the most beautiful day

I guess it was only about a week ago that my boss quit. Well, he quit on Friday and then got fired on Monday. That. . . doesn’t even make sense anywhere else.

I’m starting to feel like myself again.

Turns out I like myself.

And I told my mom about Ted moving in. That felt good.

And I’m glad he’s moving in. It feels good to think about a future with someone without panicking at the direness of it all.

I love him and I love every street I’m walking down, but I love that one in particular. Maybe we can move there next.

I love my hypothetical apartment on 6th street. It has a garden.

And I love New York. I walked through Thompson Square Park by myself, and all the aggressive homeless men have been replaced by laughing children and well-behaved dogs. And the sun is at the most perfect angle to reflect off the windows and on the other side the daffodils are blooming. When did this even happen? Maybe I should take a picture.

But when I look back at where I came from, the shadows aren’t as nice. I’ll just remember.

We have dinner plans with friends. Oh, and I got a raise today.

I like where this is going.


~beatrix

bumps in the road

“We are walking so leisurely.”
“I’m just. . . tired.”

Things had degenerated rapidly, and Sam looked like I felt: bedraggled, exhausted, confused, caught-in-headlights-then-hit-by-a-bus.

What if we just never went back to that job ever again?

“Too bad I’m not pregnant,” Sam said.

That would be some trick of science, and he’d have to buy all new clothes.

But when we sat down on a SoHo stoop, everyone who didn’t have a stroller had a convex bellybutton straining at their knitwear.

Does it say something about your job when cleaning up poop is starting to sound more pleasant?

it seemed like a plan

When I got what was presumably a work-related text that was hurtful and quietly accusatory and passive-aggressive and, worst of all, completely predictable, I was very upset and fat tears fell and I didn’t even have time to stop the words:

“Can I just quit my job and have babies??”

And I’m pretty sure he said that would be just fine.

I’m, like, 80% sure that’s what he said.

~beatrix

apologies and math and a sappy thought on snacks

i have so many things to tell you, but just not enough time. i'll get on with the story soon, but for now, just math:

if you work 13 hours, and since you worked 13 hours, want to sleep 7 hours, and need an hour to get ready for work and get there and another hour to get home, that's 22 hours of your day spent, leaving only two for things like showering and updating the internet on your personal life.

it's days like this one that make me wish i just lived with this boy, if only because he always keeps ice cream in the freezer.

~trix

on budgeting time

I spend my waking energy

23% Working at my actual, paying job
19% Making out / Watching Glee
5% Trying not to fall asleep
4% Deciding what I want for lunch
9% Doing something to my hair
5% Pinching my belly fat / using a combination of mirrors to check the visibility of the bones in my spine / wondering if my boobs are shrinking
6% Idly speculating about the lives of strangers
8% Remembering what it was I was going to blog about
6% Deciding if this matches / is too short / requires a bra
5% Calling my mom
10% Trying to convince friends and strangers to get a puppy and/or let me cut their hair

I’ve given a number of successful haircuts. In fact, the only mishap occurred on my own head. And even though I think I might be slowly convincing him, Ted’s not so sure it would be good for our relationship.

Maybe he should just get a puppy.



~beatrix

happy day after halloween

these are the things we were not for halloween:

emma and coach tanaka from glee
a lion tamer and a lion
a chicken and julia child
something from a video game (obv. not my idea)

instead the boy went as Over-Worked and i went as Burnt-Out. i didn't even have to fake the unwashed hair or dark under-eye circles.

had a kit-kat for dinner. happy day after halloween.

~trix

live blogging: new jersey afternoon

my boy said he forgets that when i'm with him, there's usually no new blog. so i'm making one for him. ta da.

i came to work with him even though it's in new jersey. there are some professional athletes who are kind of big, but there's also apple juice. and he bought me a sandwich.

i'm kind of sad for him because he has to work in florescent lights with a drop-in ceiling. i have to wear sunglasses to even be here, but i suppose there are trade-offs like all the juice you can drink and a coffee machine that speaks three languages.

i'm going to go draw him a picture and maybe look into this coffee contraption.

happy weekends all around.

~beatrix

laughing through tears. . .

One time my mom was sick and in the hospital, and I was in New York and with David who couldn’t understand why I didn’t want to go to a birthday party with him. He was angry and frustrated at my tears, and he said, “Do you know what I did when my dad died? I went for a run.”

I didn’t even know what that meant. My mom wasn’t dying, but I cried harder. And a run is not a birthday party for a friend he’s never even mentioned before.

I met Ted on Friday after work. The week was long: a fight with Fin, a project that just would not come out right, a million things left on the to-do list. We’d deserved the gimmlets we had before we left that afternoon. As I was getting in the elevator, my mom called to tell me some bad news. Her voice broke; she sounded so sad.

I felt like I’d forgotten something while I was walking, and I wished it would stop raining because I was getting sort of wet. Fifteen blocks later, I realized I’d forgotten my umbrella. I might have been a little drunk when I got to Ted’s.

And we split some pita chips and a six-pack (proportionally according to weight and alcohol tolerance, meaning I had 2 and he had 4) while we watched a movie. I could blame it all on being a little drunk.

Because even I was surprised when my breathing caught in my chest and fat tears showed up on my cheeks. I’m sobbing. And I’m honest-- when we say nothing’s wrong, we don’t mean it. I made a list-- a long, liberating list of worries.

And he’s beautiful. He’s just rational enough to be believable. He takes me seriously while he squelches my irrational fears. This boy says all the right things.

And it’s the strangest feeling. The tears are still flowing like mad, and I’m pretty sure I deserve every one after this week. But I’m laughing. Because I’m unbelievably happy. It’s unbelievable in the truest sense of the word. It feels like shedding a skin or like a seed must feel when it sprouts.

So maybe I’m drunk. Or maybe I’m crazy or maybe I’m just caught up in this whole love business. But I could get used to being myself. For someone who seems to get it.

~beatrix

all i know

“The Asian guy. He was cute, no?”

I guess it’s a strange question, coming from your boss. But you get used to it in a place like this.

“Yeah, he was pretty cute,” I agree.

“But I think he plays for her team,” Sam chimes in, gesturing toward me.

Phil’s eyes light up.

“You think he likes her??”

“No. Not, like, my actual team,” I try to explain. “But, you know, the straight team.”

While Sam and I are waiting for the elevator, Phil’s head pops out the door.

“Beatrix,” he says, fluttering his eyelashes, “how did you know that about that guy?”

“That he’s straight? I don’t know. Sam thought so, too.”

“Oh. I’ve never been able to tell. All I know is cute or not cute.”



~beatrix