Barbara the Peeping Tom

A not-so-recovering Peeping Tom lives next door to me. I call her Thomasina under my breath, but her real name is the bitch Barbara.

In the year I’ve lived in my condo complex, I’ve had several run-ins with her. The problems started almost immediately. A year ago, back when she was still Barbara, Thomasina got a wild hair up her ass after our kiddo left a pink BIC razor in the bathroom windowsill.

If you look quickly (and I did) the plastic razor was damn near invisible. Really?! I thought Barbara was kidding. And then, because we literally share a wall, I walked passed her bathroom and saw a row of dingy, sun bleached rubber duckies collecting dust in the window. She also has a very large, white nondescript bottle of something sitting in the sill. Both are things I never much paid attention to before, but now kind of irks me.

The HOA Nazi’s rubber duckies.

Who does she think she is? An HOA Nazi? Oh yeah, that’s right. She is. Barbara is also the HOA president. Which, honestly, only chapps my chalupa even more.

Then there was the parking issue. Barbara has had an absolute conniption over for someone (that was me) briefly parking in a guest spot. Well, I gave her a fit recently after someone parked in my space. To make a point, I pull in and park my front bumper on theirs all but insuring the inconsiderate asshole cann’t get out until I’m ready. It didn’t take long for someone to start knocking on my door. Then banging. And then yelling, threatening to call the cops. It was the bitch, coming unglued.

Don’t even me started about her dog. Of course she walks her brat without a leash, despite the signs throughout the complex threatening a $50 fine.

I guess you could say Babs and I have history.

Even knowing how crazy she is, I was still floored to hear from our goddaughter who lives with us that she caught Barbara straining to peek in through our screen door. Are you sure? I asked.

“Yes, and I’ve caught her walking the property with a footstool, peeking over patio walls,” Aracely told me.

Fast forward a bit.

The other day I see Barbara in the parking lot and I can’t resist. “So, you like to peep into windows, do you?” I say. She’s smiling at me, but I know it’s because what I just said hasn’t registered yet. I wait. And then it does. And her smile vanishes, replaced with a scowl and some lame excuses about how she doesn’t have a reason to peek into her neighbors windows.

No shit.

I know you don’t have a reason that will make sense to ordinary people. That doesn’t mean you’re not as fucked up as the flasher who lived next me in Maui. To my horror, he used to press his erect penis up against his living room window. Or the shirtless guy in a nondescript white van who stopped to ask for directions so he could masturbate to my response. Sick all three.

So, I’m in this frantic rush the other day to get ready for work because I’ve sufficiently dicked around on Facebook. And even though I really don’t have any time, I also stop and wash the dishes in the sink because I’m fucking nuts. I strip and start running the hot water in the shower and then realize I haven’t ironed anything to wear. I get the ironing board up with a clink and I’m spraying starch on my pants and tits when I freeze.

Oh shit, I think. I can’t stand butt naked in front of a wall of windows protected only by a six-foot wall. What if Thomasina has her foot stool?