took off my shirt.

My bathtub is really, truly broken. The super won’t call me back. I needed a proper shower rather desperately, and Sandeep lives so close.

I’m not sure if I’m using him for his shower.

I think he might be using me, too. I want to be still. I want to talk.

I ask him if he’s kissing me so I’ll be quiet. He says I can talk, but it’s hard when he’s shoving his tongue in my mouth.

“I want to have sex with you.”

It’s a sentiment I can appreciate. But I just keep getting the feeling he doesn’t want to get to know me. That he doesn’t care so much about having me around as having someone around. I keep my pants on.

I don’t want to be on this end of things.



~beatrix