If you feel like somebody's watching you, that's because they are. This week in the inner burbs brought with it a shocking revelation:
People in the suburbs spy.
I had forgotten about suburban spying. How, when I was a kid, my mom would sit on our porch at night, watching the street like a movie screen. Crunching popcorn in the darkness, she'd listen to the lady across from us shriek at her cheating, lying, shit of a husband.
Or how I'd see my friend, Penny Nichols, smoke out her bedroom window while her mom made American Chop Suey in the kitchen.
Or how Mrs. Sullivan, the sweet old lady who lived downstairs, was all-knowing:
"Did you hurt your back, dear?" she'd ask me.
"Well, now that you mention it. . . yes, I think I did!" I'd say, wide-eyed. I hadn't even noticed it was sore before.
"Keep an eye on your rollerskates, dear," she'd say.
And sure enough, my sweet-ass skates were stolen the next day.
"It was that Missy girl," Mrs. S. would whisper. "By the way, dear . . . her mother's a whore."
I thought Mrs. S. was psychic. Turns out, she was just a spy like the rest of us. Only, in her vast leisure time, she was able to wholeheartedly dedicate herself to the pasttime, armed with binoculars and night-vision goggles.
These childhood memories emerged from the fog of my wetbrain when I returned from a jog earlier this week. I looked up at the window across the street to see a flash of black hair. Someone had been watching me!
Could it be Doris, that sassypants 70-something who lived there with her silver fox husband? No, Doris could give a shit. It was someone else. As I soon learned, it was . . .
a movie star!
Doris's son is an uber-famous actor. His credits include Bartender, Man with the Red Turtleneck, Detective #2, and countless Law & Order appearances. And his wife is even more famous. She was a certain co-host of a certain entertainment show.
(As much as I'd love to namedrop and toot my own horn--tooty toot!--I can't tell you their names because D-Listers google their names just like the rest of us. If word hits the streets that I'm keeping a secret blog under an alias, I won't be able to spy anymore. Which I've been doing, my friends!)
What I have learned from spying on my neighbors, thus far:
--The actor and his family are visiting from LA. At every opporunity, he struts outside, wearing only his plaid boxers, to shout quips at an imaginary camera. His wife has supernatural hair. They are lovely. They look like Barbie and Ken's rivals, the Hearts:
"I feel bad about my neck."
"Barbie can kiss my plastic ass."I have an insatiable desire to shrink them and dress them in tiny matching polyester ensembles.
--My next-door neighbor, Mr. Perfect, hits the gym every morning at 5:30. No straight man does this unless he is having an affair. Sure enough, as soon as Mrs. Perfect goes on vacay with the kids, Mr. Perfect is suddenly Rico Suave. (Cue music.) The Volvo is missing every night. Fishy. Saucy! Mr. Perfect, whatever are you up to?
--The house next to Doris's is inhabited by robots. A nuclear family with a stiff walk, the parents and teenage twins (boybot & girlbot) do not smile, talk, nor swivel their heads. Are they filming Small Wonder: The Teenage Years? I owe it to my one reader to get to the bottom of this.
If you would like to spy on moi, view the back of my house. Some genius decided to replace the kitchen walls with large windows and a sliding glass door. Now, each pint of Ben & Jerry's and every bottle of wine I guzzle can be viewed and recorded. I hope Mr. Guinness is watching.
Until next time, suckas, watch yer back. I got my eye on you.
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