Little House in the Ghetto

Quick word on the knitting front: it's sooooo not happening right now.
Let me tell you, finishing a project for the sake of "finishing" a project is not the best motivation. I have no use for the damn afghan when done - which doesn't exactly leave me leaping for it every chance I get. And I'd much rather be knitting something cute like a fuzzy scarf or a cuddly sweater. But I'm so stupidly pragmatic that I don't want to spend money on the materials when I have a perfectly good project already in mid-knit.
Maybe if something were to happen to the unfinished project in question. Say, it were stolen for example. If I were to one day discover it was no longer in my knitting basket by the coach right by the front door (you can't miss it). What could I honestly do? I would have to move on with my life and start new knitting projects.
Of all the things my cats get into...and for some inexplicable reason they have NO interest in my knitting.
Stupid useless cats.
But what I'm really here today to discuss is the ghetto and why it appears to be just following me around wherever I go.
Mary had a little ghetto...
little ghetto...
little ghe-tto...
Enough with the nursery rhymes.
I've written on this topic before - some of you may recall the offbeat story about WifebeaterGuy and OversizedJerseyGuy.* At the time I found it amusing that after moving just mere weeks prior to a cleaner, more "quiet" neighborhood, the ghetto seemed to follow me there. Well, it didn't stop there.
The weekend of the 4th of July (yes, I'm a timely writer aren't I?) we had stopped by the house in Sacramento on our way to our final destination of Donner Lake. We packed, we watered the plants, we stood on our porch and watched the ghetto copters fly hither and thither, we did laundry.
Now before you picture our neighborhood as a place where children sell crack on street corners in lieu of lemonade and instead of "keeping up with the Jones' " we're "keeping up with the Stoners", please bear in mind that our neighborhood is actually very clean and in a desirable, highly sought after community.
At least, I try to tell myself that while watching the cop cars slowing coast up and down the street with a copter hovering low overhead.
One minute I'm packing the car, the next I'm practically hitting the ground as a police helicopter cruises DIRECTLY overhead with an intercom spouting something unintelligible. As I'm trying to decipher why exactly a helicopter is flying so close to the ground over MY HOUSE I turn around to discover there are 5 cop cars creeping along the street coming and going in all different directions.
Now, I have a little experience with this sort of police activity. Ghetto Mary remember?
They're looking for someone.
Hoooookay - back in the house I go.
But not before noticing that the sidewalks are full of residents trying to figure out what is going on. They, apparently, are not so familiar with the ghetto.
And don't our neighbors have jobs?
Seriously? Work? Every heard of it? It usually keeps you busy at 1pm on a Friday afternoon.
Although I suppose they could be asking me the same thing. I'm a slacker ok? Whatever.
So I head inside not wanting to be a victim to what usually happens when there's a ghetto copter, 5+ cop cruisers, and a paddy wagon (yes, now there's a paddy wagon) looking around for some criminal.
And the helicopter kept flying RIGHT over our house. Nothing more comforting than a police-lead manhunt dead-ending at your house.
Let me take this moment to reiterate that my neighborhood is NICE and QUIET. (mom, this whole story is entirely fictitious. I lie. None of this happened. I'm having hallucinations...flashbacks! Just please don't call me in hysterics.)

*A note about WifebeaterGuy and OversizedJerseyGuy: they were last seen a week after the above offense chatting on the porch throwing back some brewskies, tending to the BBQ. It's always nice to see that after getting into a pushing fight and throwing collapsible furniture you can let bygones be bygones and get drunk together. Of course, I'd like to add that I was pretty disappointed later that evening when there was no show of drunken brawling, chair throwing, or scared-like-a-little-girl running.