It’s one o’clock in the morning and I’m standing in Duane Reade scanning the shelves for the right tampons while my Fake Gay Mexican Son says, “Um… don’t you use something else.”

“It sort of surprised me this time.” I muttered. “Actually it’s surprised me every month for almost 30 years. And why am I talking to you about this?”

Mercifully my Fake Gay Mexican Son has about a dozen sisters and a mother he’s very close to so the conversation wasn’t as awkward as it should have been.

We’d just finished an amazing late snack of empanadas in Hells Kitchen with Mary. A well manicured Persian hipster ran his hand along my ass quite accidentally and apologized by opening his heavily lined eyes cartoonishly, flipping his hand to the side and saying, “It’s okay I’m GAY.”

I muttered something about everyone being gay… for a year at least in college everyone is. Subtext: leave my ass alone, you’re young and pretty but I’m old and jaded and not in the mood for this shit. Go to your room.

Our empanadas were amazing but it was strange to be in New York with my LA gym buddy eating El Salvadoran food that should have been better in Los Angeles where we have actual El Salvadorans living… I guess New York has a few too. The ones who want things like winter and rain. Maybe Los Angeles just has the smart El Salvadorans.

Before the empanadas we’d attended Oprah’s LifeClass with Tony Robbins and before that we’d had drinks and appetizers at Oceanic. My Fake Gay Mexican Son swooned over Mandy and I think he’s decided to be the next single girl/guy… we will never know because he’s busy writing papers about me and Kim Kardashian and passing them off to unsuspecting Ivy League Professors as cultural anthropology.

The child is about to get a PhD in pop culture and now I have to worry about my tampons showing up in a dissertation.

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