It’s 8:32 am.
It seemed like the most natural thing in the world to me until I realized that I’m not actually a.) in college b.) living in Oakland c.) living with my brother – although he stopped smoking years and years ago and d.) my building is full of a bunch of uh, responsible squares. Well, that’s not true, but no one who would smoke pot.
We have one guy, who just retired, who drinks copious amounts of red wine and then starts singing. Loudly. We call him the ghost of (name of our building) because he walks around at night making sure everything is closed up and tucked in. His wife is a romance novelist and that’s weird. I want my romance novelists to look like Kathleen Turner in Romancing the Stone and she most certainly does not. And a neighbor read one of her books. She told me that the sex scenes were especially hard for her because she couldn’t stop visualizing the author and her husband.
Another neighbor has a swing in his living room. And nothing else.
Another neighbor has a DEEP love for horses. This is find odd in females over the age of 14. Don’t get me wrong, I like horse too, but I’m not dressing up for them. I feed them an occasional carrot and contemplate Alice Walker’s short story “Am I Blue?”
There’s Twig-and-Berry man who likes to sun himself. I wouldn’t mind if his balcony wasn’t directly across from mine, he wasn’t 6’7″, and wasn’t overly fond of stretching.
You know, after more contemplation, the scent of marijuana really shouldn’t surprise me at all.
Sparky and I are probably the squarest ones here, all secretive and non-social with a house full of cats and closed curtains.