Friday, September 21, 2007

By the rubble of Newtopia, there I sat down.

So I'm sitting on the front porch, admiring the view of the trucks, vans, scaffolding, and ladders that indicate that house painting, post-storm cleanup, and construction are still the activities of choice on my street.

I'm availing myself of my house's wireless service to post today's Mamarazzi entry, in which I make fun of (WHO ELSE) Britney Spears.

Actually, the entry is in the form the prayers of Lindsay Lohan and her father. So while I'm in praying mode, allow me to extemporize one:

Oh Heavenly Father,

Thank you for not making me live in a construction site that is--all hyperbole aside--reminiscent of Dresden after the Allies bombed it.

Thy construction hosts have taped plastic sheets everywhere, with a special emphasis on the kind I have to unzip and zip back up after I've passed through them. I am no fool, Lord, and their plastic does not cozen me. I mock their zippers to scorn; I know that my house will be brimful of their dust. Verily, though they tape their sheets of plastic to mine walls, yet my vacuum cleaner's cup shall run over.

Oh Lord, your construction hosts are smiting my daughter's bathroom. Thank you for allowing me to rescue her Minnie Mouses and Madame Alexander dolls before the sledgehammering started.

Thank you also for providing me with a relatively quiet apartment in which to dwell. Even with all four Buxoms in residence, it is not, unlike my house, one loud United Nations-worthy babble of Spanish, Polish, and a radio tuned--not quite perfectly--to an oldies station playing a static-ridden version of "One Night in Bangkok."

In thy infinite grace, therefore, please allow thy construction workers to discover the beauty that is the MP3 player. With headphones.



  1. One does wonder why they even bother with that plastic sheeting, you know?

  2. At least they understand that there will be a mess and they're making an effort. The last time I had workers in my house, there was dust everywhere. From the light fixtures all the way to every corner and crevice. I spent hours wiping down surfaces, cussing furiously, wiping down more surfaces, cussing even more furiously and creatively...

  3. Oh geez--next door property development, four men, and Phil Collins for hours--that's all I'll say.

  4. There's a development happening just down the road from us where three quaint old weatherboard beach houses were torn down to build squillion dollar soul-less units that will undoubtedly have soundproofing issues. But the builders? Play the radio in.their.utes. while they're off on the building site doing what ever builders do. But the radio isn't even on the site. It's in.their.utes (did I say this already?) on the road. Hideous.


Gentle Readers:

For the time being, I've turned off comment moderation. Please don't spam; it's not nice.

xxx, Poppy.