Although my midwestern background hasn’t exactly prepared me to be a connoisseur of fruit (read: the first time I had a real cherry I was 25 years old), I’m pretty fucking sure it’s not supposed to look like what I’ve been seeing at the grocery store lately. Introducing oranges with knobs and ‘carropears.’ Just imagine someone pulling out that carropear from their lunchbox at work.
Wait – If you haven’t read my earlier Craigslist Creeper’s posts, you might want to consider back tracking:
- Creep of the Day: Craigslist Creepers Part I – The SearchEdit
- Creep of the Day: Craigslist Creepers Part II – Surprise!
If not go ahead, get your creep on!
You know how I mentioned that new Craigslist apartment had 1.5 baths? That the full bath – the one with the shower – was right inside the entrance to my new roommate’s room? Well, that’s where the next surprise was. The first time I went to take a shower, I awkwardly knocked and hearing nothing went in (like she had advised) and bolted into the bathroom. Flicking on the light and shutting the door I began to look around and realize…this fucking thing hadn’t been cleaned…possibly ever. The sink was coated with make-up and dust and god only knows what else based on yesterdays experience and the floor…the floor was covered in hair. I don’t even think there was a shower mat. Just hair. And this roommate had long hair. Like I-wanna-challenge-rapunzel’s-ass-to-a-hair-duel-one-day hair. The bottom of the shower curtain was covered in mold and the shower itself wasn’t much better. When you got out you basically tried to touch as little ground as possible…strategically placing and standing on your discarded clothes in the hopes of not getting mystery things stuck to your foot. It was fucking nast. Eventually I began breaking down and trying to change things. I bought a shower curtain and replaced it…to which she told me abruptly after…well you didn’t have to do that…I was going to do that.
It seemed like each day I was finding something more disturbing and weird than the last until eventually I was noticing everything including her total lack of regard for people. A few examples, you ask?
- “Yeah my friend is a vegetarian so when I’m around her I get the bloodiest pieces of meat and just tear it up in front of her.”
- When Craigslist hunting for what she called the “living room roommate” she adamantly stressed that she wanted a commuter roommate, but would “settle” for someone more permanent figuring “well I’ll just kick them out when I find the commuter.”
- She didn’t hold back either…“I know you’re new here and stuff, but this city really isn’t that great. You’ll see.” (To which I had to resist replying, “WTF shithead, go clean your toilet!”)
Eventually she found the “living room roommate” who wasn’t a commuter, but turned out to be pretty cool. Her and I began to note that shit was nasty up in there and far from perfect – but similarly for the price and location it wasn’t the worst place to be.
As tension mounted, however, I began to peruse Craigslist in my spare time. But before I got too far Mamie suddenly approached me in the hall toward the end of October. “So….I’m going to do a residency next month in [Enter Foreign Country].”
“Wow, congratulations!” I said, genuinely thinking it sounded like a great opportunity.
“Yeah, sooo I’m moving out.”
“Oh…so you’ll be gone a few weeks?”
“No, I’m moving out and you or our other roommate need to either sign the lease as the primary leasee or find a new place to live.”
“I mean I’m still trying to figure things out…nothing is for sure right now, but I wanted to let you know.”
A few days later, realizing we had conflicting stories – my roommate and I approached Mamie to find out what the deal was. She seemed annoyed that we were asking her about this and then told us she had already told us we needed to sign the lease or move out and we were down to oh, 3 weeks or less before the lease expired. The date was also during a conference I was scheduled to attend States away.
That’s when I went ape shit on my lease and realized it said it was a lease from California (yeah, rookie move not reading that shit better – but I was desperate). However, reading it multiple times through I found a golden nugget of information – she had to give us at least 25 full days notice before she could make us move. Eventually my roommate and I knocked on her door to figure things out and I told her what the lease said. She was pissed and disagreed, but after reading it over again she rightfully gave us a few extra days before we had to be out. Of course noting that it was a huge inconvenience for her as she did so.
As the weeks went by and we began searching for apartments ourselves – quite desperately – eventually it came time to move out and luckily my roommate and I had found places to live. A few days before we had to move out, I woke up before work – lightly knocked on her bathroom door like I always did each morning and then hearing nothing proceeded to walk in keeping my eyes to the ground and preparing to bolt into the bathroom. The only thing is as I kept my eyes down I realized there were 6 feet lined up in a row across the bedroom floor. A little freaked out and figuring she had friends over or something I ran into the bathroom showered and bolted out of that joint and headed to work.
