I never promised you a rose garden...

Before I begin, let me tell you what you are going to think. You are going to think, “What the hell was she thinking?!” Or some version of, “Well, she gets what she deserves.” Something like that. It’s been awhile since I’ve posted, I realize. But I’ve been busy collecting restraining orders and joining the witness protection program. Let me explain.

A few months back on my regular morning walk with my ridiculously adorable, geriatric pooch (it’s a short walk) I noticed the buildings down the street from me were getting a bit of a face lift in the form of landscaping and a paint job. I’m not going to lie; I was a little jealous. When was my landlord going to decide to renovate the outside of my prison barracks, I mean, apartment building? In any event, after seeing the landscaper hard at work for a whole week, my envy got the better of me, and I threw out a “Hey, it’s looking really nice!” At which point he must have heard, “Hey stud, I think you are the man of my dreams and I’m ready to be wooed by your ability to manhandle a plant and randomly come by my apartment uninvited.” But I’m getting ahead of myself.

A week of small talk turned into a rose bush waiting for me on my doorstep when I came home from work one day. Well that’s totally unnecessary…and not at all inappropriate or weird, I thought. Well maybe weird. But that only registered a few days later when he greeted me on my morning walk with, “Good morning! Did you like your rose bush? I came by this weekend to see if you liked it.” At the time I thought to myself, well that’s odd that he would come by after hours. But being a therapist and highly trained in what to do with uncomfortable feelings, I decided to repress them, because after all, you don’t want to hurt the creepy gardener’s feelings.

I thought it was strange that when I would see him cross the street in the morning to be on my side of the sidewalk I would feel a pit in my stomach, but again, feelings? What feelings? (Said the therapist.) So it wasn’t until I was recounting the full story to a friend of mine who has a louder internal alarm system than I do that my red flags were raised. Or should I say, her red flags were raised and she hit me over the head with the flagpole. I decided to tell my neighbors about the situation just so they would be aware that if a random gardener was lurking about the building, he was not an invited guest. With or without a rose bush…or a shovel.

The neighbors were also alarmed at some of the comments he had made, namely that when he asked me out and I responded with a flat out “No,” his retort was, “Oh, I like that. It’s ok; I’ll wait.” (Is it just me or did I did I see an evil gleam in that eye?) So they decided to join me on my next morning stroll to get a visual. It felt a little vigilante-style, but hey, this is LA. It’s not like I live in Beverly Hills and a girl’s got to look out for herself. Plus it’s not like my grandmotherly shih-tzu is any kind of watch dog in the event he did show up one day with a shovel. So off we went. To get a visual.

I was surprised when my very dear neighbor decided to make contact. She greeted him with a “Hey! You!” as he crossed the street to greet the both of us. Surprise quickly turned to delight (fear, whatever) when she gave him a friendly warning that we have a tight-knit group of neighbors in our building and none of us, especially me, want him hanging around anymore. Got it? And if that wasn’t enough, she threw out there the fact that she works (worked, whatever) for a high-ranking city official and a phone call would be enough to put an end to a small time landscaping business. By the end of the exchange we were all pretty shaken up, or at least the two of us were, and he quickly took off in his truck. I’m so lucky to have such protective neighbors, I thought.

And things really did quiet down there for awhile. Of course, by awhile I mean the week that I went out of town. Right before I left he paid me a little visit outside of my apartment building. Technically he didn’t enter the courtyard, so I suppose there was no cause for a phone call to a high-ranking city official. However, he was just waiting outside of the gate in his truck and made some attempt to rope me into conversation once again. I waved him on and kept walking, thinking, I am so glad to be getting out of town in a few days.

Fast forward a week later and there he is again. Mind you, I have intentionally changed around my morning routine. The pooch and I walk a different route than before, at different times than before, and I may or may not be carrying a pocket full of pepper spray now. Needless to say, there he was in his truck. He waited until he saw which direction I was going to go, parked and got out of his truck to secure a front row seat to my walk standing on the corner of my street, arms folded across his chest. I could feel his eyes burning holes into my back, so on our way back, I made sure to do a little mad dogging myself. I hoped my look was saying, “I see you staring, a-hole, and just because you forced me to change my routine doesn’t mean I am scared of you.” In my head I was thinking, “Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. That’s it; I’m going to the police.” Which is exactly what I did that night after work.

I gave myself a little pep talk right before walking into the police station, which is a pretty intimidating place to be at 9:00 at night, and not at all like stations on Law & Order. (Read: Chris Maloney was not there to greet me with a look of concern and two big, muscle-y arms). Instead, two friendly looking police officers, one older, one young and semi-cute, verified the fact that no crime had been committed and therefore I could not file an official police report. However, they would take an unofficial report and increase patrol on my street in the mornings. They encouraged me to get a restraining order, which I said felt a little like overkill, because after all, it was me that started talking to him first. Clearly I gave him the wrong impression, I told them, as I recounted the story of our “first date.” The officers and I bantered back and forth a few minutes - they told me to stop flirting with the help; I told them I’m not used to y’all people in these little ole parts a’town seeing as how I’m originally from the South. They said they understood, until I told them I’ve been out here 5 years. I know, I know, I get it. I should walk staring straight ahead, saying hi to no one, pepper spray locked and loaded. Less risk for creepy interactions.

The older of the two cops got called to the back, leaving me and the cute one to finish up business. I dried my tears and thanked him for his time and his promise to have a chat with the lawn guy should he encounter him on a patrol. I went to say goodbye and out of habit went to use his first name. I quickly realized I didn’t know it because that’s not usually how police officers usually introduce themselves. “Hi, I’m Paul. I am going to give you a ticket today for driving 87 in a 25. Have a nice one!” So instead, halfway through my goodbye, I choked out a “Thanks again, Officerrrr…” that sounded halfway between a come-on and a sneer. I flashed him a smile, thinking that would somehow make up for the really strange goodbye. There I go again, flirting with the help, he was going to think. And there went my credibility, I thought, as well as any chance with this real-life knight in shining armor…or at least this one with a badge.