The tarps outside bob and sway in the breeze. Looks like rain today, thank heavens.
I'm digging at my tiny apartment, inch by inch, making space and reason for another person.
My girl should be able to glide through here without obstructions. So should I.
The refrigerator's cleaned out I still have to clean the one outdoors, too.
But I'm ready for my foodstamps on the 8th.
She's taking me to my favorite: Stadium Grocery on Broadway & Cesear Chavez. It's a family owned "ghetto" grocery, with generics. The staff are kind and friendly. The prices are good and the quality's reasonable. Hope I find a brisket on sale.
We're also going into the War Zone to shop. The best Mexican grocery is on Zuni, near Charleston. There's a new Asian market on Louisiana and Central. And I REALLY want to hit the Flea Market for chicharones, picante sauce, and candies.
It's nice, having another person to cook for again. It's been a long time.
She's on a very strict diet, and I've accomodated my cooking and food purchases. Her diet is good for me, anyway. Last night, I opened a bag of marshmallows and ate a hand full. It's the first time in a week that I've eaten sugar. Didn't taste very good, frankly. My sugarless desserts are much better.
She bought me vitamins and some nicotine patches. I still "cheat" and smoke occasionally, but I'm going to be fine. Soon, I won't be an addict anymore. I couldn't have afforded the stuff she bought, even though most of it was generic stuff. She calls it an "investment." I told her, in the pharmacy, "this is why poor people stay addicted." It's easier to scrape together the money for a pack of smokes than to save up for eight weeks' worth of nicotine patches.
Today is a week since we became lovers. Strange concept, time: it feels like we just met; it feels like we've been dancing together forever.
I think my poverty rather unnerves her, but I'm not sure. I need to work up the spine to really discuss it with her. I'm pretty defensive about it. I know that's not necessary with her, but old habits die hard.
We were discussing plans for me to hold a potluck birthday party/barbeque in the empty lot outside my place. We were discussing guests we'd like to invite. We're not "out" as a "couple." So, we're sneaking up on anounciing our connection to other people. We want to start with a few Queer folk we both like and trust.
As we went over names of people, she mentioned that so-and-so and such-and-such are pretty upper middle class. She didn't know if they'd be comfortable at a party in an alley. She suggested we might hold the barbeque at a local park.
I've been thinking about it. It's just easier to hold the potluck here, where I can dash into the house for pepper or Worchestershire sauce, as needed.
It's not an alley; it's a garden, to me. I wonder if she sees it that way, too. Maybe she's just being very sensitive to the differences in experience between myself and some of the potential guests. I don't think she's being snooty.
But I need to discuss it with her.
I'm pretty angry about how I've been treated for being street. I tend to cram it down people's throats, as a result. I make myself harsh, abrasive, aggressive in public.
She has seen me when I'm myself. I'm quiet, calm, happy....
She hopes I can find a way to interface in public in a safe way, that will allow me to express who I really am, and let go the defenses.
I don't know how to do it, but she's certainly motivation to try.
She's right. Her feedback is accurate. I'm neither offended nor embarrassed by her observations.
I just go onto "autopilot" in public. I'm not even aware I'm doing it, most of the time.
it shocks her.
Interesting.
Well, it's seven in the morning. I've got a kitchen to finish cleaning, clothing to mend, projects to do.
Tonight, we go out to a political movie and lecture, to celebrate our first week. If seeing a movie about Bush and this fake-ass war is a celebration...
I plan to have the house nice, a good meal prepared, a good environment ready, so we can come back here, exhausted, and collapse.
She sure is good for me....
No comments:
Post a Comment