When I arrived home I made the connection that the 3 pairs of feet I saw were her mother, father, and little brother who were now invading our apartment. And while they were nice and would smile at you, they would not say a word to you and instead spent 90% of their time walking between her bedroom and cooking things in her kitchen.
So they had arrived to move her out. Wow, that’s nice. I thought to myself as I also noted that were kind of early – we had 3-4 days until the lease expired. Maybe they want to get an early start, I figured. But no – they didn’t instead of getting an early start they literally just cooked shit the whole fucking time they were there. According to my other roommate on the very last day and day of move-out all they did was “cook fucking hot pockets all day”
It was just plain weird. Mamie also told us she would have to leave earlier than us, but yet when move out day came I got home from work and her and her family were still putzing around. I ended up cleaning my entire room and luckily my other roommate offered to drive me and my minimal amount of shit over to my new apartment. We kept seeing Mamie and her family take trips down to her car every time we’d pass we would smile, but they would say nothing and walk right by us.
On the ride to my new place my roommate and I recounted the many ways Mamie was pretty much a giant asshole and a strange cat. Like the fact that are apartment had one fucking cart to help people move things, but despite watching her and I go back and forth (and not using the cart themselves) never taking their shit off of it or offering it to either of us. Or as my roommate said, the fact that despite being a med student Mamie wasn’t aware you could eat the red part of an apple or do online banking.
Needless to say, although the last month was crazy, we both sighed with relief at being done with the weird ass living situation and Mamie’s shittiness (literally and figuratively).
With a month to find a new place to live after the Mamie situation fell apart, I went back to what I know best: checking Craigslist incessantly and lowering my standards by the minute in hopes of finding a place before the clock ran out.
You would think I would be a pro at finding apartments by that point, but I was not. I hated it with a passion and to top it off — in the city I live in you have to be quick to the draw on anything you see that looks remotely decent. This is not a strength of my dawdling, indecisive self, so often when I would find something I liked it’d slip through my hands faster than all get out.
That’s what happened with dream apartment – a nice studio in a secured building, where the woman trying to sublet it was also including all of her furniture for a flat fee (which sounds weird, but it was nice furniture and excellently decorated). Plus she was moving out exactly when I was needing to move in. I was totally sold, even willing to move on the apartment – but unfortunately so were the other 20 women who showed up with similar feelings and the apartment owner gave it away on a first come, first serve basis.
Moving on I began to start looking at anything and noticing another small studio, within my price range open up — I immediately contacted the lister, Rob, and set-up a time to come by within the next couple hours. It was marketed as an apartment, so when the address led me to a townhouse, I thought it was a little strange and immediately texted boyfriend “If I don’t call you in 15 minutes, I’m dead. Here’s the address I’m at…” Upon walking in I was slightly more comforted to realize there were multiple numbered doors/apartments in the hallway and it seemed a little less creepy. Then knocking on the door to the apartment I was greeted by Rob…who I thought would be a 20-30 year old dude. Rob was a dude closer to his 40s or 50s with completely white shoulder-lenght hair and a hippy-like vibe. “Hey!” he said, “come on in!” *Well, fuck…looks like I am going to get murdered*
I awkwardly moseyed in and immediately, at his demonstration, walked up the small 5-6 step staircase up to a landing where there were 2 doors, one normal and the other a giant ass wood door with spikes all over it that looked like it was lifted from King Asskickers Castle. *What in the fuck* My head began spinning as I started eyeing the exit, plotting my options for escape.
“Actually I’m just wrapping up with someone, do you mind going up the next set of stairs and waiting for me there? I’ll be done shortly.”
I awkwardly proceeded up the next flight of stairs and wound up in what I can only describe as a living space with an identity crisis. It was part tropical, part ultra modern, part 80s, and part oriental flavored living room and kitchen decor. What I really should call it was “Fucking weird.” This was no Pier 1 Imports shit going on. There were huge fucking tropical plants and trees every-fucking-where. Some so high and huge as fuck they graced the heights of the 12ft arched ceiling. Weird, leather 80s couches and chairs mixed in with some oriental desks and then to top it off some fucking weird ass music playing – you know to set that weird ass mood a little more. I literally stood at the edge of the stair case about ready to chuck an oriental vase at homeboys head if he pulled any weird shit. Granted he acted super nice and relatively normal – but this creepster pad was freaking me the fuck out. And the realization that the apartment was somewhere within it — that in order to get to my place, I’d have to enter a part of his house – was enough to make me know this was a ‘fuck no I’m not living here situation.”
