She decided against a Quaalude. Quaaludes made her feel sleazy. What was the point of feeling sleazy if you had no one to sleaze with?
Could you conjugate that? To sleaze. I sleaze. You sleaze. We all have sleazen.
Words constantly annoyed her like that, reminding her of the gulf between Art and Making a Living. "Mona's good with words," her mother used to say matter-of-factly, "if she can just learn to Make a Living at it."
Her mother Made a Living in real estate.
Mona hadn't spoken to her in eight months, not since mother had joined the Reagan campaign in Minneapolis and daughter had written home breezily about her Sexual Awareness Retreat at the Cosmic Light Fellowship.
It didn't matter.
More and more it seemed that Mona's real mother was a woman so in tune with creation that even her marijuana plants had names.

Tales of the City, Armistead Maupin