Facing the Cupboard -- Grand Junction, Colorado

It's five o'clock in the morning. I'm sitting at the dining room table of Boy's rented home in Grand Junction, waiting for the oven to preheat and drinking a mug of honey camomile tea. My feet are curled up underneath me in an attempt to keep my toes warm. Wood floors are eight different kinds of wonderful, but one kind of temperature.

Freezing.

I have blueberry danishes sitting on the counter next to the stove in the kitchen. Danishes that look absolutely obscene due to all the cream spilling out onto the wax paper. Not even the most formidable, perfectly constructed puff pastry could hold back the amount of filling I flooded into these innocent breakfast goodies -- much less the shoddy, haphazard homemade puff pastry I prepared last week and dug out of the freezer this morning.

Boy tells me that "this is love." The fact that I wake up to make danishes I'm allergic to for my sleeping boyfriend at four in the morning. But I don't think Boy fully understands that a) Girl loves four in the morning and b) Girl is happiest in a kitchen, on a racehorse, or in a yoga studio.

Boy is forever complaining that pastries don't have enough cream, so I drowned these little monsters in the hope of making Boy complain about too MUCH cream. We'll see whether or not I have success. Somehow, I doubt it. Boy is the person who consistently triples the amount of cream any recipe calls for. Doubles the butter and quadruples the wine.

(this is how he gets me)

I start work today. I don't have a bank account yet, but I start work.

I'll try to open a new bank account tomorrow, but I still refuse to wear uncomfortable pants. Firstly, on principle, and secondly, because I... err... don't actually own any. Except for a single pair of old riding jeans gathering dust in a memory box in my family's home. Right next to my baby pictures and old journals and imaginative paintings of toucans. All the things that used to be me that I don't need anymore.

On the way back from Denver, Boy's boss called. After he'd finished chatting with Boy about all the things that needed to be done yesterday (this seems to be the way things operate at Boy's work. Things either need to be done yesterday or ASAP), he asked that Boy pass the phone along to me.

"Hello?" I asked into Boy's broken Samsung (I may or may not have sent it flying into the pavement on one (or five) occasion/s).

"Welcome back to the US!" Boy's boss's voice crackled through the cracked phone.

And then he proceeded to offer me a job as a teen coach for the month of August at the homeless shelter he runs in Grand Junction.

"Umm..."

I talked it over with Boy that night and agreed to the position. It's only sixteen hours a week and has an end-of-August end-date, so it's not a huge commitment... it's just...

It's just that this vagabond has to open a bank account again. I had to fill out a job application (post accepting the job, of course), get my fingerprints taken and I'll need to take a TB test today or tomorrow.

More things I'd hoped never to do again. Fingerprints? Work references? I'm more than down with couchsurfing and workaway references, but I have no idea what to do for WORK references anymore. I could have them contact Billie in Germany and she'd say how great I am with alpacas and baking scones. Umit from Istanbul could say that I'm stellar at teaching English to teens. 

So Monday morning was spent at a work meeting. And even though I've worked with youth for years years -- troubled, traumatized and otherwise -- my head still spun.

Am I really doing this again? 

Yes. 

Well, I would accept a position like this if it happened to be in a different country. I would be THRILLED to accept a position like this in a different country. I need to be just as excited about doing things in my own hometown. 

Here. 

Boy brought me back to our home on Chipeta after the meeting.

"It's weird to notice... to see the things that have become freaky and complicated and the things that have become natural and simple. Ask me to hitchhike across Montenegro with you and I'm there in a heartbeat, bursting with enthusiasm. Ask me to fill out any sort of tax document? I have a mini-panic attack."

Boy went back to work and I immediately ate an enormous spoonful of peanut butter and then engaged my incredibly effective "panic nap."

After I'd woken from my panic nap, I hustled down the street to visit Judy, rubbing remnants of "I'M PART OF THE SYSTEM" out of my eyes and reminding myself that I love kids nearly as much as I dislike paperwork. I hadn't visited Judy since the beginning of March, and I couldn't want to see my old gardening boss/friend who knows all my scandalous secrets.

Judy was in the midst of baking an apple pie with another ex-gardener from Denver when I rang the doorbell, so she gave me an awkward but loving "I have flour on my hands, so let's just use elbows" hug.

It was wonderful to see Judy again. To waltz into her cosy little home full of cats and flowers and colorful quilts and happy memories.

We chatted as Judy and Andrea poured chopped up, sugar and spice coated apples into the pie crust.

It was wonderful to see Judy moving about so easily, speaking so clearly, enjoying something so damn much.

(Judy's been conquering mouth/throat cancer for the past year or so. Judy conquers everything. And then makes an apple pie. And enjoys it)

We drank coffee (with heaps of Bailey's) in the living room as we waited for the apple pie to finish baking. After we finished catching up on each other's respective scandals, I shared with her some of my current money struggles.

