My 1st Black Eye

Sex. Most of us are having it from time to time with someone we love, or like, or (hopefully) find marginally attractive. I don’t see the topic of sex being breached often by the good people of WordPress. I mean, maybe I’m just in the wrong circle and there actually are bloggers out there gettin’ down with the nitty gritty but if not, I understand why it would be a hard topic to broach. This is a public forum and sex is a fairly private matter. Moms and brothers could be your followers. Maybe we’re still seeing the longstanding effects of our (American) society being built upon Puritanical values and it’s still too taboo of a subject to really dive into. There are many, many reasons to not blog about getting your rocks off. I, however, haven’t told any friends/family about this blog and am using fake names so there’s no need to censor my musings for fear of giving Grandma a heart attack or any of Boyfriend’s friends too much information about our bedroom activities. I have no shame in my game and love to tell friends about my sexcapades and to hear about theirs. And unfortunately (or fortunately) for you folks, I think this is the perfect place to share a few semi-sordid life details.

This post, as you may have guessed by now, will be about sex. Don’t worry, I won’t paint too graphic of a picture (mainly because I’m not that skilled of a writer). There won’t be any pictures or gifs that you will need to quickly scroll past to hide from any innocent soul passing by your computer screen. You won’t leave my blog feeling like you need to shower or go hug your mom. With that being said, I am proceeding to the tale.

This story takes place a few years ago when I was fresh off the heels of a major, soul-crushing breakup. The relationship that had just crashed and burned had lasted 4 long years. The breakup left me barely standing, fairly emotionally damaged, and craving some strange (if you know what I mean). I was all over the dating scene- Online dating, hitting on bar boys, flirting with gym boys, basically no boy was safe. Gawd what a time to be alive! And then of course, because life likes to shake stuff up on you just when you get too set on following a certain path, cue a relationship.

Matt- Enter stage left

Matt was a drunken one night stand who turned into a two night stand, then a three night stand, and then a whole 8 months passed in a blink of an eye. Matt was hott with a double-t. Short blonde hair, bright blue eyes, 6 pack. Need I say more? Uhm yes, yes I do. Matt was easy going and fun and my god, was he sensitive. Could you imagine? An attractive man who didn’t mind talking about emotions? Jackpot!

The second best part about Matt? The sex.

I’ve always been a rough and tumble sort in the bedroom but Matt, well, he was next level and I was more than willing to rise to the occasion. We tried a good number of those 50 different shades of grey. One thing I had always wanted to try involved slapping. Not butts, faces. And by faces, I meant mine, not his.

After a serious discussion about abuse concerns, repeated confirmations of my consent, an agreement on a safe word, Matt obliged and we got started.

Matt delivered his first attempt a few minutes into our sex session. His first slap was tentative and soft. Lame. I demanded a harder slap and was semi-pleased with his 2nd attempt. The 2nd slap must have stirred something within him because after a few more minutes, he delivered a 3rd even harder slap. Yes. His 4th though, now that one was a doozy, it made my ears ring and my eyes water. I used our safe word immediately after #4 and we proceeded to good ol’ fashioned sexing.

Matt stayed the night, as he usually did, and woke me up in the morning like he always did. However that next morning, I wasn’t woken up with the usual cup of steaming coffee, oh no. I was woken up with a shrill (as shrill as a man’s voice can get) “Ho…ly shit!”

Over the course of the night, my right eye had swollen completely shut. The area around my eye was a gorgeous blend of blues and purples and the eye itself, when forcibly pried open, was dotted with burst blood vessels. Matt had given me my very first black eye.

Matt paced around my room in a flurry of panic; he alternated between visiting me, still lying in bed, to gently stroke my temple and pacing in the far, far corner of my room with his hands thrust deep into his pockets and thus, safely tucked away from me. I could just see “I’m going to jail” strobing through his mind.

I tried to act cool but I was panicking internally. I had an interview on Monday! You can’t interview with a damn sex injury on your face! Well you can but things can’t possibly go that well after you admit that the black eye is a result of your boyfriend trying out one of your deep dark sexual fantasies and that he put a little too much oomph into his attempt at satisfying you. “Oh uhm well, we’ll get back to you within a few days about our uhhh decision…?”

After assuring and reassuring Matt that I wasn’t upset and wouldn’t be reporting him to the authorities, we Googled how to heal a black eye ASAP. Frozen bags of peas, warm compresses, gently rolling out the blood, binging on foods high in Vitamin C, etc. We tried it all. Seriously, every internet-recommended home remedy was tried though unfortunately, as Monday morning loomed closer and closer, it became apparent that heavy MAC makeup was needed as was a solid cover story.

