Oh, it's a chick.

Went for a walk in the dark just to get up and out of my brain a little bit. It didn't much help. And it left me with a sour notion of my little midnight calm walks.

First thing I came across was a bum - one of those teen bums that has a sign with a riff on "I need money to get drunk" and a new looking emo outfit.

"Hey, dude." He said. Then looked at me again. "Oh, it's a chick. Do you have any pizza?"

Ok, so I was wearing my baggy sweat pants and a hoodie. But I didn't even have the hood up. And ok, so the guy was probably gone on something. But still, a stoner in the dark can't tell I'm a chick? I don't know why I cared but I did. A teeny burden on my mind, one that I was trying to escape by going for a walk - amifatandugly? Oh god, on paper (or screen) it looks so melodramatic.

Then I was circling Nick's work, halfway hoping to meet him as I came out, and two guys tried to start hitting on me - "Let's ask this lady where Henry's is. Hi, we're from Norway and Alaska (heh, right) and we were wondering if you knew where Henry's was."

"Actually, no, it sounds familiar, but I don't."

"You play lacrosse and you don't know? Wait, that's your boyfriend's shirt, he plays lacrosse and you don't know? Well you better get your own clothes and put on some shoes and find out where Henry's is." and then they walked (huffily?) away. Say what? It turned bitter and insulting quickly. Another little niggle in my mind, doubt and caring tangling up together. I walked home and wanted to have said something huffy back at them. Ah well.

Leaving things open

I guess this is an appropriate first post - Nick always yells at me for leaving things open. Mainly, it's the half dozen doors of our kitchen. There are twist-lock cabinets, squeaky sticky drawers, even every once in a while the fridge door (that was worse in our old place because the fridge was older and the rubber seal was unreliable). The more I think about it, the more I realize I do it everywhere. I always have three books lying around, spines cracked open or stuffed with a pincushion of markers. I leave my pants in crumpled heaps on the floor, inviting toes to step in and with a shimmy, be pulled up and zipped into use. I leave the bed unmade, hanging wide for easy entrance.

I realized this all when I left the door to our medicine cabinet yawning tonight, and caught myself in the reflection as I was walking out of the bathroom. It was one of those weird, it's a stranger in my mirror moments. I get them more often when I'm walking down the street and catch myself in a store window. I don't recognize my stride or the jut of my chin for an instant, see myself as a third party. A strange sensation, at best, a disheartening or disjoint-ing one at worst. I wish I could do it on a less physical level. People are easy to characterize by their foibles and habits. Oh, she would check her email at four in the morning, oh, he would forget to lock the back door, oh, she would be offended by the accidental eroticism of "every wife deserves a facial." How do people describe me? Oh, she would cancel after agreeing to meet at a party, oh, she would complain about people leaving candy out in the office kitchen. Oh, she would be too nice to stand up for herself.

Oh, she would leave the door to the microwave open all night.