STRANGER THAN FICTION: POVERTY AFFECTING EVERYONE, EVEN RAMSES

It finally happened.

After years of digging up enough money out of seat cushions to have a Zima with my friends, I am flat broke. The seat cushions are empty.

I can't remember the last time I couldn't dig up a five-spot somewhere. I thought I was too broke to do laundry once but ended up using my bicentennial quarter collection for it.

On another occasion, my $2 bill collection came in handy. I figured it was time to quit holding on to the illusion that they would ever be worth more than $2.

But the other night, for the first time in a long, long time, I just said "no" to a group of friends headed for "The Bear."

It all goes back to an ill-fated trip to Columbia with Ex-Mr. Dreams, who is probably going to need a new name if we keep hanging out together. He loves small-town basketball, called Class 1A and Class 2A in official sportswriter terms. Notre Dame High School falls into one of those categories, along with Scott County Central and South Iron in Annapolis.

When those three schools headed for the Class 1A-2A State Tournament in Columbia, we headed with them.

Ex-Mr. Dreams was looking forward to a weekend of three-pointers, great saves and buzzer shots. I was looking forward to the Columbia experience: college males in shorts and tanks (you're never too old to look), nightclubs with some idea of what today's non-country hits are and shopping that would turn Ivana Trump's head.

It was last weekend that reminded me why the former Hope Of My Dreams is now Ex-Mr. Dreams. As usual, our concepts of what constitutes a good time were at opposite ends of the spectrum.

He went to Columbia to watch basketball and look for literature about sports photography. That's it. He was a man on a mission. He had the Clipboard O' Fun and nobody was deviating from the itinerary.

I did okay until Saturday night, when Ex-Mr. Dreams declared he was tired and would prefer to spend the night inside our motel room watching B-movies on cable. We exploded into our Why-Are-You-So-Selfish-And-Never-Think-Of-Me fight we've come to know and love.

As usual, everything was solved by the time I was dropped off at my front door in Cape Girardeau, but nevertheless, I had blown about $70 to watch local kids I didn't know play ball against foreign kids I didn't know.

So, after making a stab at a HUMONGOUS phone bill and mailing off my car payment, I'm poverty-stricken.

Ramses, my cat, has learned that when Mommy suffers, he suffers.

My baby, so used to name-brand everything from kitty litter to flea spray, is now eating Alley Cat brand cat food. It's at a local discount department store at the bargain price of $1.69 for the 3-pound bag.

I bought some 24-cent soft cat food to mix in with it and perhaps hide the Alley Cat's true identity, but Ramses knows.

He's not the only one with problems, though. The other day, while worrying about weather an eighth of a tank of gasoline could last four days, I made a meal of applesauce, crackers and a salad. The salad featured lettuce and dressing.

A friend, who ate at her own house, watched as I prepared my meal.

"Looks like a honeymoon salad," she said.

"What?"

"Lettuce alone."

With friends like that, who needs enemies?

~Heidi Nieland is a staff writer for the Southeast Missourian.