Simply Complicated

Ever look at your life and feel like you could easily be on Springer?

As I get older I wonder why I feel the need to simplify. Then I think objectively about my life and say, “Ah, yes, it’s because I’m leading some freakish existence.” Now, before I get going, let me say that I understand the following:
A) My life is the result of decisions I have made, and I do NOT blame anyone but myself for my unwise choices.
2) Stupidity is making the same decisions and expecting different results.
c) Compared to the Israeli soldier who dies for his country or the “freedom fighter” who flies a plane into a building for what he believes (or, for that matter, most of the people living in Kenneth City), my life is NOT that bad.

Ok, so to follow that thought… “embrace the suck” (Thanks, Lu!): I am a thirty-two year old childless divorcee who values the company of canines over that of people. I will, in all probability, end up living alone in a cool but nonetheless creepy house, save for nine or ten stray dogs. Children will run past my house at night because rumors will develop involving strange “ceremonies” at my house. I will wear pink fuzzy slippers as I walk my mutts around town, and people will whisper in conspiratorial tones, “You know, she had it all once… she was a writer, had a man, and seemed so full of life. No one knows what happened, but it’s been said weird light comes from her bedroom window every full moon.” I make choices that other people would laugh at, and I tend to follow my gut even when I know it’s not the best idea (hello, I spent five years working for county government). I spend too much time reading cheesy romances. I have some talent, I suppose, as a writer, but have chosen to use it to report on pancake breakfasts instead of writing The Great American Novel. I have no tolerance for committees, meetings, and organized functions, shunning them instead for margaritas, beaches, and the ocean. If given the choice between a social event where I could meet others with similar interests and watching The Birdcage on DVD for the umpteenth time, I will bow out of the social engagement (usually by not showing up without calling), put on Tom’s old shirt, pour some rum, and click on the DVD. My life’s ambition is to sail a boat to a faraway island and live there. Beyond that, I do not have higher goals. Should I live long enough to age past the point of caring for myself, I will have no savings to speak of and will find myself in a medicaid bed in a large nursing home that has been on the news at least three times in the past year. After I use what scant savings I have from my years with the Freakshow (government work, for the uninitiated), I will never have more than $1700 in the bank at any given time. The summit of my writing career hasn’t been reached yet, but I feel fairly certain I will achieve it quite by accident and it will never make it into one of those hideous literature books we all had to read in college. My most prized possession is a pen. I have been peeing outside for well over a month and have developed a remarkably blase attitude about where I pee (after all, what’s the worst that could happen if a neighbor sees me- do you REALLY think after seeing some of the crap that’s happened here over the past year a woman peeing outside is gonna make them SUDDENLY realize all is not all well at Fruitcakes Estates?). I love who I am.

So, bear that all in mind as you read the following.

Here’s my last 32 hours:

12:30 p.m. Phone rings. It is Chez. I am on the phone; he’ll just have to wait.

12:40 p.m. I call him back. He asks me for $450 so he doesn’t go back to jail. It is fortunate for me I am not drinking milk; I would have snorted it out my nose. I tell him no. He says he’s just going to turn himself into the bail guys at 2:30.

4:45 p.m. I call Frank for something inane. I ask if Chez got everything worked out. His response? “I don’t know where he is or what he did.” I lack the foresight to think that strange.

6:15 p.m. Chez’s bail bondsman (for the naive, it’s not about kinky sex… they keep you -ostensibly- out of jail) calls me and tells me Chez was supposed to come pay him $450 at 2:30 that afternoon, never showed up, and they are looking for him to put him in jail. He reminds me that just over a year ago I signed on a bond for Chez and, should they fail to locate him, I am on the hook for $5000. I tell him what I know. He seems to doubt me. I assure him that the sorry excuse for a human that is Chez is not worth losing my house over and that I will do everything in my power to help them locate him.

8 p.m.-ish Chez calls me and assures my voicemail that “they” cannot take my house and he is not running.


9:00 a.m.-ish Frank informs me that he will most likely use his rent money (payable to me) to pay the $450 for Chez and then tell him he can’t live there anymore. I got news for you, bud, I don’t have the rent in three days, NONE of you can live there anymore.

9:30 a.m. The Bank of Cathy officially closes as I put a three day notice on their door. I go to Leroy’s girlfriend’s house to let him know there exists a very real possibility that he will be homeless by Tuesday. I feel bad for him, even though I know he chose his roommates. Leroy seems visibly upset that Frank is planning to use the money Leroy gave him to pay for Chez’s bond. Resultingly, he tells me where Chez may be staying.

1 p.m. I meet a bounty hunter for the first time in my life. He is big, bald, and carries a gun. No Chez.

4 p.m. I see Chez’s girlfriend’s car at her house; Chez, I assume, is there. I call aforementioned bounty hunter. Apparently these guys are like vampires- unless it’s their “client’s” listed address, they need to be invited in. He does not want to, in his words, “spook” him.

6:45 p.m. Bounty hunter calls me and asks me if I have a boyfriend. Says we can pretend he is my boyfriend to lure Chez out of hiding. I thank god that I ever met Tom and explain that Chez knows my “boyfriend” (what am I, thirteen?) well and won’t buy it.

Which brings me to now. I am supposed to be working.

Instead, in typical disregard for the concept of not making major decisions when you’re under stress, here’s what I have decided:

*House going up for sale 4/15. We will fix what we can by then and hope for the best
*With proceeds will buy a SINGLE family home. Over the concept of landlording. I suck at it and don’t want to get better.
*Will buy a house that I can have less than a $20k mortgage. Not interested in doing anything for money, like public relations or lifeguarding. As soon as this house sells, I will no longer do anything because I could use the money.
*Don’t think I’m gonna run the pool this summer. This has nothing to do with anything going on but I just don’t want to be responsible for anyone but me. Running a pool means I’m responsible for it for nine weeks.

Seems like I just DID this a few years ago. Here’s all I want out of life anymore:

The ability to sit on a beach and sip a drink that contains three types of alcohol and two types of fruit WITHOUT worrying that if I don’t get back to work I won’t be able to make the mortgage.

A boat.

I want to be able to fly a plane.

I want to live with dogs.

I only want people in my life who don’t owe me rent money.

Like I said at the beginning of this epic, I KNOW I created this mess. Now I’m getting myself out of it. Bear in mind I don’t care about the five grand as much as I do WHY I’d have to come up with it- my own stupidity. I am getting out of a house that, much like Communism in Russia 60 years ago, seemed like a good idea at the time. Also getting myself out of the hefty mortgage and the concept of living in close proximity to anyone but someone that 1) gave birth to me (and even then only for a short time), B) is in love with me, or 3) is blood related to me or someone I love. Oh, and Mardi. She can always come here until we kill each other.

Any thoughts on ways to evict people cheaply or quickly would be welcome.

Also, if you know a way to lure a fugitive out of their “safe house”, drop me a line. At this point, I’m open to anything but screwing the guy.


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I write. I take pictures. I love my dog. I love Florida. My 2016 book, 'Backroads of Paradise' did really well for the publisher and now I feel a ridiculous amount of pressure to finish the second book.