A Flying Leap

Today was shockingly productive. I started my day at a currency exchange and headed over to sign my lease. Fred's partner Tippy called and wanted me to run a security deposit over to the house they're renting on Hamilton. I sat in my car with the windows down listening for "ambient sounds" that might interfere with filming.

Back at the house, I called Loyola, DePaul, Northwestern, Columbia, Roosevelt—all the big colleges in Chicago with theatre departments. It was extra fun calling DePaul since I went there for a year and am now in a position to give jobs to their graduates. I'm mad with the power, mad, I tell you. I was getting information about showcases and shows so we could scout talent. What fun. Truly. They all wanted to comp me and Fred and Tippy. Weird to be in a position of power (over a sketchy business, albeit) after so many years of powerlessness. I called friends and family, hooked up utilities, rented vehicles…

Later, I found the house too empty and quiet. I had residual productivity, so I started work on rewriting my novel, the first draft of which I wrote in Mexico. I worked through a lot of pages and am feeling better about getting a handle on it. I hope to get it ready to send to Fred's friend the editor for help getting the goddamn thing published.

Now, at nearly 9 p.m., I sit with my second Scotch, listening to a soothing Bossa Nova (what is it with me and the Bossa Nova for chris'sake?), scribbling this.

I find myself drifting into visions of sugar plums…er, that is, sugar daddies. How nice it would be to have a lovely, unobtrusive gent to pay my way in return for nothing more than a roll in the hay from time to time. The problem is, they get obsessed. Or they're disgusting. Anyway, what's a 30 year old hack like me got to offer a wealthy man that a 21 year old tall blond stunner doesn't?

I'm also fantasizing about my future rebound with a lovely man I knew some years ago. What's better than a rebound affair? Not much in this girl's life. No strings, no feelings, just the physical workings-through of remnants of the past, the letting-go, the starting over with renewed confidence. He's going to be here soon. He used to tell me I looked like an old-time film star. A lovely thing to say, a Joni Mitchell "pretty lie."

Fantastic. My best relationships have been with men who lie obviously, in ways easy to detect. I prefer them to those who lie out of "protecting your feelings," things like that. I can't wait for a part-time long-distance fling. Perfection!

Walking these streets lately, I find Mexico has changed something fundamental in me. I can no longer become attracted to the natives of this country. I find American men inexcusable in their greed, in their ignorance. In their lack of interest in the reality of what women fundamentally are—until they're 55 and suddenly wondering what life's all about, that is. Give me the men of hot climates, of poverty overcome through knowledge and the hard work of making ideas realities, of honesty and grit and all shades of sun-drenched skins. American men of any ethnicity are soft, are lazy. Their true fear and loathing is of femininity.