My case for “fuck no” only strengthened when I began to notice all of the creepy as fuck artwork around the place. A dash of naked people, sprinkle of metal robot sculptures, and a touch of weird drapery art hangings added to the weirdness of the space. But what really tripped me up and had me staring the rest of the time I was up there was this fucking huge 4×6 foot tile mosaic of two lion-like bodies with the mane like squiggled rays of sunshine shooting out of the … wait…that’s no lion face…nope that is a fucking human face – straight up molds of human faces used for the lion faces. As I stared at it perplexed, I began to realize with 99.9% certainty that one of those faces was Rob’s.
I still see visions of that creepy ass piece of art and needless to say I was on the verge of bolting out of that weird ass joint when I heard the door open up downstairs some guy say “Thanks, man” and then Rob appear midway up the stairs saying, “ready?”
Urg okay. He led me down to the platform I had walked in on and instead of walking me through the spike ass door he led me through the other one. There was literally a 10ft long hallway which only got worse by the minute. It started with the door to a dirty ass map-shower curtained bathroom followed by closet doors that opened up and had some shelves up top and then a counter with a sink and a burner on it. *No fucking way my mind kept railing* He then showed me the bedroom, which was basically a 12×12 space with a murphy bed – you know one of those creepy ass things you see in scary movies where the bed folds up into the wall (I imagine Dracula would have one in modern day), and fucking junk all over the room – TVs, table tops, etc.
“Yeah it’s a great space, the only thing is there isn’t much room for cooking.” Rob noted thoughtfully as he showed me around.
Finally seeing an excuse to get me the fuck out of there. I said “Oh, no! Yeah I really love cooking. I need to be able to cook. I just don’t think its going to work.” feigning that my inner Julia Child, could not handle such a dire cooking situation when in reality I”m happy with a microwave burrito for half of my dinners.
I quickly said thanks and tried to keep from running out of that creep ass place. As I wondered how in the fuck I get myself into those situations, I started to think about where I’d have to go next to find an apartment. To be continued…
Sidenote: Where I currently live, I often walk by this townhouse and just stare at it knowing the creepiness that awaits inside. It’s a really bad, creepy habit on my part. But as you can see from this post, I’m still not over the creepiness of that place.
More Craigslist Creeper Stories:
I’ve recently discovered a new love for art museums. Museums in my community have done such amazing exhibits that I’d like to think I’ve begun to grasp how provoking, interesting, and culturally vital art can be in all its forms. That is…until I walk by a portrait like this one.
When I see this my first thought is: What in the fuck is happening in this portrait?
My second thought is: Do not giggle. Do not giggle. Do not giggle.
Even when I *try* to understand that crazy shit I’m totally lost. Hmm….Is the guy on the far left punching the shit out of Blue Mustachioed Stripes? What is the guy on the right frolicking joyfully about? And what’s up with the guy in the back just rolling up his sleeves, watching the fiasco. Cute riding boots.
Now, I’m sure someone who knows a thing about art can enlighten me in how this piece does some fancy shit like “elucidate the deeply grained brohood among men wearing matching sporty outfits playing sporty sports in modern society” or “demonstrate the irrevocable individuality, yet cohesion among life forms including trees.” Unfortunately, whatever the fuck it is, it is lost on me completely. And instead of being the art snob or quiet, budding, appreciater of art I turn into that ignorant ass giggling at the Rousseau portrait in the art museum.
I take public transportation everyday for work. My commute includes either a walk or short bus ride to the train station, a train ride, and then another bus ride to my office building. To and from. Everyday.
Aside from seeing one guys penis as he pissed on the bridge I walk on (I keep telling myself he was pissing), I’ve been pretty lucky to find that most of my fellow commuters are lame, tired professionals just trying to zone out before/after the work day. One character, however, stands out and my first run in started right before Christmas.
As I would soon find out my first run in was characteristic of later run ins. It starts with me leaving the train station and walking passed a woman around 40ish wearing crutches that brace at your arms (I have no fucking clue what the name for these are). She is standing at the bottom of the escalators asking for dollar bills, yo, dollar dollar bills, yo. I awkwardly deflect her requests and begin riding the escalator up from the station.
As I begin to get further up, I hear some asshole singing joyous tunes at the top of her lungs. What in the fuck. Who in the fuck is belting shit out at 7pm after a long day–I think to myself–as I thank sweet baby jesus I’m almost home. Then, because I’m a lazy ass, I walk over to the bus stop and decide I’ll wait for the bus which is approaching around the corner.
