Dawn recently yelled, "OK, fine! If that's the way you feel, just... you can just go update your blog! Go on," she said, pointing.
That was like five minutes ago. We had an argument. This I take as a digg, calling my site a blawg, and she knows it. Why this offends me can be found here.
Meanwhile.
Yeah, so anyway, I limped to our den and now I don't know where to begin.
Limped? Yesterday I visited our local emergency room. Toe became black with gangrene. It turns out home surgery is not always the best way to go. We mulled over the possibility of maggot therapy, but settled on partial amputation. One fourth of my big toe is now in the Alpine Meadows Medical Arts Building's medical waste bin, waiting for some Fight Club pledge to jack it and churn it into soap. Perhaps Tyler Durden himself will do the honors.
So I'm released from the hospital and told to stay off it. Hoping to spend a few quiet days away from the salt palace. Fat chance. Skeet hears about my mishap, and the next thing I know he's on the porch. We lounge around watching daytime dramas for like 92 minutes before I, already suffering from cabin fever, suggest going for a spin.
We head for the Wal~Mart, but I redirect Skeeter toward the other woman's place. He parks his truck down the block, and I log on.
"And--" Short pause. "And now we're just gonna sit here, me watching you type?"
This, sardonically, from the Skeet. I give him a slice of watermelon-flavored sugarless gum and ask if I can finish up one li'l sentence. He continues to fuss (changing the station, trying to hold my binoculars), so, against my better judgment, I tell him which house she lives in. His comment:
"Those curtains look fine to me. Why all the hoo-ha?"
"That's not the point," I tell him. "It's a garage; it's not like it's a bedroom or a living room. Come on."
"But it's her house. Why can't she doll up her garage?"
I flash him the universal symbol for "lemme type one more paragraph, k?" He huffs and pushes buttons on his stereo. Joints still frozen and crackly from writer's block, I decide to avoid delineating prose and opt for jotting notes from our visit with Shelly at Sambo's restaurant. She and Nick are still splitsville, though he's called twice (sniveling once, blubbering once). Her embers viz. me still smoldering (IMHO), so I try to hook her up with the Skeet, but he's all shy and indisposed and like totally not "getting it" when I speculate as to the nakedness of her left ring fing
Gonna have to git back to the above later: we're on the move. The Hummer pulled out, with Beth behind the wheel, and she's got that guy with her again, the same guy she took to the pawn shop. He's wearing a sombrero....
OK, I'm back in our computer room again. I thought it best to include that last bit "as is," because it keenly illustrates how abruptly the "waiting part" ended, and how jerkily the "tailing part" began. Unlike most stakeouts, that one lasted like three minutes, tops, boom, we're on the road, rolling, putting the shadow to 'em. I'm scrunched down and coaching Skeet to remain nondescript, to not follow too closely, to cut off the tail if she starts to double back, stuff.
"Number one," I tell him, "is she can't know we're behind her. If she figures out we're following her, then I gotta switch to deep deep undercover, which is... It's too intricate for me to get into now, Skeet, but I'd just... I'd rather we stay off her radar, ok, please."
Were heading downtown, driving past Palookaville's library in fact, when it happened. "It" was a very, very long yellow light. We sat there, fully stopped, staring at it, gazing at it as it retained its yellow hue for seconds before it calmly changed to red.
I'm like, "Wha-- What was that?! Skeet, we're trying to keep an eye on somebody here, and you stop for a friggin' yellowish green light!"
I was beside myself.
"You know me better than that, Herb. You know I don't do yellow lights."
I unwrapped a stick of Wrigley's. Watermelon flavor. Sugarless. Popped it into my mouth. "Go," I said, gesturing toward the green light. "We probably lost 'em, but we might as well..." I mumbled OMG under my breath.
And of course we did lose them.
So we drive around for a while. Taking in the sights. We see people feeding geese and hybrids at the park. Skeet tries to discuss the guy's sombrero and how it's not even sunny, and I shorten his observations with a loud, disturbed venting.
We drive around some more. By this point I've completely given up on seeing either Beth or her passenger again, but I navigate the Skeet toward Fat Tony's place of business, just in case. "It's a long shot," I tell him, "but... whatever. Turn down there."
And sure enough: there it is... erm, no. It's the same year, same canary color, but different license plate. A man and a women exit The Swap Shoppe as we slowly drive by, and it's definitely not them, but--and this is the weird part--this guy's also wearing a sombrero. And they actually get into the Hummer. Only he's driving. Skeet marvels at the level of coincidence we just witnessed. I tell him to keep his foot on the gas, that it ain't over.
Which prompts my "friend" to hit me up for gas money.
"OK," I say, "it is over. Let me buy you a, what do you want? Tofu burger? A malted?"
"Uh... So we're done? Just like that? We're giving up?"
"I dunno, Skeet. I'm fresh out of ideas. We could breeze by Kev and Tiff's place I suppose, but that's 22 miles away, and you're already asking for gas money, and I've got a toe here, you know. Stuff."
"Huh."
"Yeah, I think we should mellow out. Go grab a bite."
So we're in Sambo's and in walks Shelly, my ex. We gotta four topper, so we can't really say there's not room. I guess she sensed some hesitation on my part, so she says she's waiting for a friend, then slides in next to me.
"A girlfriend," she repeats, this time emphasizing the "girl" part, giggling and staring at me like I'm a ham sandwich and she's been out in the desert for a spell.
"Oh, you don't say?" I say. "Skeeter, here, knows all about waiting around for a girlfriend, don't you, Skeet?"
"I've had girlfriends. Shuup."
I try a few other tactics to steer 'em toward each other, but it was not to be. Soon, our food arrived, and so did Shelly's friend. She pats me on the shoulder and I'm somewhat relieved they sat a few booths away from us.
A half hour later Skeeter drops me off and I make the mistake of telling Dawn about who we ran into at Sambo's, and then I was sent to this room to type.
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