Plum Tired

I've been re-reading Janet Evanovich's Stephanie Plum series in eager anticipation of tomorrow's release of the latest installment. Stephanie is a bounty hunter in Trenton, New Jersey--and not the best bounty hunter, either. She's always getting into crazy scrapes, and her reputation for destroying cars is legendary.

I am not a bounty hunter, just an unassuming music teacher--one who only asks for a good night's sleep and a somewhat peaceful apartment complex.

One who is not getting what she wants this summer. If you've been keeping up with this blog, you'll have seen a few agonized posts, in which I scream and implore my neighbors to turn the music down, not broadcast their fights to the whole complex, and keep an eye on their kids. You'll have heard about the TWO times random children have come up to my open living room window and scared the crap out of me (not to mention Millie and Harley) wanting to talk.

And you'll know that management is getting to know me very well because I complain--a lot.

Last night, I climbed into bed at about 11:00, with Stephanie's ninth adventure, "To the Nines," in hand. I settled back onto my pillows and got comfy. Then I heard:

BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM

Oh, good! The obnoxious car stereo. I've heard them before (many times) and I know that other people have complained to management about the car stereos at night. What no one has done, however, is supply management with a license plate number.

I crept out of bed and peeked through my blinds. I could see a sporty silver car backing into a parking spot--it was the only car moving out there and the stereo was pumping away.

It was 11:15 at night.

I walked out to my living room and grabbed a few important items. I waited a couple of minutes and then set off on my sleuthing adventure.

Armed with a Little Miss Sunshine notepad, a DVHS pen, pajamas and pink plaid garden clogs, I set out into the parking lot under cover of darkness. I squeaked a little as I ran down the path and realized that the sprinklers water more than just the grass (no wonder it's soaked out there every morning). I stayed in the dark as much as I could creeping the roundabout way behind the dumpster, over to the shadow of another building, before creeping back and quikly jotting down the license plate number and the make/model of the car (a silver Nissan Pro6, if you're curious).

To be safe, and avoid having someone see where I live, I walked all the way around the back of my building, across the grass, and towards my front door from the other side. I locked myself back in and went straight to bed, satisfied that my mini-adventure might just pay off in getting my obnoxious noisy neighbors a good telling-off from management.