Stalker for Hire

Savannah, Georgia.

Twelve o’clock in the afternoon.

The sun beat down on the roof of my car, windows only slightly cracked to catch the rare breeze.
I sat low in the driver’s seat, throat parched to the point that my tongue felt welded to the roof of my mouth. Shirt drenched in sweat.

But not nearly this sexy.

I had hired on with an investigation agency back in April for the sole purpose of making some extra money. Troy had given me the idea after he saw me responding to a craigslist ad requesting a cleaning lady.

Investigating definitely beats filling out invoices for more lemon pledge

One online class and several bureaucratic hoops jumped through later, and I was a certified, qualified, licensed and insured private investigator. 

Suitable for all your stalking needs.

Which is how I came to be waiting, camera in hand, in the crowded parking lot of an anonymous apartment complex. Slowly dying of dehydration and boredom, all in the hopes of getting about fifteen seconds of video of a woman leaving the apartment of her current boyfriend-on-the-side.

Because it is NEVER this easy.

Since working for what shall be hereafter known as “The Agency”…

Well excuse me for trying to romanticize a job
for which the primary qualification is being able to hold your bladder.

…I’ve served subpoenas, casually tailed cars, and typed reports. But mostly, I stalk people.

Minus the psycho factor..

There are four military bases within an hour’s drive of Savannah. With so many spouses deployed, adultery cases are my norm.

I try not to concern myself with the moral quandary of who’s cheatin’ who, who’s being true, and who don’t even care anymore.

Thank you Alan Jackson for your succinct prose.

I’m just in the creepin’ business. And business is (maybe not surprisingly) good.

Consequently, I’m using the relationship woes of others to fund my own upcoming nuptials.

And that, Alanis Moirssette, is pretty damn ironic.

Lets not argue about the definition.

Engagements, Valentines Day, and Ten Tons of Dirt

So, about a month ago, a nifty little thing happened...

I got engaged.

SQUEE!!!

 We were sitting on the ol' futon, watching "It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia", and drinking Irish coffees when he decided to get serious.

^ Which is pretty hard to do in the middle of this nonsense ^

Basically, it was the most romantic thing ever.

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Oh really? Well, what the fuck do you know!? Were you there?!

I thought not...

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Anyway, I could wax poetic about how I almost spilled whiskey laden coffee all over myself, but, let's be real, no one really cares about that...


But, hell, you know, you get a ring on your finger and suddenly your favorites tab is chock full of dresses, cakes, and other fun things. And then you leave the realm of pinterest and discover how much those things actually cost and then you feel sick and consider just eloping...

Peace out my homies.
This is happening.

But that's no fun either, because having people that you love and care about around is pretty much the best.

And yet, here we are, also renovating this house in the midst of engagement shenanigans.

I guess what I'm trying to say is, while I fantasize about stupidly awesome cakes, the reality is I'm haggling with a guy named Lem over the price of dirt so we can grade around our house.

Fun Fact: Adding a slope of dirt around the foundation directs water away from the house.
Preventing the water from pooling which can lead to mold and other gross things.

We needed about ten tons of the stuff, (not an exaggeration), and I hadn't quite gotten around to scheduling a delivery. However, Troy was able to make the call and had a full dump truck load of dirt delivered.

On Valentines Day.

And they say romance is dead.

Roses and chocolate won't keep. But dirt?

Dirt is forever.

Super exciting weekends

Pomegranates. The psycho fruit.

Here for such a short time, that delectably frustrating fruit.
I'll obsess over the holiday arrival of my favorite super food for months. But once they arrive, carefully packaged in crates and bins at the local produce mart, the sweetness becomes cloying and I can't help but reevaluate our relationship.

Sure pomegranates look great, all shiny and red, sporting that weird crown shaped sepal thing, but are they really worth the effort?

Whatever.
You know I look good.

For one thing, you CANNOT multitask while eating a pomegranate. They demand all your attention. Should you try, the jealous juicy mess that is pomegranate will destroy your entire surrounding area. Keyboard? Ruined. Book? Defiled. Controller? Ravaged.

Son of a...

While you and Pomegranate are together, she will not allow any outside distractions.

Say good-bye to your social life, hobbies, and work productivity.

You can't even speak to another human being without Pomegranate getting in the way. Seeds spitting in all different directions, juice running like blood...

Speaking of which...

You will always look like one of two things while consuming Pomegranate.

A serial killer cannibal, or a zombie in the middle of a meal.

Not undead, just on her second pomegranate.

A seed explosion is practically guaranteed while tearing apart the fruit.

One of them will probably hit you in the eye.

Vitamins and nutrients delivered straight to your face!

They're abusive and controlling, but you know they don't really mean to hurt you. Inside they're really very sweet. As long as you keep things contained in the comfort and privacy of your own home...

Otherwise, things quickly spiral out of control.

You love to eat them in private, but refuse to be seen with them in public. Mostly because they make everything about them, and will create the messiest of scenes.

It's a tricky relationship, and once you feel like you've figured out how to handle Pomegranate in all it's beautiful ridiculousness...

They're gone.

I'm out.

Season's Greetings, Pomegranates.

You beautiful psychos.

The 40% parking problem.

Comparatively speaking, I haven't been a functioning adult for very long. Yet, it seems to be long enough that I've begun noticing a pattern of certain... issues.

Such as...

 

 And with it... The Holidays.

Overstimulating, overspending, overload.

But wait! Here's some happy news! If you have an Average Joe job, (like most of us), as of today, there is only one grossly inadequate paycheck left until Christmas.

Fffuuuuucccc...

