Squirm in Suburbia

If some of you follow my Twitter feed, you'll notice I'm walking the Nik Wallenda tightrope of being a curious writer and a window stalker, ala Rear Window. See, I've never been a fan girl of our backdoor neighbor. While I can gag out some respect for his culture's view on women, he doesn't respect mine on gender. Regarding our fence replacement, he spoke through me, around me and over me instead of to me, despite me being the most informed person in our impromptu lawn meeting last fall. Armed with three estimates and all the necessary paperwork from our HOA, I might as well have been in a beaded bra occupying a harem. His dismissive demeanor in favor of the other men present who didn't know a post hole from their own hole was off-putting to say the least.

So when I moved writing operations upstairs (minty new A/C-yeah!), to a window overlooking said neighbor's house-both front and back because of his placement on a court-I had no idea the challenge that awaited my focus. Having lived in this court for over a decade, I'm sure he is used to having certain...freedoms. I'm sure long about five years into our geographical proximity, he figured those blinds in my upper window have been and always will be closed, because in the two weeks I've camped up there, dawn to noon, he hasn't once looked up. But I've looked down. Sometimes to the immediate eye burn of discomfort and the
frantic lowering of blinds. I ask you the following:

What man weed-whacks his lawn in his underwear? In his FRONT YARD, no less.
What man has such a case of OCD that he picks up every wayward leaf, SEPARATELY, and slam-dunks them into the trashcan like a middle-aged LeBron in loafers?
What man prunes his trees at six am in his underwear?
What man fires up his lawnmower for two zips across his lawn and quits?
What man has a permanent Joker-like smile in the sun's early morning glare that could send children running to hide their faces in their mother's skirts.
And all those bags he removes from his truck? And the toilet he moves around his garage like his favorite chair? Don't get me started on those.

I saw his wife at our community pool yesterday. She was reading one of those Greek tycoon Harlequins. I get you, sister. You get all up into that fantasy. I would, too, in your shoes.

The man is like watching an ant try to take on every job in his colony. In his underwear. He's a distraction of epic proportions, so I plan to do what any self-respecting writer would.

He's going in the book.