Oh dear

I keep journals when I'm unemployed; it's the only way to justify either occupation. I used to keep a blog -- sadiegazette -- when I lived in Paris. When I got back to the States, it seemed to me to be past time I picked myself up by my bootstraps, entered the real world, and put away childish things. I ended the blog with great fanfare. There was a publishing course, talk of a book deal, a period of tremendous depression, a year-long stint in publishing, an engagement...and now, here I am once again, as Nature made me, sitting at home on a weekday and feeling much more the thing.

This neighborhood has much scope for observation. As I write, I can hear the Crossing Guard braying from the corner store on the first floor of my building. The Crossing Guard is a wondrous personage. Her exact age is difficult to gage, although one imagines she's between forty and sixty. She's generally kitted out in pantyhose, beige heels and miniskirt, has a great mound of platinum bouffant, and, of course, the neon crossing guard's vest and cap atop all. Her voice, which is a strange amalgam of Rosie Perez, old man, and donkey, is, to put it mildly, very loud. She's a regular at the corner store and, since my room is directly above the corner store, functions as a defacto alarm clock for yours truly.

Other major characters are, of course, Afaf Muhammed, our ancient and unintelligible landlady; Frank, the realtor; Dominic, wine guy; Dan, video store clerk; Devon, gourmet store heartthrob, and the checkout ladies at Met Food -- Theresa, Terry, and Christina. As you can see, my days are very full. Very full indeed.