End of July

It’s July 28, and the sounds of dueling construction projects in my neighborhood have finally quieted.  A few minutes ago I thought the afternoon was off to a bad start because the lunch truck for the condominium project next door pulled up and played a short, loud rendition of the Mexican Hat Dance.  Two of my last eight years in Santa Monica have been lived to the soundtrack of saws, hammers, demolition, dump trucks, jack hammers.  When I look out my window in the morning at the kitchen sink, the sight that greets me is scaffolding and at least one man’s butt crack.  My two-year-old son is enthralled with all of the construction.  He still notes every garbage truck, cement mixer, and helicopter with glee, which keeps us both really busy.

Still, the sights and sounds of construction beat my former 70-mile roundtrip commute.  Working at home is something I’m still trying to get the hang of.  When will I learn that multitasking doesn’t work?