Accusations/Sexuality

As you may know, I have a roommate. Her name is Talker. Why is her name Talker? Oh, prying reader, she's Talker because she talks and Talks, airing her mind for any and all listeners. (Unless, of course, we're on the subway and someone pointedly outs me as a pregnant woman. In those instances, she remains silent, inappropriately.) Any subject at all, she's got something to say.

Lately, she has a lot to say about me. And my sexuality. Well, let's be blunt: She's accused me of being a heterosexual.

Gasp!

How could she say such a thing? Let it be known, I am no heterosexual - not that there's anything wrong with that! Talker interprets my pink pregnancy muumuu shirts and predilection for pink hair bands (They're called elastics, Nicole) as telling signs of a bad case of the Heteros. Whatever I've come down with, she's quick to assess the "problem" and I think Talker's found a cure.

We go out together. Don't all roommates? Or most? Some? Okay, I'll settle for a handful. At any rate, we dine, shop, and throw parties. Big deal. Oh, we also decorate our apartment together.

If you live in a cave, you might not know this, but Christmas is fast upon us. Actually, fellow cave dwellers may have ventured out to an internet cafe and relayed the amazing sales at Macy's (and printable coupons!) to you. Christmas has always been the "shit I don't need" and "tree killing" holiday in my book, so Talker and I decided to purchase a tree because they've ripped them, root-by-root, out of the ground anyway, right? Right!

In New York City, tree vendors set up shop around December 1st and do not move from their station until December 25th. Through sub-freezing temperatures, they stand vigil beside a lot of trees, watching the sun rise and fall every day until Christmas.

The closest tree vendor to our apartment is about five blocks south. Last Saturday, I scoped out the selection so that I could give Talker the low down. That afternoon we ventured toward our local tree vendor to pick one out and bring it home with us.

For this "date," I wore sweatpants and a sweatshirt - my gym outfit - and she wore pink pants and cute Converse knock-offs, with a winter coat concealing her lovely green blouse. We were quite the pair. My unwashed hair and spectacled look was intensely attractive, as I'm sure Talker noticed.

We approached the tree vendor and he, self-proclaimed Treeman, said to me, "Oh you're back again! I saw you perusing the lot earlier." He noticed this unkempt delight - I was surprised and thought, Treeman is hot.

Two seconds later

Talker: Which one do you want?

Me: I don't know, this one is cute over here. What do you think?

Talker: I don't know. I don't want to get a dead one. How do we know if it's dead.

Me: Well I guess we could ask Treeman. (Duh.)

Talker: Ok. (To Treeman) So, this is our first tree. I want to make sure we get a good one.

Treeman: (Looks at me then Talker then me again) Um, well I just sold the guy before you an $80 tree and it was dead -

Me: Good thing we asked then!

Treeman: Right. (Rolls eyes, continues to swindle) Well, if you just do this (pulls on a branch) and the needles bounce back, the tree is healthy.

The one we wanted was healthy.

Me: What do you think? Do you want this one? I do!

Talker: Yeah this one is good. (Turns and smiles at me.)

He wraps up the tree.

Me: I'll carry it.

Treeman: OR you could carry it together?

Talker: She'll carry it. She always does all the heavy lifting.

Treeman gives "a look" and quickly recounts the money. Sweatpants-clad butch that I've become, I hoist the tree upon my shoulder and we walk home. We don't hold hands because this butch won't engage in such dainty expressions of love while carrying heavy things for Talking Femme.

Me: That Treeman was hot, wasn't he?

Talker: Totally hot.

I hope you're getting all this. Talker formerly denounced me as a Heteros-plagued deviant and then publicly proclaimed (at least to Treeman) our unestablished romantic tryst. Something's missing!

I can't figure her out. Maybe you can. In the meantime, I'll continue my make-up free regimen, wear barrettes in my hair, and step out in black patent flats 'cuz my clothes can't tell me or anyone else whether I've got the Heteros or the Homos.

Gotta keep on truckin' in between.