Gladys Kravitz: PeyPey Style

I don't exactly live in the best neighborhood in town. I blame this fact on the reason I've become somewhat of a Gladys Kravitz. Because, let's face it, watching BMW's and minivans and moms with strollers walking up the street doesn't exacly catch anyone's attention. (The 30 bags of garbage sitting on my neighbors lawn? Yes. What could possibly be in all those bags?)

So as I'm sitting here in my Sudafed induced coma, (or is it a morning talk show induced coma? I'm not quite sure. My deciphering skills went out the window along with good health, I think) I hear a bit of beat-boxing just as an all white, Fubu tracksuit clad black guy caught my eye, walking down our street, flailing his arms to the beat he was creating with his mouth.

So, naturally I stare. I pull down a little sliver in the blinds. He is totally in his own little world. (My mind immediately turns to the thought, 'Ahh, now I see exactly where my hard earned tax dollars are going: straight to your designer-track-suit-wearing-doesn't-have-a-job-collecting-welfare-check-and-fathering-multiple-children-so-you-can-just-collect-MORE-welfare-checks ASS.) I stare some more. Then suddenly, our eyes meet. (I thought I was being so discreet!) All flailing and beat boxing stops. A serious look clouds his eyes. I immediately let the blinds go and they snap back into place. I go to another corner of the house and inch the blinds down a tad. Ok. Whew! Coast clear. He's walking up the hill again. For a few seconds, no flailing, just seriously walking. Then, at the top of the hill, the arms start to flail again and I can hear the faint sounds of "boom boom snick boom boom snick boom". Back to normal.

I must perfect my Gladys Kravitz ways. (And possibly take Mark up on the offer to buy me that pink marble handled pistol.)