Creep of The Day: Scooter Rage

Like Forest Gump’s mother said, life is like a box of chocolate’s you never know what you’re going to get. I sure as fuck didn’t know what I was going to get when I recently heard someone screaming out the window of my apartment.

There’s a fairly busy intersection nearby and it’s not uncommon to hear a disgruntled driver or bicyclist or runner screaming at someone as a result of one near death experience or another. This results in regular window-side entertainment for boyfriend and I as we watch shit go down from our nice little perch above.

Recently after getting home early from work on a cool day when we had our windows down I hear someone screaming at the top of their lungs. Curious to see the latest shit go down, I made my way to the window to peer out. I hear screaming, but can’t quite see where it’s coming from. As a listen further, it becomes clear that someone is yelling something on repeat.

A few seconds later I realize it’s a man yelling…”DILDO! DILDO! DILDO! DILDO” No…surely that’s not right, I think to myself. I listen closer and again, all I hear is “DILDO! DILDO! DILDO! DILDO.” Finally, the man comes into sight and it’s some white dude with a fishing hat (think Wilson from Home Improvement) riding down the street on a scooter screaming Dildo, on repeat, from the top of his lungs.

Screen Shot 2015-08-16 at 7.21.49 PM

I start dying laughing and fumble with my phone to record this absurd moment. As he zooms by screaming this (in anger? joy? wonder?) I fail to take a picture, but die laughing when I see him go by the dog park and ALL the dogs start barking their heads off at his scream.

I then proceeded to text my mom about the man who just scootered by screaming “dildo” at the top of his lungs.

Creep of the Day: It’s a Miracle!!!

I love my family, but, like most families, mine is kind of crazy. A couple of years ago my grandma and mom came out to visit me and I was thrilled to be able to show them around my city.

My grandma’s health had been on the downswing lately and although she could walk, it was painful and she couldn’t go very far, so we would often use a wheelchair and a rental car to get around.

And it worked really well most of the time. However, it quickly put in relief just how non-wheelchair friendly my city is. Handicap parking? Pshht good luck, sucker. Ramps into buildings? LOL.

So when we decided to go out to dinner at a southern-style restaurant in my neighborhood, we clumsily pulled the wheelchair out of the car, rolled up to the entrance with grandma, and were delighted to see that they had a short ramp into the restaurant.

It was a beautiful day, one of those first tastes of Spring kind of days, where it’s finally balmy and people flock outdoors. The restaurant’s patio was pretty busy, but with plenty of tables and the weather absolutely perfect we all decided we needed to be out there too.

As we rolled up to the hostess stand, the hostess greeted us cheerfully and I asked for “3 for the patio, please” and then continued to follow her gaze to the entrance to the patio and the big ass step down to it. Realizing this small, but unnecessary hurdle, I quickly revised our request.

“You know what, it’s actually fine if we sit in here.”

“No, if you want to sit on the patio, we will get you a table on the patio” the hostess said with resolve.

“Really, it’s ok. Inside will be fine.”

“No, we will get you on the patio.” She pressed and then went to go speak with a couple of guys before coming back and saying that we should go back out the front door to the patio entrance.

Ok…maybe this will be easier than it looks, I thought. We wheel grandma back out and realize the entrance to the patio is blockaded by a table of 8 sitting at hightops.

As I started to wonder if there was another entrance, I see the hostess and one of her coworkers come out and speak to the table. Motioning over to the three of us standing outside the gate. As the table looks over, they all collectively begin to nod with a mission to help. They all  — all 8 people — put down their silverware and drinks and get up and start moving the table out of the way.

Finally, the hostess is able to open the gate to the patio. We wheel grandma in up to a table just a few feet behind where the 8 top was. The hostess has moved the chair out of the way so we can wheel grandma right up to it — easy peezy. And then, as she smiles and asks — how’s this? somewhat rhetorically. Grandma goes, “I’d rather have that one.” Then proceeds to get the fuck up out of her wheelchair and WALK around multiple tables, chairs, and patio-eaters watching the situation to … not the table next to it…or the table two spots away…but the table in the back corner of the patio. The furthest fucking table from where we started.