Unfortunately, however, before the bus arrives I turn to see the singer emerge from the top of the escalator and it’s none other than the woman I had seen below. Better yet, home girl starts walking toward the bus singing like crazy. Well, fuck.
At that point it was too late to abort mission, so I board the bus and a few minutes later hear the woman get on and sit in the forward most seat, right near the bus driver.
The singing woman introduces herself as Crutches, and thanks the driver for letting her on. However, as the driver starts asking Crutches for her bus ticket. Crutches starts getting shitty with her telling her she already gave it to her and she should be good to go. The bus driver wasn’t taking a spoonful of that bottle of lies and Crutches proceeded to get a ‘tude. Eventually Crutches paid up and sat back down and the bus began leaving the stop.
Everything was fine and dandy until Crutches still fuming at the bus driver, began to tell the driver how evil she was and that her heart was black. Then Crutches proceeded to break out in a so-angry-its-cringeworthy song: “Have yourself an evil little Christmas, ’cause your heart is black! From now on your troubles will be eeee–eeevillll!” I felt like the fucking Grinch had boarded my bus and was putting on a skit and she would. not. stop. She sang it on repeat. At the top of her lungs. And every awkward person on that bus pretended like it wasn’t happening, but their spooked ass awkward faces told the truth.
The bus driver however was not in on the skit or the whole “I’m going to pretend crazy shit is not happening right now.” Fuck no. She was not putting up with that. She promptly pulled the entire fucking bus over and told Crutches to get off. When Crutches didn’t. The driver deboarded the entire bus and called the cops. That’s about when I got my lazy ass up and walked the rest of the way home in shock in awe.
The next time Crutches boarded my bus she again profusely thanked the bus driver for letting her on and then proceeded to tell the bus driver how she got a 20 pound bag of condoms. She offered to give the driver some, and when the driver declined, she said “Hmmm….maybe I’ll eat them, this fucking thing is heavy!”
Changing topics like a master hostess, Crutches than began to talk about how much she loved that bus line and how another bus driver would speak in tongues with her as she rode. This statement shocked me and made me pause.
Because look – I’m all about people believing whatever the fuck they want to believe. But if I ever fucking end up on a bus where Crutches is acting strange and the bus driver–the person who you are trusting with your life to rationally navigate busy city streets in what equates to a giant metal whale-sized object on wheels–starts fucking speaking in tongues, there’s a good chance some pedestrian and cars in the area will see some short brunette (me) catapult out of a fucking bus window and barrel roll across the ground to safety (at least that’s how I’d like to picture it). No way in fuck I’m going along for the ride on that shit.
Disclaimer: I realize Crutches is likely not the most rational, mentally stable individual, and I really do hope she gets whatever help she needs (assuming she needs help – maybe she’s just a fucking weirdo and doesn’t need shit). However, when I undergo the awkwardness of having my bus pulled over because someone busts out “Have yourself a very evil Christmas,” hearing someone openly consider eating a 20lb. bag of condoms, and then learning that a fucking bus driver has been speaking in tongues—I feel compelled to share and invite you to think of the shocked look on my face in each of these instances.
I really admire those who volunteer. I value it immensely as an individual who has both volunteered and an individual who has had to rely on volunteers. Like most places, my last job working at a non-profit would not have existed without the support and dedication of hundreds of wonderful volunteers.
And our volunteers were truly amazing. It was one of my favorite parts about the job — working with such a diverse group of committed, passionate people. Some of these people were inspirational – they had battled the worst of the worst and may even still be battling it, yet when you had an opportunity come up they would find a way to take time out of their busy lives to help out.
We constantly sought to identify and engage more and more volunteers. My work in health education was an area where we were looking to engage even more volunteers – so when we stumbled across a group of Navy hospital corpsman, we thanked the volunteer gods above and signed them up for the biggest opportunity we had in our purview – helping us provide health education to 500+ teenagers at one of the wealthiest high-schools in the State…in one day.
And believe you me, it sounded like a fabulous idea at the time. They were all male corpsman and admittedly they were incredibly polite, albeit immature. They showed up on time for orientation, discussed their medical training, and were ready and willing to dive right in with whatever we wanted to throw their way. We talked about joining us to do health education sessions at the high school and they said “sign us up.”