"I have to rely on Boy for everything at this point. I know how to take care of myself on the road, but here? I have thirty dollars in paypal and that's about it. And that's fine. I'm not complaining and I don't mind not having a lot... when I'm alone or on the road, I actually prefer not having a lot. But it's just hard to always ask him for things whenever we go out... to not be able to buy my own cup of coffee and to not be able to buy him a bottle of wine. He makes it very easy for me to receive things, though. Like, he straight-up tells me it's his joy to do things with me, for me... but... but I wish I could do more for him. And I wish I could buy my own coffee. I'll probably start making a bit of money at this new job in the next couple of weeks... once I open a bank account, that is... so that'll help."

Before I hustled back home, Judy reached into her wallet and gave me a hundred dollars.

"Judy..." I sighed.

"I love you, Aimee," she gave me a hug. "And I want you to be able to buy your own coffee."

"Thanks, Judy. I love you too."

Why is receiving this money from Judy so much easier than it was to receive the money I'd worked for back when I was her gardener? Because ever since Judy became a good friend, this became the kind of investment I wanted. I wanted to garden for Judy because I love Judy. If she gave me money or coffee with Bailey's or took me out to breakfast, I wanted it to be because she loves me and not because I'd just gardened for her. She's the kind of person with whom I want gifts given out of love and not transactions made in the name of balance.  

Boy whisked me off to a training for staff and volunteers at The House that evening. The fact that there was an abundance of camembert available somewhat ameliorated the fact that I'm not allowed to touch Boy during any work-related event (which drives me some kind of crazy). And it felt fabulous to be in a classroom-esque environment again with people I was, errr -- dare I say it -- on a team with?

The next day was Tuesday.

Tuesday is dinner party day.

The theme was "fish."

Boy and Girl made seafood sausages.

They look rather vile, but these chubby links are stuffed full of shrimp, fish, heavy cream, port wine, brandy, mushrooms and chives. Served with a beurre blanc sauce, they are stunning 

I made chèvre on Wednesday.

Bring a gallon of goat milk to 86 degrees Fahrenheit. Remove from heat. Introduce the chèvre culture. Let sit for two minutes. Stir in chèvre culture. Let pot of milk sit on the stove top overnight. Then pour into a cheesecloth and hang somewhere not too annoying to drain. Preferably with string and not with a red shoelace from a favorite pair of shoes you saved from Morocco. 

And hung it well above reach of the ants, currently taking over Boy's kitchen.

Ant trap. 

I also had coffee with my mother and met with a massage therapy instructor to discuss a twelve week course he's offering this fall. While I was waiting for my mother to arrive, I encountered a slender hispanic lady with a kitten on a leash and a hamster asleep in her purse.

"I love your tattoo. It's really beautiful. You're one of those natural girls, aren't you? Like, connected to nature and all. Natural."

"Umm... yeah. I guess. Your kitten's cute."

"You wanna see something really cute?"

"Absolutely."

"Look in here," the slender lady opened up her purse to display the sleeping hamster.

"Adorable," I turned back around to contemplate the menu and whether or not it was a good day for a cuban cremosa.

"I'm not gay or anything, I swear," the hispanic girl said as soon as I'd turned my back. "But do you mind if I fix it?"

"Fix it?"

"Your tag. It's sticking out."

"Oh, I got it. Thanks."

It's always so bizarre to me when people comment on things like tags. I mean, CLEARLY I am a person who cares nary a lick as to whether or not I have a tag sticking out. I mean... here I am, in my sumptuously comfortable pants, a hippie bandana and my... errr... natural tattoo. Carrying a bag that has stains on it from 37 different countries and sporting hair that could have been brushed last month. A tag. Is the last thing. I could care about. Why do people insist on fixing things when it's clear that I do not care? Does the tag offend HER? 

Thursday was date day. I usually know which day Boy will take me on dates, but I never know when or where or any of the details at all.

This is because Boy enjoys watching Girl get all flustered and confused and believes that "pissed-off" is nearly as adorable as slender lady's purse hamster.

Boy works most of the day on Thursday, so I jogged to Judy's to introduce her to socca. During my last visit, she mentioned that it was difficult to find adequate protein because of the limited variety of food she can swallow since her surgery. Socca is a sort of pancake from Southern France made entirely of protein heavy chickpeas and olive oil. And tastes sublime with cheese, tomatoes, whatever else you feel inspired to pile on top.

I rushed home to have lunch with Boy. He'd told me that he only had an hour or so break from work, so I figured I'd clean the kitchen and then take a nap. But as soon as I headed towards the bedroom, Boy pounced.

"Are you ready?"

