I love the sound of sledgehammers in the morning

Every morning at exactly 7 a.m. comes a construction wall of sound that'd make Phil Spector's head spin like a hit platter. (Did that make any sense? Maybe I'd know if I got more sleep.) Bits of plaster snow down from my water-damaged ceiling, meaning the extra vibrations are speeding up the process of my building crumbling apart. The latest development (har de har) is that for the past month or two, my bed literally shakes from the construction.

Here is a panoramic tour of the activity from my kitchen window. This building is awesome for anyone who's been nostalgic for college lately. It's dorm time again!



This lil' guy has been slapped up where there used to be a single-story garage. The workers got tiny cement splatters on my beloved car, and therefore are my enemies, but that's just one of the perils of parking in Brooklyn, I guess.



Then there's this thing, complete with view of jail.



And then these piledrivers (is that what they're called?) which were making quite a ruckus this morning. Reilly says some sort of artist/low-income housing tower is going up there? Whomever ends up there will have prime jail view [left].



Not shown, since you can't see it from the window: mystery construction project in the lot directly to the right of my building.

But hey, you know what's going to totally rule? When that Ratner monstrosity comes in! Traffic, parking, litter, and noise level, all of which are already bad, are going to get exponentially worse! I'm not sticking around for that, but good luck to the suckers who bought real estate here...though I guess luck isn't a big factor if you can afford local real estate.

Ahh, but let's all breathe and look at something more pleasant to conclude. The only bit of view left that I enjoy, my favorite nearby tree, is especially nice at this time of year. Weird, though, how it matches that banner...

Specialty items for the littlest consumers

So I noticed a new direction for the local Clipper coupon magazine cover. Usually the flyer contains mostly promotions for kitchen redecoration and some restaurants down on the waterfront.



This part of the cover was of extra interest.



Because you know who really appreciates the blond wood and vaguely Scandinavian design of high-end baby furniture?



Babies.
That hand-me-down dresser and passed-along crib will simply not do for BoCoCa's demanding baby, although it may have done so in all previous generations ever. It really is best to start ’em in on materialism before they can even form thoughts.

when you play with fire...expect to be burned

I have finally moved on from what became a nightmarish living situation. I am trying to forget, but some images just stay burned on the retinas for a while. And I don't have my deposit check in hand yet, but I am planning on crashing the open house next Sunday, and causing a scene if I dont have it by then.
Wait, what have I learned about playing with fire?

A couple of weeks ago, I thought I would be really clever and leave some pieces of cat poop on the ledge I know was being painted the next day (IN my apartment BEFORE I moved out). A little irritation in return for my own, you know, but nothing that could be traced to me. And I giggled all day to myself, and I giggled when I got home and saw the ledge painted, and then I went up to my room, and I stopped giggling.
There was a huge pile of dog poop in the middle of my bedroom floor.
Bigger than my own.
BTW This dog is groos, dumb, weighs about 80lbs, and looks like it has scabies.

I cleaned it up, and then went downstairs to see Mr Landlord. He laughed, and told me it was impossible it was his dog. I then had to have the conversation I never thought I would ever have to have, explaining various animal sizes and the comparison to the waste they produce. I told him it could not have been my cat, I knew it wasn't me, I really doubted it was my roommate, so if he was really saying that it wasn't his dog, then was it him?

He joked that if his dog was in my room, it was probably only because he was trying to eat my cat! GRRRR!
I mumbled something about only two weeks left, can we just make this as easy as it can be and respect each other's space, and started back up to my apartment defeated.
He yelled after me that I should pick up the toxic caulk mixture he left on the living room floor in case my cat accidentally drank it and died.
The one silver lining in the conversation was that he didn't call me Moonchild for probably the first time in six months.