A two-story morning.

2003-12-07 at 2:05 p.m.

"So what happened with E. last night? Did you tell her?"

We're at breakfast yesterday, me, Becca, and Nicole. It's a dissection breakfast, the Morning After the Night Before type of thing, only we're all surprisingly coherent and washed. Ah, getting older. It's a blast.

There's still bacon and coffee, though. And the best hash browns in Portland.

The night before we'd gone out to listen to some bands that E. had recommended. She might come, she said. And maybe her on-again, off-again boyfriend C. was coming.

Becca got flamboyantly, effusively, fervently, hand-wavingly drunk. On about three glasses of wine. She nearly put my eye out about twice. Nicole drank with a single-minded (and good natured) intensity, dowing one Beam-and-soda after another. I had a couple jack-and-cokes and then stuck to just the cokes as I realized I would be clearly be the designated driver. Ah, getting older.

There were several episodes to the night, starting with Kari Misunderstands a Strangely Overly Assertive Nicole, segueing (segwaying?) into Becca Secretly Stalks Hot Man, fading into Becca Actually Talks to Hot Man, and wrapping up with a rousing rendition to Becca Accidentally Spill's E's Secrets to C. (But She Didn't Know They Were Secrets) (And Why The Hell Were They Secrets Anyway?).

And that was the refrain we were repeating this morning.

Becca felt really really really REALLY bad about it, blaming it on The Demon Liquor, but frankly, I think the aforementioned Spilt Secrets had nothing about them that marked them as "Do Not Mention to C."

Exhibit A: E. is going to Hawaii next week. For a wedding. She did not tell C. this. When Becca mentioned it was a wedding, C. got quite drama queeny about E. not being honest, and Becca felt bad. But seriously, how was she supposed to know that the wedding portion of the trip had not been mentioned, and/or that it would be a big deal?

(Well, there's more, but it's probably not fair to anyone to have written this much, not to speak of revealing more.)

So, when Bec got home last night, she wrote a (rather rambly and hilarious) note to E. explaining her part in the potential melt-down and apologizing profusely. When E. was up this morning preparing to leave, Bec got up as well to explain again.

"It's okay," whispered E. "C.'s downstairs. It's my fault, don't worry about it."

So Bec went back to sleep until we left for grease and coffee. But she was still bothered by it.

This gave us good Morning After conversation over hash browns and biscuits and gravy. As you might imagine. Sung in three part harmony, with "Don't Keep Secrets Because They'll All Get Out Anyway", "What Was Up With The Drama Queen Act?" and "They're Doomed Doomed Doomed" all playing point-counterpoint to each other.

Part II.

So we're sitting there, doing our gossipy Sunday best, and I had to use the bathroom. As I return, everyone seems all kerfluffle.

"What's going on?"

"It's nothing--no, I mean--it's fine--I'll tell you later."

"What... huh?"

Turns out the geriatric at the table next to us got all agitated when he saw me enter the bathroom, and made his (adult) granddaughter call over a waittress.

To tell her a man had entered the woman's bathroom.

Two things about this really bother me.

1. It's a single-bathroom. By that I mean, there aren't stalls and whatnot, it's just a room with a lock on the door and a toilet and a sink. Sort of like your guest bathroom at home. So who the hell cares who uses what bathroom? You old fucking fart. I'd hate to think about it upsetting some Natural Order of things for you, but you aren't Saving The World by keeping a man from peeing sitting down or something.

2. I'M NOT A GODDAMN MAN. If someone would take more than two seconds to look at me--I don't walk like a man, talk like a man, dress like a man or act like a man. Whatever that means. Seriously. I'm tall, and I have short hair. You can see that in two seconds, because I am really tall, and my hair is really short. If that's how quick you choose to judge me, sir, then you are Part of the Problem in this world. But if you took that third, and maybe that fourth second to look, you'd have noticed that I am DEFINITELY female. I have boobs. Hips. See, here's the kicker folks--I was wearing makeup. And not Robert Smith-let's-blur-gender-lines makeup. Just Sunday-morning-I-have-to-go-to-work-later makeup.

I'm not really hung up on this guy's opinion of me. Seriously, I'm not. Well, okay, I'm a little bit pissed about it. I'm just more irate at his snap judgement and then immediate action that's totally in contrast to the truth. And there's NOTHING I can do to prevent it from happening again, with perhaps worse consequences for someone else than, "Dude, he thought I was a guy!"

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