Ohhhhhh my goddd. The hostess’ face drops. The patio-goers look a little confused. And meanwhile Mom and I just follow grandma to the table in the corner. “Yeah….this will work fine.” We agree, exchanging slightly embarrassed looks as we realize the lengths the staff went to when all along grandma probably could’ve walked down that step in the restaurant.

Telling this story to a friend later on, she told me I should’ve screamed, “IT’S A MIRACLE!!!” when grandma got out of the wheelchair to make the situation a win for everyone. If only I was that quick on my toes.

Oh Fuck, What Is That? of the day: Donkey Milk

Today  I was running through CVS to pick-up a prescription when the powers of the universe drew my gaze in the direction of something that made me stop.

Donkey's Milk

Donkey’s Milk

…Donkey’s milk?

I laughed. Donkey’s milk? Growing up in the Midwest we barely had more than Skim and Whole Milk, so where the fuck did Donkey’s milk come from? Surprised, amazed, and humored by this new product I snapped a shot and sent it to my boyfriend. Getting home I sent the picture onto my mom knowing she might also get a laugh from it. Then I got down to business and decided I needed to know more about Donkey’s Milk.

Google: Donkey’s Milk.

I see Amazon pop-up. Okay, apparently there’s some demand for this product. What else is there…okay second hit, Wikipedia “Donkey’s Milk.” Before I even click on the page I feast my eyes on the search results description:

  1. Donkey milk – Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

    en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Donkey_milk

    Donkey milk (or Ass milk) is the milk given by the domesticated ass or donkey. ….Ass milk is still used today in the manufacture of soaps and moisturizers.

“Or Ass milk”…oh yeah, duh, that’s the casual, colloquial version I should’ve been calling it. I immediately burst into giggles.

MUST READ MORE ABOUT ASS MILK.

The wikipedia page dives into all the wonders of ass milk. And it truly is interesting. Apparently it’s comparable to human breast milk, but even more exciting, in my opinion, are all the famous historical figures who heralded the ass milk trend. Cleopatra herself used to “bathe in ass milk.”

MORE!

Nero’s wife required “whole troops of she-asses to attend her on her journeys.”

AND EVEN MORE?! YES!

Napoleon Bonaparte’s sister, didn’t miss out on that new hotness either. Hell no, she was all about a good old splash of ass milk to improve her skin’s health. Not to mention Hippocrates sung it’s praises for ailments as well. 

So there you go folks. Get your ass milk. It’s probably at your local CVS or Rite Aid or Duane Reade or whatever ass milk vendor you have nearby–apparently it works wonders. Just ask Cleopatra.

Hippocrates, also pointed out, “In cases where persons have swallowed quicksilver, bacon is the proper remedy to be employed.” BACON?!

Creep of the Day: Mr. Scare the Shit Out of Me Saturday

This one’s fresh off the fucking presses, so buckle up for the almost real-time (with a 4 hour lag) tale. I’ll begin with the setting. I live in an english-basement. That’s a fancy fucking term for saying that I live in the basement of someone’s house that was converted into an apartment. While this means I relish in having a huge ass studio in the middle of the city for an affordable price, it also comes with its downsides. I experience the occasional mouse (which I believe is either on steroids or really a rat) and my vitamin D is clinically low due to the lack of sunlight from my 2’x3′ window. And, because the entrance to my studio is from the back of the house and not the front, I also have no mailbox and so I have to trust my landlords to kindly deliver my mail to me.