"Am I what?"

"Are you ready to go?"

"Go where?"

"Are you ready?"

"AGH."

"Pack your bag."

"What do I need?"

"A swimsuit. And maybe clothes for a couple of days."

"JESUS. Really?"

"Yeah. Are you ready?"

"No."

"Well hurry, we gotta go."

"Where?"

"I'm packed. Are you packed?"

"You're lucky I'm not one of those girls who takes seven hours to pack her bags."

"You think I would do something like this if you were one of those girls?"

I glared at Boy as we loaded Cummerbund with our hastily thrown together bags.

"Why are our bikes on the back of the car?"

"You'll see."

I glared at Boy as we sped east down the I70.

"Where are we going?

"You'll see."

I glared at Boy as he took the exit towards Palisade.

Boy laughed. Then pulled into the parking lot of the Wine Country Inn, one of Palisade's lovely Victorian style hotels surrounded by vineyards.

"How'd Boy do?" Troy switched off the engine. "We're here for two nights."

So Friday and Saturday were spent biking around Palisade, tasting wine and demolishing some of Palisade's famous peaches.

At nearly every winery, I was asked about my accent.

At one winery, I was told that I looked a lot younger than 26.

"Oh, how old does she look?" Boy pounced on the statement, hoping the flustered middle-aged bartender would provide the routine answer of "23."

"I thought you were about sixteen," she replied. "You could date my son. He's seventeen. And you look about my son's age."

Troy shifted his weight uncomfortably.

"She's very pretty," the bartender said to Troy. "I meant it as a compliment. My son is very good looking, and she could date my son."

And then the bartender bustled away, leaving Troy and me both a little confused and dazed.

Our Saturday wound down with a picnic in the park near Troy's home on Chipeta. Our intentions had been to a) go to a concert at the UU church and b) watch Inside Out, but we discovered that two days of biking and drinking large amounts of wine doesn't leave the body FULL of energy.

So we just went to bed.

I played soccer with Boy on Sunday. I was totally into soccer as a kid, but all my success was due to pent up aggression and my admirable ability to just knock people down (regardless of where the ball actually was). My own teammates were afraid to play with me, and my brothers never would.

"Aimee's coming to soccer today!" Boy punched my little brother on the shoulder.

"Be safe," my little brother told Boy.

During my final semester in university (after I'd completed all the required credits, so just signed up for whatever caught my fancy), I took a soccer class. And employed the same technique of just running into people whenever I wanted anything to happen (it had been so effective for me as a child, after all). However, I failed to take into account that I have probably grown a solid two inches since I last played as a fourteen year-old.

Whilst all the other strapping fellows on the field had probably shot up a good foot or so.

So whenever I ran into people (because it's the only strategy I know), I would just fall flat on my back, bruised and bleeding.

"Aimee, you're a soccer catastrophe," my sensitive coach kindly informed me as I hobbled off the field.

And that's kind of how playing soccer with Boy made me feel on Sunday. I didn't knock anyone over (although I did fall down once for no good reason), but I had the ball shot between my legs about once a minute for the thirty minutes I played. When I'd reached my edge of humiliation and discouragement, I told Boy that I'd had enough, and left him to finish the match as I walked home in the rain.

I can only handle so much of this "fish out of water" feeling. I want to get to a place where I can enjoy playing soccer with Boy... because he loves it so much... but... but just getting a real-ish job this week is already more than enough for me. Again, as bizarre as it sounds, couchsurfing with strangers in Mexico feels more natural and simple to me. But just being back in this town puts me on edge... things that would be natural anywhere else are almost triggering here. It's so frustrating... I think that things are getting easier and that I've dealt with most of the ghosts, and then I run into things like that painting...

While I was struggling through PTSD during that same eventful semester of university, I painted a self-portrait of my pain, my fear, my isolation. It wasn't a particularly good painting, but it served as an incredibly powerful cathartic release for me, at the time. I thought my father had thrown it out, but when I was rummaging through the garage in search of old yoga equipment, I found the painting. Leaning up against some cupboards, easy as you please.

In a flash, the pain moved from that painting back into my body. Either that, or the painting just woke up some of the memories I'd put to sleep.

"Fuck."

I quickly turned the painting to face the cupboards and moved away.

"What happened?" Boy asked. "You okay?"

"No."

"What is it?"

I explained.

"Can I look at the painting?"

"Yeah."

I turned away as Boy turned the painting back.

I thought I was finished with all this crap. Jesus. I wonder how many more paintings like this are just hanging around in plain sight, waiting for me to accidentally shift them into the light? 

I'm happy to be back with Boy. I'm happy to be around Janet. I'm happy to visit my family. But I can't imagine how Grand Junction, in and of itself, will ever be a happy place for me.