I should probably mention at this point that we were one of the many cancer nonprofits out there and my bosses’ thoughts were that we would split up the high school students – boys in one room, girls in the other. The corpsman would be with the boys dispersing their dude knowledge and the female volunteer we had worked with, an incredibly knowledge female oncology nurse, would help us in the girls’ room. Both rooms would focus on tobacco and skin cancer and then the reason for the split of the sexes was to talk about more gender-specific cancers. Meaning the boys’ room would also focus testicular cancer (although not that common, it’s most likely to occur in younger men), and the girls’ room would focus on HPV and cervical cancer.
I was assigned to work both rooms and admittedly I was a little anxious about presenting testicular cancer to 250 dude boys in a high school. I think I cringed when my boss first pitched it, but hey – she’s the boss. So I rolled with it.
And then the day arrived and slowly but surely the volunteers trickled in. My boss asked if they had reviewed the slides we sent in advance, and they humbly nodded no. To which she responded “Okay well you’re going to be in the boys room covering tobacco, skin cancer, and testicular cancer.” They winced, and awkwardly said okay.
And so all the baby high school dude boys trickled into the sessions, being all rowdy and not wanting to listen, and slowly but surely I started off the session giving our typical overview – all of us knows someone who has cancer, and here’s the basics about what it is, and how it can be prevented and treated. Then we proceeded to scare the shit out of them by talking about skin cancer. A volunteer, who was not a corpsman, but a skin cancer survivor told his personal story about surviving skin cancer while touching on the presentation slides flawlessly. Next up, the corpsmen started talking and quizzing them on tobacco – of course getting the typical questions about marijuana along the way. Then we went in for the grand finale, presenting to teenage boys on testicular cancer.
Let’s just say holy fuck the baby HS dude boys were not prepared for this…at all. And as I quickly learned neither were our corpsmen. The loudest, most rambunctious corpsman decided to take the lead as the corresponding slides kicked on…What is testicular cancer? Who does it impact? And then we had a nice slide on common myths about testicular cancer.
At this point the corpsman glances up at the projector screen, puts a really serious face on, walks up to the front row of boys and makes a hand motion of swinging his open-hand up at something – a low whack motion.
Dropping his voice to amplify his seriousness he starts with, “Yeah….we’ve all played it before.”
The kids are already shitting their pants, and wondering what the fuck he’s doing? BASEBALL?! FUCK! BASEBALL CAN GIVE ME TESTICULAR CANCER?!?! The corpsman repeats the hand motion, looks them square in the eye, and goes
“I’ve played it, you’ve played it, c’mon we’ve all played it….It’s fun, you know.”
*Hand motion again*
“But you need to stop…because (*here he looks the dude babies dead in the eye*) it can cause testicular cancer”
HS Baby dudes immediately fall into a state of shock trying to understand as the corpsman clarifies.
“Ball slap. That’s right. It. can. cause. cancer.”
As he continued to go around pretending to whack balls and woefully explain to baby dudes that they needed to stop doing it because it can cause cancer my brain was slinging panicked “Oh shits” and “Fucking what the fucks” as I tried to understand how in the fuck he came to that outrageous conclusion.
I then looked up at the slide, which read: “COMMON MYTHS: 1. Myth: Injuring your testicles can cause testicular cancer.”
I look back at our audience of HS dude boys who are now pale-faced as they try to swallow the immense amount of fear embedded in this new information. I even notice the other volunteer – the skin cancer survivor – with a deeply concerned look as he consumes what may be now considered the terror-laden-testicular-cancer-causing ball slap.
And my mind continues to scream…Does this dummy not know what a myth is?!?! And why the fuck would you immediately go to ball slap as some ultra common form of injury to the testicles?
Unfortunately, it was now my job to stop this crazy ball-slap obsessed motherfucker. I interrupted him with a “Well…actually….as you can see on the slide that’s a myth – which means it’s not really the case. While a lot of people think injuries are related to testicular cancer, researchers have shown there is no link and in fact this is just a common misperception.”
I’m pretty sure the room of dude boys let out a collective sigh of relief, and the corpsman looked confused for a minute before he told the dude boys to just be careful and then continued on to the next slide. We also learned a giant lesson on the importance of training volunteers and testing them out before letting them loose in front of 500 students.
As if that wasn’t bad enough, the guy did it in the next class too until I had to clarify to him yet again what a fucking myth is.
I told someone else this story shortly after who had never heard of ball slap before, so like I usually do – I googled that shit – to attempt to validate my point. I then stumbled across this gem of an article, which I find terrifying and crazy. You can thank me later for introducing crazy, useless information into your life, but in the meantime, enjoy:
Sitting on the empty bus being a grumpinator, when the bus driver pulls up to a stop and announces he is “getting me some company back there!”
I dig it.