Thursday, April 17, 2008


I live in a concrete box -- a 20-story vulgarity that houses room after room of squat, flat apartments that seem to attract owners who want nothing more than to try and change them. (Stop.)

Since The Prince and I bought our place in 2004, four apartments have done construction all within a 20-foot perimeter of me. Four. And we're not talking paint jobs. We're talking vile, gut renovations that send me over the edge. Drills that actually make the damn chair under me vibrate.

And these have lasted about...oh.... 18 months of the 48 months I have lived here. One-third of my time.

Now mix that into the fact that I work from home. I INTERVIEW people, I WRITE stories. All while trying to ignore the fact that basically, I am living in a CONSTRUCTION ZONE.

While I am not sure about a spot in Dante's hell for (s)mothers. I know with all my fiber there is one for the inventor of the hammer drill.

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