Nosy Parker.

As I write, a man is outside of our home. He's lying on the ground, bare ass resplendent in the sun. He's being held down by our neighbor. The cops just arrived, and I can only imagine what J will think as he turns onto our street from the gym. Oh look! he'll think, a few squad cars in front of the house. That's nice.

And really? It's all my fault. Am a terrible, terrible neighbor.

I saw this joker just a few moments ago, apparently sleeping in the back of our neighbor's truck. More specifically, he was passed out, face down, resting on a bag of rolls. (Our neighbor - let's call him Mack - owns a breakfast cart.)

I took note of this. I thought it was Mack's son at first, who maybe decided to rest as he was helping Mack carry in the day's supplies.

Then I worried Mack's son might not be sleeping (crap - is he dead?), and so I creeped towards him for closer inspection.

When I heard snoring, I headed back into the house.

A few moments later, profanity shouted outside. "MOTHERFUCKER!" Mack bellowed. "WHAT THE FUCK were you doing in my truck?!"

(Did I mention Mack recently suffered a heart attack? Jesus Christ: I'm an asshole.)

I ran to the window where I saw Mack's actual son wrestling the weary thief (squatter?) to the ground.

And then I poked my head out of the front door and said, "Do you need me to call someone?"

So helpful, I am.

I'm gonna go ahead and blame The Pregnancy Brain. Honestly, I have no idea what I was thinking. That the whole scene was normal? That it wasn't my responsibility to say anything? That I didn't want to embarrass myself? The thief? Mack's son?

This morning I ignored a sign for 95 South in Providence, and took a 20 minute detour through the city to get to 95 North.

Only to realize, I wanted to be on 95 South.

I keep forgetting credit cards at restaurants. I pay for business luncheons, sign my name, and leave my card there as a parting gift. I can't recall simple facts, last names especially. I sometimes have trouble finding the proper word to articulate my thoughts.

The Pregnancy Brain is real, y'all. Watch out for me.

And now, I apparently ignore snoozing crooks, or at least shrug them off as normal (in fairness to me, this is Philadelphia. This city is mighty strange, yo. Beware the flash mob.)

GAH.

So now, the doors must remained locked (they mostly are, but I may leave the front door ajar on a nice afternoon as I work upstairs).

And I? Well, I have got to start a neighborhood watch as fucking penance. I am going to have a child, for JC's sake. Lord help me.