Which means that at some point soon, you'll be desperately searching for a parking spot just outside that overwrought beacon of consumables, tinsel, and Auntie Anne's...

The descent begins.. into The Mall.

...because as nice as Amazon is,  it's difficult to buy clothes online with any confidence. And then there's that stupid last minute gift for the person you foolishly started dating right before Thanksgiving.

There's a reason why you don't break the rules of dating season.

Even though you thought you had both agreed to keep things casual and not get each other anything, they're hinting that they still picked you up "just a little something" which will probably be lame. But, you'll need to reciprocate anyway, unless you want to be alone for New Year's Eve and Valentines Day... again.

So to the mall you go..

And after cruising the parking lot perimeter for the eleventh damn time, it appears a space has finally become available.

See it? There's an open spot just behind that white SUV!

Just as you begin to think that maybe this won't be so bad, while the first hint of that holly jolly feeling begins to warm your cold Grinch heart, you pull around and almost crash into someone's 1983 Ford Fiesta.

Unobtrusive to a fault.

Or a Vespa, Mitsubishi Mirage, Mazda 323 GTX... you get the idea.

The point is, any time you think there's an open parking space, there is also a 40% chance that a compact car is lurking between two SUV's. Waiting to crush your hopes and send you slinking back to the warm glow of eBay and Amazon.com

There is no cure, there is no prevention, there is only the grudging acceptance that the outside world is an irksome, silly place. And we should all stay inside, in our elastic-less sweatpants, getting drunk on rum, and making impulse purchases of light saber replicas.

Just under $300!

 You know.... at least 'til Easter.

Don't drink and blog, especially while feeling sentimental.

You know when you're younger, and you first discover alcohol, you've got no real standards because you have no experience. So you'll swill anything you can get your hands on. Boone's Farm, Mad Dog 20/20, that cheap Costco beer that just says "Beer".

"Beer".
When only the most generic will do.

But then we get a little older and suddenly the sky's the limit. Even though we're only, like, twenty-three, we start having aspirations of becoming true aficionados.
Maybe we go through a craft brew stage, or an import phase, perhaps we wax philosophical about Yuengling, America's oldest brewery, or the superiority of Argentinian wine.

Not surprisingly, the latter tends to coincide with our "insufferable asshole" stage of existence.

But, for most of us, keeping up such pretense becomes too costly and time-consuming.
Sure, our dalliance with that exotic French label was fun and exciting, but at the end of the day it's just too damn much work. So we drift back toward the safe and familiar. Those comforting brews and vintages that forgo the hype, allowing you to feel comfortable in your own skin. You don't have to pretend to like them for appearances sake...

... not even ironically...

 ...you like them well enough just as they are.

So honey, I guess what I'm trying to say is; you're fun, easy-going, handy, ready at a moment's notice, practical, economical, and you clean up well.


Babe, you're my boxed wine.

And if that's not the most romantic thing you've ever heard, then yuck fou.

Men, keep this analogy in your cranium for the day when you're being yelled at for being drunk at your in-laws.

Ladies, boxed wine, amiright?! No ridiculous corkscrew accessories, and the party's not over after four glasses.

Thanksgiving

It's almost Thanksgiving.

That glorious celebration where we eat until we want to puke, and then swill enough of some awful holiday cocktail until we actually do puke.

Tonight's gut-rot is brought to you by the letter "E".
For "Egg". In your drink. 400 calories worth.
Enjoy.

And as we slowly slip into a food coma, we give thanks.
Generally it's for all the usual stuff: family, friends, our health, and our work.

But lets not forget all the smaller blessings that have been granted us, which might not always receive proper recognition on this day of thanksgiving.

For me it's things like...

- Being an hour late for work... only to get there and realize it's Columbus Day.

State paid holiday celebrating a conquering tyrant. Yay!

- Randomly finding one of my favorite childhood movies available for free on YouTube.

Of course it was quickly pulled, 'cause Disney don't play those games.
But it's glorious while it lasts

- Thoughtful strangers

Stuck at a stop sign on a blind corner of a busy intersection. Locked eyes with the driver across the street who was also stopped, but had a clear view. Got a nod and a "you're good to go" hand gesture. Safe crossing. 

Sometimes, people are awesome.

- Ninja Poos

At work when there's only two people in the bathroom. Got to go #2, and suddenly the bowels go all stealth. Not a ripple, not a whiff. Perfection.

Everybody poos. Even ninjas.

- Not living alone. 

Personally, I cannot live unsupervised.
In college I didn't wash my sheets for nine months and at one point was so poor and lazy I did nothing but watch VH1's "I love the 80's" and "Flavor of Love".
Subsisting solely on peanut butter directly from the jar, I licked it off a spork like a crunchy lollypop. For two solid days.

Thank God I live with a person now.

She's smiling through her mental illness.

- Third flush is the charm

Ha! Sometimes patience is a virtue.

Won't be needing you this time!

- Heat guns

Like a hairdryer on steroids, these babies work beautifully at helping scrap paint off hundred year old door trim.
And are oddly therapeutic...

As an added bonus, there's also a real possibility of burning down the house.
Which just makes me feel like a hardcore hairdryer wielding badass...

- Parking phenomenon

Safely finding a spot for your vehicle is a challenge we all face.

More challenging for some than others.

Trying to find a parking space, or any space to park is often an exercise in futility. So when a spot becomes available that's actually near my destination and there's still time left on the meter, it kind of forces a person to believe in a higher power.

And lo!
The Jetta Sedan completed their quest early and was able to make room for another traveler.
For so it is written.

So for all these reasons, plus many more, I give thanks. Especially for small miracles.

Happy Thanksgiving!