Introducing- Chance

Matt had a Golden Retriever, Chance, who was just massive, like in the 97th percentile for size. Chance was a sweet, mellow boy but he needed to take the fall for us. We decided to claim that I lost miserably in a game of tug-of-war with Chance. When lying, especially when you are plagued with a guilty conscience like me, it’s best to KISS- Keep it simple, stupid.

Monday came and everyone on the interview panel struggled to maintain eye contact with me but thankfully they all accepted my cover story unquestioningly. I’m sorry for ruining your reputation, Chance. And when I got the job, the hiring manager called to say that she was “going to take a chance” on me. Hardy har har. 

Advertisements

Thrown Off

Picture this-

I’m making my way downtown, walking fast, faces pass, and I’m hom… Wait. No, that’s not right. It’s 6am in the freaking morning and I’m making my way downtown, trudging slowly, completely alone, and I’m heading into work. Yeah, that’s it! I’m walking towards my usual bus stop where I will sit all alone on the stop’s bench and await the glow of my bus’s headlights cutting through the morning fog.

Well this particular morning, I reached my bus stop and there was a guy sitting in my usual spot on the bench. Rude! I opted to stand awkwardly near the bench instead of encroach on his personal space and plop down next to him on the bench. I pulled out my phone and started to peruse through my social media when I heard an unexpected “Hello!” come from my left. I turned and no one was there. I glanced at the guy on the bench; he seemed completely engrossed by a man across the street who was having an animated argument with a tree. I turned to my left again, still no one there. I scanned the nearby office building for someone peaking out an open window, nothing. Oookay, back to Instagram, another one of my college friends is engaged. I gnashed my teeth and liked the photo. I am oh so freaking happy for you, Madison, and not at all bitter or jealous of your Tiffany’s sparkler.

“Good morning!”

My head snapped left and I scanned the vast emptiness next to me. Nothing. I looked to the man on the bench; his brow was furrowed with puzzlement, the man he was watching across the street had begun to gently nuzzle the tree he was just shrieking at. I am losing my mind.

“How are you?”

I spun to my left and then continued to spin through a full 360 degrees for good measure. It was still just me and bench boy and the tree hating/loving man.

Thoroughly freaked out, I spat “OKAY WHAT THE FUCK?!” out loud. Bench boy chuckled and tore his eyes away from the man and his tree. “I’m sorry if that scared you, I was practicing throwing my voice.” And then, “See?” rang out from behind me.

Uhm. Okay. *exasperated sigh and bitchy eye roll* Super cool talent and all but 6am in the freaking is just too early to be hearing disembodied voices. Warn a gal next time!

 

Sagging (fashion)

Can someone speak for a particular subset of the male gender and explain the whole “pants sagging” concept to me? I just… I just don’t understand the appeal behind that fashion trend. I really thought it’d die out in the early 2000s like pocketless, low rise jeans and the whale tail but evidently, I was wrong.

No

So much wrong

And to clarify, I don’t mean men letting their Levi’s dip an inch or two below their hips. No no. I’m talking about having their whole damn ham hock out or somehow balancing their waistband just above the knee. I’m talking about looking like they stuffed both feet through their jeans, gave a slight tug upwards and then immediately ran out of energy and fucks and decided to leave the house despite the fact that they didn’t finish getting dressed. Yeah you in the black faded jeans with the red plaid boxers, you ain’t dressed bro, you’re still getting dressed. Finish the job already. Pull those pants up and over that booty hump, you can do it, I have faith in you.

Why

One of the many times I’ve wanted to ask Beiber, “Whyyy?”

I’ve been waiting for a guy to admit just how inconvenient it is to walk bowlegged with one hand essentially glued to the front of his jeans all damn day. I just want to grab a dude and be like, “Come here kid, come here. Let me let you in on a little secret- There’s this nifty device called a belt that’ll hold your pants at whatever height your heart desires AND will free that hand right up! Could you imagine how much you could accomplish with TWO hands?!”

Or, I don’t wanna blow anyone’s mind or anything but, there’s also this crazy concept of buying jeans in a size that’s an inch or two from your natural waist size. Doing so wouldn’t require the need to match a belt to your shoes AND would still eliminate the penguin shuffle and the internal struggle over deciding which hand gets to be productive and which hand is stuck babysitting your pants. Incredible!

Now, don’t misunderstand my intention, folks. I’m not calling for an Urkel revival, no no. I totally understand that it’s comfortable to give yourself a few extra inches and to not batten down the hatches right across your hip bones but I’m getting real tired of seeing men’s asses every damn day when they’re wearing perfectly good pants that could easily perform the duty they were created for. Real. Tired. I didn’t put in my contacts this morning so that I could see a plethora of butts all damn day with 20/20 vision.

Sigh.