Despite only having to travel down a flight of stairs to drop my mail off, my landlords are not exactly the quickest or the most respectful of my mail. There have been 2-3 week periods where I have mysteriously received no mail at all. I have twice received mail with music notes scrawled on the back of the envelopes. And once after my father sent me texts asking if I got a package he had sent, I found out they had kept my flower delivery upstairs for a solid week–despite the side of the box reading 1-800-Flowers…they somehow did not feel any urgency in bringing them to my apartment door. As a result I’ve gotten a little crazy about mail, especially deliveries, that I am expecting. I warn them in advance it’s coming and if I don’t see the package within 1-2 hours after I know it has arrived I’m all up in the grill asking where it is. Hey! Getting a package is like Christmas. Don’t delay that joy for me.

Image

That brings me to today. I had ordered a new purse (after the strap ripped the fuck off my go-to-purse) and knew it was on its way. After checking the status and seeing that it had been delivered to the house yesterday, I quickly checked the place they typically leave me packages and was bummed to see nothing was there. Realizing I hadn’t heard them stomping around like bulls at the rodeo in awhile I figured, well maybe they’ve been gone, I’ll check the front stoop. I took off, heading toward the front of the house, and once I got to the front stoop I was thrown off to find a man was sitting with a cup of coffee in his hand on the first few stairs. He didn’t look homeless. In fact he was wearing a nice peacoat sort of jacket with khakis and dress hoes.

That’s kind of fucking weird I thought to myself, but mmmaaayyybbeee he’s a friend that is waiting for my landlord to come home? Fuck if I know. He was kind of hunched down (maybe looking at his feet) and didn’t seem phased by me as I stood in front of him. So as I saw the package at the top of the stairs, I quickly ran past him up the stairs and almost the moment I ran past I heard something splash and see his entire milky coffee drink begin spilling all over his shoe and the ground in front of him. Fuck, maybe I startled him. 

But as the coffee began to pour out all over the side walk, suddenly he fell back against the stairs–while making snoring/choking sounds and shaking (or what I thought was convulsing). I grabbed the package and ran back down the stairs thinking he passed out sleeping. “Sir!” I yelled and looked to see his eyes open, but rolled back up in his head. WHAT IN THE FUCK!? 

I had no idea what to do and was sure he was having either a seizure or heart attack. WHAT DO I DO? Do I leave him there to go get my cell phone? Is he really choking? Do I need to save some strangers life by smacking my mouth to his and trying to do the CPR shit I learned in my SafeSitter class when I was 12? WHAT IN THE FUCK WHAT IN THE FUCK WHAT IN THE FUCK?! He was still snore-choking as I began to look around and see a couple across the street. I yelled at them “Do you have your cellphones?!” “I’m sorry, but there’s this man that just passed out and started convulsing on the stairs to my house! Can you call 9-1-1?”

They looked seriously confused and started to walk over. The guy began pulling his cell phone out and then looking back at the guy on the stairs said I think…he’s awake. He yelled across to him “Sir! Are you okay?” and to this Mr. Scare-the-Shit-Out-of-Me starts reviving himself as he responds “Huh? What?” Guy with the phone repeats, “Sir, are you okay? Do you want us to call an ambulance?” “Oh no, I’m fine” Mr Scare-the-Shit-Out-Of-Me says now miraculously revived from this crazy ass episode. “Sir do you know you’re on someone’s front steps?” cell phone guy adds. “Oh yeahhhh..*garglemumblegarg*” he responds. “What?” cell phone guy asks, hoping for clarity. “Mmmhmmm yyyyeah…*garglemumblegarg*”

The couple looks kind of confused and at me. I’m slightly embarrassed now for calling in the troops for this weird man who now appears perfectly fine. I awkwardly say…well my apartment is off the back entrance so I’m not too concerned about him being out here…I guess…as the couple awkwardly nods. I apologize and keep saying what the fuck as we part ways. It’s now 3 hours later and I still need to check if homeboy is still out there (I can’t see anything through my 2’x3′ window, but then again it’s a 2’x3′ window…). So that happened. 

