"Wait! My card..."

He looked at the slip.

"You’d only have saved 35 cents, anyway."

Two years ago, I was L’Occitane and Whole Foods Market. Now I’m the girl who goes to the manager for 35 cents. After all, if it wasn’t on sale at Superfresh, I’d have gone to Wal-Mart, wouldn’t I? Did this kid think I’d just casually shop at Superfresh?

I get my 35 cents. If I were the kid, I’d be rolling my eyes. I’d mock The 35-Cent Lady tonight with my friends.

But Mel and I are on Sussex salaries now. She went from near-six-figures in Georgetown, DC, to a third that in Georgetown, DE. I plummeted from nearly squat to soundly squatito. I turn thirty in August, and, not so long ago, we had plans for Maine—perhaps even Paris. Now we might see a matinee of Anchorman. In DC, I usually picked up pennies I found on the street. In Delaware, I look for them there when I exit convenience stores.

We aren’t starving. And, while low on cash and short on great neighborhood, we still have some luxuries left over from Washington. Nice leather couch, some Williams-Sonoma cookware.

Good rugs. Three Pottery Barn prints of pears, for the love of Mike.

None of this, though, is the kind of thing we can donate to the Sundance auction. Mermaid

Splash tickets? Dollar-wise, we can’t dance. Would a Sur Le Table lime squeezer help the cause?

Surely the community center could use one?

We used to do it all: Cat Rescue Society here, Whitman-Walker there. Mel once gave money to the freakin’ police department. But our checks-and-cash charity days are, for now, over, making this a tough time to be queer near Rehoboth and liberal anywhere. Of all years not to have spare money, did it have to be the year of the most critical presidential election in U.S. history? $70 fundraiser for Kerry and Edwards? Shoot. Will Pottery Barn pear prints help the boys at all?

Last year, Mel even finally gave up sponsoring "her" Bolivian child. Though the girl was almost sixteen, we still feel like war criminals. We’re haunted in ways reminiscent of Schumacher’s Flatliners.

For us and for other good-hearted, bleak-walleted homos, I present the following fundraiser possibilities. Clearly, fat-walleted homos are welcome, too—I’m not a size-ist—even more so if they’ll take the event coordinator to the Blue Moon or Fusion or Eden or Taste or…let’s just put it this way: I’ve been to me, but I’ve never been to Celsius.

Guerilla Queer Diner. You’ve heard of the Guerilla Queer Bar folk, who gather up a good number of queers to politely descend on a generally straight bar and "make it gay" for the night. Bars, though, can be expensive. May I suggest the Milford Diner? We could each donate $5 to a local gay cause for the rush of the experience. Come on, butchies, you know you love country fried steak. And boys, you know you’ve wanted to put two straws in an ice cream soda ever since doing Our Town sophomore year.

Big Gay Yard Sale. Bring things you know your straight neighbors won’t appreciate enough to spend $2 on. Examples from my own home: Butch/Femme magnet with banana and donut-with-sprinkles graphic, Barbara Stanwyck poster, bookend featuring two football players, one’s hand on the other’s butt.

Delaware State Fair. Again, $5 donation just for the thrill. There is one fair event that I think we should not miss. No, not Clay Aiken. I’m talking ’bout one of the flower arranging contests. It’s called "My Friend Ken," and requires younger competitors to "make an arrangement of silk flowers around KEN." (Capital letters theirs.) Curiously, there is no corresponding Barbie event.

Bachelorette Auction. As women generally make less than men (and have flabbier abs), I figure we can pull in $160 to the Bachelors’ 16K. Since I’m not really single, I promise not to feel hurt if I only bring 35 cents. But I daresay it will be 35 cents well-spent: for the discerning buyer, this lady comes with three Pottery Barn pear prints—and if you take me to Anchorman, I’ll throw in the magnet.