communism, herpes, and my mother being a child of the 60s

In the past five days, I’ve woken up in three different places. A bed in Wicker Park, a pull out couch at The Standard Club, and a big leather sofa in Lakeview.

My eyes open every morning and I’m all, “what time is it?” and “where the fuck am I?” Because being a couch-hoping nomad takes some getting used to. I scan the room. I do the “am I in bed alone?” thing. I high-five myself for not being a big slut. And then I proceed with a mental recap of the night before to get my bearings. I remember what I did, who I’m staying with, and where I am. I decide that it would probably be easier to just leave myself a little note each night that tells me all of that information, so it’s clear right when I wake up and I don’t have to panic. I share this plan with the lovely girl I’m staying with, and she’s all, “Careful, people might try to mess with you by putting a ‘Vegas’ note on the table and slipping a ring on your finger.”

I laugh. I call my mother and repeat both my new plan and the possible twist. She tells me that she thinks I’m neither cute nor funny, and that if I randomly get married in Vegas I had best enjoy the hell out of my wedding night because the next day? She’s going to kill me.

I scrap the note plan. And the Vegas plan.

She asks me how my adventure is going so far. I tell her that it’s incredible. She asks if I’ve met any cute boys. I tell her that I know lots of cute boys. She mentions that I am probably going to be living the sailor’s life very shortly. “The sailor’s life?” I ask. “You know, with a different love in each city,” she answers.

I think about this. I tell her that I’m not really the type. She insists that in fact, I am the type, and that I had best not get herpes along the way. I laugh. She doesn’t.

“I’m a child of the 60s,” she says. I wait for her to make her point. She doesn’t. I assume she means to reference something about free love, or drugs, or the fact that she used to burn her bras.

I ask if she’s been wearing bras lately. She hisses at me.

My father pipes up in the background, asks if my vagabond life has lead to my liking ketchup yet. My mother puts him on the phone. I tell him that no, I still don’t like ketchup. He points out that this absolutely makes me a communist, and that I should be embarrassed. I, in turn, make a big fuss about tomatoes not even being a native US food, having been brought over from Italy and all. As I say it, I’m not even sure if it’s true, but I like the way it sounds and press on.

He clears his throat and says “Italy, huh?” and reminds me about Mussolini. I start into the communist vs. fascist thing. He changes the subject.