Creep of the Day: Meet Steve

After Rob’s Creep Palace I kept hitting duds housing-wise and finally thought I’d found a good lead in a group house with two roommates looking for a third. Reasonably priced and super close to a stop on the subway line I use for work I set up a time to meet. Walking to the place after work I was happy to find a large townhouse super close to the subway that looked relatively decent outside. I rang the doorbell and before I knew it a lean, red-haired woman around my age opened up the door, introduced herself as Heather*, and welcomed me into the house.

She started showing me around beginning with a cozy living room with random old furniture and bookcases followed by a huge open dining room and then a small kitchen. In the kitchen she excitedly told me that the kitchen would pretty much be ours since Steve doesn’t really use it. Nonchalantly she proceeded to say Steve has his own kitchen set-up in his room. Well, that’s kind of fucking odd, I thought to myself. I continued my mini tour and began to wonder if I could really feel comfortable in this house. It was cute in the downstairs, but definitely had a sparsely furnished, creeky, haunted house type vibe going on that left my just a bit unease. The woman showing my around then led me upstairs to show me what my room would look like.

At the top of the stairs she pointed to the right and noted her room was at that end of the landing, then directly ahead she said this is the bathroom for everyone. She walked in and pulled a string attached to the lightbulb in the middle of the ceiling to turn the lights on. As the lights went on I quickly realized it was not only a stark, but dirty bathroom. Shit looked like it would be found in a haunted prison. At that point my mind was screaming “ABORT MISSION” and I pasted an awkward smile on my face throwing in a few “uh huhs” and “oh okays” until I could make a break for it.

Leaving the bathroom, she pointed to the door right next to it and noted that’s Steve’s room. He’s in there most of the time. Then on the opposite wall she lead me into what would be my bedroom. As she flicked on the lights I saw a creepy ass twin bed with SHIT all over it. Everything from old creepy, weird toys, to books and outdoorsy shit like tennis rackets. On a table and in the corner of a room were boxes with old clothing falling out of them. But the creepiest fucking thing of all was that the bed was pushed up against a door that had been bolted shut and had a bookshelf installed across the top of it. “This would be cleaned up before you moved in, she noted.” But I didn’t give a flying fuck about that point. “Uhm where does that door lead?” I stammered out. “Oh, that door? Hmm, I’m not sure actually.”

At this point I hear a door creep open and she goes, “This is my roommate Steve!” Steve, who is clearly 45 or older and sporting a long white creepy beard, glasses, and awkward skiddishness that embodies what I imagine the lovechild of Gandolf and Frankenstein to look like. Oh, FUCK no. Mentally at war between my emotional response and need to be polite, I quickly introduced myself. I imagine if it weren’t for social norms this is the point that I would run from the fucking house screaming like a cartoon character.

“Steve,” Heather asked. “Do you know where that door leads?”
“Oh, yeah. That goes to my bedroom.” He replied as if that was the most normal shit ever.
“Oh, really, wow!” Heather said like that was also the most normal shit ever.

Me? I’m sure I looked completely weirded the fuck out. They proceeded to lead me back downstairs and try to get my thoughts as I tried to lower their expectations and put the kibosh on our time together. Finally I thanked them for showing me around and got the fuck out of there. Lesson learned: if the ad just lists “fun, easy going, roommates” and doesn’t mention even the age range (e.g. roommates in their 20s-30s) and you are somewhat disinclined to share a wall with a creepy 45 year old man…you may want to ask that in your first email about the apartment. Also, consider asking, “Is there a bolted door between my room and the 45 year old mans?” or “Is there oodles of creepy shit sitting on creepy furniture in the room.” Apparently none of these questions are that irrational.

Creep of the Day: What is wrong with you?

Sometimes I wish it was okay to flat out screech at someone when they walk out of a bathroom without washing their hands. Like when the terminator exterminator came to my apartment last fall and after telling me all about the inner workings of the mouse mind (like use gloves when you set out the traps because if they smell your “human smell” they’ll avoid it) proceeded to ask if he could use the bathroom in my tiny studio apartment. Homeboy walked in with fucking plastic, medical gloves on…flushed the toilet…and without running any water (washing his fucking hands), walked straight the fuck out with his plastic gloves still on. Apparently touching your penis with the gloves before setting traps doesn’t count. And sadly he’s not alone – whether in the workplace or at some other public places I see people all the time stroll out without washing their hands. Each time I wish I could run up to them and let my feelings out, meaning this:
GIF
And then I want to come back and seriously ask them:
Wrong
C’mon people, wash your hands. It is not that hard.

