Gladys Strikes Again…

 
It was a shocker to find how many Duchess Dolls admit they are the Gladys Kravitz of their neighborhoods. One lives here in Scottsdale, another in Gig Harbor, another in Minnesota and yet one more in Phoenix. Who knew?
duchess-diaries-gladys
Three of those Gladys’ I know and can tell you they are the good and kind Gladys’. They have a healthy interest in their neighborhoods and their neighbors’ homes and kids and boats and comings and goings. They aren’t like my Gladys. Yes, she struck again. This time in the form of another note taped inside the elevator.

“This is our home. Clean up your mess!!” with an arrow pointing downward. There on the floor was a tissue. Seems like fightin’ words for the sin of a dropped tissue. But that’s our Gladys.

My little complex is sweet. Gladys is the only bad apple. Upstairs I have Rock Star Brown who plays guitar and sings very loud early in the morning. Don’t know him to put a face to the music. He does have some crazy fights with his wife; once eliciting her to scream, “Do you want a divorce?” so loud Baby Chicken flew from her room, “Did you hear that?” When it’s time to make up, the wife is equally as boisterous.

I figure if that’s my biggest problem, life in the Dale is pretty good. Next door is a lovely lady with a small fur ball dog who sometimes barks in the direction of my condo and below me is Troy from Australia. I know him well. When I first moved in, every time I filled the bathtub it leaked down into his bathroom. It took three plumbers, numerous upstairs downstairs and partial tub draining before we solved the problem. I was again able to bathe and drink wine and Troy was able use his bathroom minus the fright of being crushed by a wet ceiling.

The building is a u-shape with the center creating a courtyard. At night, with the windows open, I hear conversations of neighbors on their balconies. And their chatter with other neighbors. It’s a comforting sound.

Gladys is the only rub. I can’t be one hundred percent sure she’s the grouchy lady across the hall but in two years I’ve yet to run into another grouchy Gus besides her. Last week, I came home from work, entered the elevator and there she was.

“Hello, how are you?” says me.

“Fine.” Says she.

Elevator doors open. “Have a great evening,” says I.

“MmmmHmmm,” says she and we walk toward our doors. She can’t get inside quickly enough. I hum just to irritate her.

If she’s gonna bitch about Kleenex, I’m gonna kill her with kindness. Maybe I should leave her a note.

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