She said, “I’ve got to talk to you about sex. . . I’ve been thinking a lot about it.” At first, I figured she was going to talk about birth control, but no, she told me she didn’t want to go to bed with me anymore. Or she wanted to, but she didn’t think it was good for her. Two weeks ago she turned 32, and she wants to get married and have kids, and the biological clock is ticking away.
I drove Mom to the flea market at Dinner Key Auditorium in the Grove – the place Jim Morrison got arrested for exposing himself at a Doors concert – where she’s been doing more business than most vendors. It’s surprising and gratifying to see how my mother operates in the business world.
Finishing up at the warehouse, Josh and I took a drive out on State Road 84 to the Alligator Alley toll both, had lunch at Taco Viva, and picked up some tasteless alligator-bites-girl postcards for Josh to send the folks back home.
She told me how I was the best teacher she ever had, and of course I said that was very nice to hear. Then she asked if she could kiss me. Flustered, I nodded and offered her my cheek; instead, she put her arms around me tight and kissed me on the lips. When I said that I had to go, she asked, “How about one for the road?” and again embraced me and kissed me.
Seeing one good-looking young muscular guy is exciting, but seeing a thousand of them in fifteen minutes at Spring Break in Fort Lauderdale is too many for the mind to handle. Also, the beach air reeked of two smells I hate: beer and vomit.
Josh went through his whole adulthood with that dog at his side, so it must be very hard for him now. To make matters worse, Josh called Wanda in London, figuring now that Butch was gone, he could make his long-delayed trip to visit her. But Wanda told him she had gone back to her old boyfriend– this after they’d been corresponding daily. He really needed to hear that now, huh?
Last night I dreamed that People Express had become Animal Express and would only allow pets on their flights.
What really made me feel good today was an acceptance of the story I wrote just two weeks ago. Telescope, an influential and intelligent little magazine, wants “My Basic Problem” for their “male feminism” issue! And they sent me a lovely acceptance letter with a contract specifying a $6-per-page payment.
As Amira uses profanity freely in the best of times, she was pretty heavy with the four-letter words, which enraged Teresa, and a few blows were exchanged. After Teresa hit Amira, Amira pulled Teresa’s arm “out of the socket” and Teresa said she was in great pain. Half a dozen police cars lined up on the street as 18 – count ’em – NYPD officers came up to the apartment.
I called Amira last night to find out how she was doing in Teresa’s apartment, and the answer was Not Too Good. She was in bed with a bad cold, for one thing. For another, she had been fired on Friday. But what really upset Amira was a phone call from Teresa, who’s planning on coming home in two weeks. Amira said Teresa is again “recklessly” moving, and in the process, hurting other people.