Creep of the Day: WWFJD? Invade your neighborhood, that’s what.

Upon realizing that I haven’t posted on here in what seems like ages I took advantage of my lazy Sunday to go to a coffee shop and begin piecing together the remnants of long ago started, but never completed blog posts. While working I kept thinking about the fact that I’ve actually been relatively creep free lately. Aside from the standard “hey grrrrllll” when I walk to the store or train station, my creeper magnetism appears to have lost its mojo. Admittedly, I’m pretty okay with that – I don’t particularly enjoy feeling uncomfortable and weirded out – however, it does mean that this blog suffers for it and instead winds up with images of fruit that I find creepy and entertaining (sorry ya’all!).

After cranking out a post that had long been stuck in my draft box, I finally decided to head home. I opted for the sleepier, more neighborhood route and found myself casually strolling down the street, looking at row houses, and thinking about the cold glass of water I’d have when I got home. As I began crossing to the other side of the street, I heard a woman yell “Excuse me!”

Not thinking much of it. I kept walking. “Excuse me!” I heard again and continued to keep walking convinced it wasn’t me. “Excuse me, ma’m!” Finally wondering who the fuck this person is yelling at I turn around and see two well dressed women running across the street waving at me. Hmm…maybe I dropped something?

They approach me and again say “Excuse me! We’re not from around here. We’re from X neighborhood, can we ask you a question?” Oh, okay, you’re lost. “Sure.”

“This is Shania,” she says gesturing to her friend “and I’m Cindy. We’re planning seminars in the area.”

“Okay…” What the fuck, I thought you were lost now you’re trying to sign me up for shit.

“They’re about history and music and language and how all of it provides evidence for what’s said in the Bible.”

Fuck. At that I said “Sorry, I’m not interested–best of luck” and started to turn away.

“Oh you’re not interested?”

“No, sorry.”

They looked surprisingly crestfallen, although I can only imagine this is the standard response they get. I began walking away and I hear, “Can I ask you one more question?”

Awe fuck. Why do I feel guilty enough to turn around? “Uhm sure.”

“Have you ever heard of the female image of Jesus?”

OMG ITS THE FUCKING FEMALE JESUS PEOPLE AGAIN! WHAT THE FUCK? How are these crazies invading my fucking neighborhood now?

In disbelief, I quickly said “I’m sorry I’m not interested” and walked away in utter disbelief that I’ve now been approached twice by this same random shit.

Not gonna lie. I definitely looked back at least twice to make sure those weirdos weren’t following me. My head kept spinning with AHHHH FEMALE JESUS PEOPLE STRIKE AGAIN! AHHH! Honestly, is there something about me that screams “I wanna know about female jesus?” or “Sign me up for your cult-like religious sect NOW” or is it just my creeper magnetism mojo still bubbling strongly underneath the surface? Not to mention I clearly have a lot of work left to do on my whole “be more of an asshole” thing.

WWFJD? I posited in my earlier post on this topic. Invade your fucking neighborhood with Lightning, that’s what.

Update: So I’ve been trying to research this further to find out who the f these people are and apparently it’s not that Lightning shit, but not too far from it. This is pretty much the same thing that has happened to me: http://www.therowboat.com/2008/08/do-you-believe-in-mother-god/.

There’s also this, which argues that its cult-like and notes a teaching was “black people are cursed” – I’m not sure what to believe about this shit, but I’m totally weirded out by it and these people approaching me: http://www.examiningthewmscog.com/archives/missionary-ron-ramos-explains-why-he-left-the-wmscog-after-12-years/