Once again, I just awoke from a stress-induced nap. Last night (after shutting the gate on our Baby Jane skit), I just turned off all three phones and Xanaxed myself into a stupor; the inventor of Xanax should be sainted.


Life goes on here as usual. The Sweeper still catches a catnap between doing The City's job as best she can. I saw her again today on the way to the bank, fumbling with dollars in front of a store (obviously buying cigarettes) and offered her a few dollars, but she refused. The human misery, mixed with the extreme wealth of South Beach, can be maddening.

The "work" on The Tower of Terror (Old City Hall) continues to not continue. Really, you can walk by this building at ten in the morning and not hear one drill, one hammer, or one chisel. Well, maybe you can detect the chisel, because we are being chiseled out of something here. Once again, I wonder what relative of a commissioner or city manager got this job.

I brought a casserole to the children today while the "ex" was working. They just didn't seem interested, which is quite odd, because anyone who has come into contact with my casseroles know they are not to be ignored. They are stressed. The "ex" was informed by his new job at Joe Allens, one of the the top glamour restaurants here, that they can not keep him on. He hasn't worked the 90-day probation period and they don't want to be saddled with his blood clot problem. Life is so unfair sometimes; well, maybe all the time. It's a type of thing that pecks away at you during your most vulnerable moments.