By the rubble of Newtopia, there I sat down.

So I'm sitting on the front porch, admiring the view of the trucks, vans, scaffolding, and ladders that indicate that house painting, post-storm cleanup, and construction are still the activities of choice on my street.

I'm availing myself of my house's wireless service to post today's Mamarazzi entry, in which I make fun of (WHO ELSE) Britney Spears.

Actually, the entry is in the form the prayers of Lindsay Lohan and her father. So while I'm in praying mode, allow me to extemporize one:

Oh Heavenly Father,

Thank you for not making me live in a construction site that is--all hyperbole aside--reminiscent of Dresden after the Allies bombed it.

Thy construction hosts have taped plastic sheets everywhere, with a special emphasis on the kind I have to unzip and zip back up after I've passed through them. I am no fool, Lord, and their plastic does not cozen me. I mock their zippers to scorn; I know that my house will be brimful of their dust. Verily, though they tape their sheets of plastic to mine walls, yet my vacuum cleaner's cup shall run over.

Oh Lord, your construction hosts are smiting my daughter's bathroom. Thank you for allowing me to rescue her Minnie Mouses and Madame Alexander dolls before the sledgehammering started.

Thank you also for providing me with a relatively quiet apartment in which to dwell. Even with all four Buxoms in residence, it is not, unlike my house, one loud United Nations-worthy babble of Spanish, Polish, and a radio tuned--not quite perfectly--to an oldies station playing a static-ridden version of "One Night in Bangkok."

In thy infinite grace, therefore, please allow thy construction workers to discover the beauty that is the MP3 player. With headphones.

Amen