Sing Me a Song, Mr. Painter Man

My painter is outside my window, singing a Spanish love song, unaware, due to the translucent plastic stretched across the interior of the window, that I am right next to him. His happiness is infectious, and today I feel fine about being a barren spinster.

We’ve had this horrible sun storm the past few days. I installed an umbrella over my recently-, and overly-pruned daphne, trying to protect my beloved’s tender new leaves. My new neighbors are sun bunnies, and have been clearing the bamboo and towering Irish yews that have provided shade and a romantic privacy to my yard the past 20 years. Now my neighbors behind, as well as the sun bunnies, see directly into my bedroom and kitchen. Big Chrissy says I should try a Richard Hatch on them, as they just acquired a new baby–perhaps they won’t be too thrilled about a naked neighbor parading his furry nudes in front of their little innocent? I’m totally going to be one of those awful old bachelors who complains about everything, so I’m going to shut up now.

The painters are very sweet, but they’re in and out all day, which makes it hard to photograph, so I’m putting off work on the final piece for my October show until the house is finished–hopefully no more than 3 more weeks.

Santos has joined his amigo, and now I am being serenaded by a duet. I love them.

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