You know, I didn't think I'd be spending my retirement years in a construction zone. Not that I'm retired, but I could be, if my lottery ticket hits.
There are three
McMansions being built across the street from me. Two are directly
across from me and next to one that was built last year The
is across the street and a couple of houses down. If that weren't
enough, there is also a fourth being built on the corner on my side of
the road. The neighbors on my left and right have already doubled the
size of their houses with additions. Same with two more neighbors
across the street At this point, with all the dump truck and
heavy equipment traffic, the asphalt is looking more like road rash. And in the
midst of all the Trump Towers, my house looks like a Jack in the Box.
Each morning around 7:00 AM, the block turns into a parking lot for
Dodge Hemis and men with mullets. Ah the smell of insulation and the sound of jackhammers in the morning.
Backing my Jeep out of the driveway
is like giving birth to an aircraft carrier. There's only enough room
for one car at a time to squeeze through what's left of the road, so
several times a day the backed up cars play chicken to see who gets
first dibs on the right of way.
For some reason my parkway recently became covered in blue and yellow
flags about a foot off the ground. It looks like a golf course for very
short people. Since almost all the construction is across the street,
why is it that MY parkway, and only MY parkway, is filled with all
these colorful markers that tell people where the gas and water lines
are? MY gas and water lines. I better check my utility bills.
For some reason, along with posting all those flags, the builders have
also had to dig huge holes on both sides of MY parkway and tear up the
end of MY driveway. I now have an attractive black patch where part of
my driveway was replaced. And two huge mounds of mud where my lawn used
to be. I may have to put my foot down if they start removing my
Granted, next to the three story monstrosities they're building in my
neighborhood, turning it into a wealthy enclave from the middle class
place it used to be, my
little one story hut looks like an outhouse. Because size is everything, the contractors and
workmen may think they
have carte blanche to use my property as a porta potty,but women over
sixty who live alone are people too.
Well, we used to be people. I'm reminded of a Shel Silverstein poem
from his book of the same name: Where the Sidewalk Ends. I think I'm
Since they started tearing down the charming little cottages that made
moving here an easy decision when I got divorced, I've felt like a prey
animal separated from the herd. People who want to move into the
neighborhood leave notes in my mailbox. Companies that purchase
teardowns send me letters. My doorbell rings and two real estate types
ask when I'm planning to move. It's like being stalked by menacing
predators. Or looking up to see vultures sitting in the trees.
I now know why old ladies who live down the street get a reputation for being cranky.