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9:14 a.m. - 2010-01-06
No Tresspassing. Do NOT Enter Without Permission of the Owner.

I wasn't planning to get up until the guys left. Mick and Wolf are starting to get back into the groove of their morning routine, throwing me into the mix makes it harder. I feel like I'm in the way. To some extent I am, the coffee maker lives in the busiest corner of the kitchen, where the peanut butter and the vitamins are and the toaster oven. Even my short visit to the bathroom disrupts the guys' careful choreography and timing. But last night after we were both in bed Mick had asked if I had any cash and if I hadn't gotten up this morning to fetch it he would have gone into my purse and helped himself.

And I hate that. I really, really hate that.

It's not that I have anything to hide, but my purse is my own. A small patch of individual territory in an otherwise communal life. I would never go into his wallet. Even if given permission, at most I'd bring it to him and let him take out the money or the ATM card or whatever it was that I needed and he had in his wallet.

Over the long (long, long, long) winter break I came to realize that Mick and I have very different views about privacy and boundaries. We need to have a serious talk about it, this business with my purse just made me aware that it should be soon. Maybe even tonight.

For all that I live out here on the internet, in many ways I am a private person. Turfy too. Within the dreadful intimacy of a committed relationship there is still room for privacy and property rights. Despite giving Mick those rights and respecting them, he refuses to offer the same in kind. I believe some things are the sole provenance of its owner. I'd use Mick's toothbrush before I'd use his computer. I don't scroll through his phone log. I'd never open a piece of personal mail addressed to him. I just wouldn't. I don't dig in his wallet. I wouldn't even go into the glove box of his truck. Except for occasionally needing to adjust the thermostat in there, I never go into Mick's den.

The same is not true on Mick's part. He helps himself to my stuff all the time. He goes into my purse. He eats my desk snacks. It's a running goof with us that I am forever having to pry my little micro-bead neck pillow out from under his head, if Mick hits the bed first he gloms onto that pillow every damn time. Even more violating than him rooting through my purse and stealing my pillow, recently Mick has started redecorating my office. The door into the main part of the house is metal. I have magnets on it, those silly ones with pithy quotes and lately Mick has taken to printing out goofy pictures and such off the internet and then he hangs them on my office door. Not the refrigerator door, mind you, but MY door. MY OFFICE DOOR. The inside of my office door, not even the outside where, maybe, I could see someone tacking up a joke or a cartoon, as one might with the bulletin board in the break room at work. Then the other day I'm trying to work and Mick is here in my office all up in my bidness as he was for the entire fricken break, and he starts rearranging my magnets. Right in front of me. Tra la la la. HE didn't like the magnets' (purposely) random positions, so Mick started peeling them loose and lining them up in neat little rows. Because, you know, MICK should decide how MY magnets on MY office door in MY own personal private tiny little sliver of the house should be arranged. I stood up, cleared my throat so he'd turn around and when I had his attention I glared. Asked him what the hell he thought he was doing.

Dig this. The man actually had the gall to be a bit squiffy with me. Affronted that I objected to his decorating scheme. The irony that HE was dinking around with MY stuff, without permission, without even fricken asking if perhaps I liked my goddamn magnets the way they were, no, Mick went all stiff and huffy and hurtsy faced because I had the nerve to tell him to leave MY stuff alone.

Yeah, this is bothering me even more than previously acknowledged. Definitely going to have a chat tonight. And just to get him into the proper frame of mind, just so the point is very clear, I'm going upstairs right now and rearranging his entire den. I think when the stuff touching, turf encroaching, privacy violating shoe is on the other foot, he'll be a bit more apt to listen and not pull any of that "What's mine is mine, what's yours is also mine" crappola.

Setting boundaries and laying down the law, ~LA

12 Wanna talk about it!

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