My therapist told me that I can’t control others’ actions and that I need to learn how to let things go so with that in mind *deep breath and shout out to Dr. Yates* I’d like to make a few simple requests for those who insist on sagging their pants to consider:

Please wear underwear. Boxers, briefs,  tighty whities. I don’t care. Just wear some sort of underwear. The other day, a man sat down next to me on the bus and his bare ass was what made contact with the bus seat. Yes, a hairy man butt was un-underweared, un-pantsed, and on a seat that unsuspecting women and child and properly dressed men use day in and day out.

And! Because that previous request apparently needs to be made-

Please wear clean and/or unstained underwear. I’ve seen too many boxers with something brown caked along the middle seam for me to not make this particular plea.

And now, I’d like to use this paragraph to thank the men who don’t sag their pants and I’d like to thank the men who are now considering correcting their ways. Y’all are the real MVPs.

Strangers

“God I am so tired.” Startled by the unexpected declaration cutting through the silence of the train, I glanced over at the woman sitting next to me. There was no iPhone smooshed to the side of her face, no Bluetooth nestled into her ear. She was talking to me. Okay lady, I’ll bite. “Oh I know”, I commiserated, “Monday mornings are just the worst.” She looked puzzled by my response. Okay, commiseration was the wrong way to go. Noted. “No honey, I got hardly any sleep last night. My boyfriend kept me up all night.” My eyes reflexively widened before flitting down to the massive diamond ring glittering from her left hand. Noticing my not-so-furtive glance, she wiggled her fingers at me, “Open marriage.”

Alright pause, let’s just pause for one moment. I didn’t know this woman from Adam. Or Eve, for that matter. We’d been sitting next to each other on that train for all of two stops which equates to 10ish minutes and yet there she was, about to tell me all about her life. A total and complete stranger was poised and ready to dive in and share the honest, dirty details of her relationships and sex lives with me. Strange, right? Even stranger, I was not the least bit surprised.

Moments like that happen to me all the time. For whatever reason, strangers hone in on me amongst the sea of other unfamiliar folks and decide to talk to me and share and then overshare with me. These chatty strangers never stop at simple weather-related small talk, oh no, they like to jump into the heavy topics with me.

Once, while waiting in a moderately long Macy’s line around Christmas time, the woman in front of me turned around to chat. Her opening line was “I have cancer so…” One time, while at the grocery store hunting for the cheapest box of butter, I locked eyes with the woman next to me who was also perusing the butter selection. Attempting to breeze over the awkwardness of our oddly intense eye contact, I hrmphed out loud and asked her how butter could possibly be $6 a box.  She shrugged and replied that she doesn’t know why she even buys butter, she never lets herself eat it. Anddd 10 minutes later, I knew every detail of her long and painful struggle with anorexia.

Strangers choose to talk to me and to confide in me and I cannot figure out why.

I’m average looking (mildly cute but not the intimidating kind of girl-next-door-who-could-possibly-be-a-secret-porn-star cute), my eyes aren’t always glued to my phone, I’ll return a soft smile if a stranger sends one my way. I guess those factors make me appear approachable but how these people make the leap from “approachable stranger” to “confidant” is beyond me. I’ve decided to chalk it up as one of the great mysteries of the world like what really happened in Area 51 or is Bigfoot real or the origin of my leg bruises. Side note- Yes, I WedMD’ed my bruises once and ended up at the doctor’s office the very next day demanding a full blood panel. Don’t worry, I’m fine, just clumsy and forgetful.

Anyways, let’s get back to my original story.

The woman told me that she and her husband have had an open relationship since before they were even married. She said, and I quote, they have “too much love to offer to just each other” and told me, quite honestly, that their sexual appetites simply cannot be satiated by “just” each other. Over the years, they have each had a slew of relationships providing them varying physical and emotional benefits that their spouse could not sufficiently provide. She told me about a past boyfriend who would “bend her over anywhere” and about her current boyfriend who refers to her as his muse and writes poems so beautiful and touching that she literally teared up as she read me his latest piece.

We rode the train and talked together for about 30 minutes before it finally pulled into her stop. Her goodbye to me was as casual as her hello, if you could even call it that. As she waltzed out of the train car, the folks sitting within ear-shot sent me openly shocked looks to which I answered with a shrug of my shoulders- Just another normal conversation for me.

Everyone Poops

I have a very small bladder. It’s cruel really, don’t even get me started about how much I suffer as a result of this damn pea-sized bladder. I have to stop drinking water a full 2 hours before leaving work or I won’t make it through my commute home without having to hunt down a semi-decent gas station bathroom to use and not catch a disease in. I have to bring emergency TP with me on hikes that last longer than just a few hours. When I go out, I spend more time in line for the bathroom than I actually do in the bar. You know, it’s a damn good thing that tipsy bathroom line women are some of the friendliest, chattiest women out there or I’d really be missing out on some good times. Sometimes, I wonder where all those women are and how they’re doing. Are they still mad at their boyfriends? Still hooking up with those fuckboys? Still worried about looking fat in those new jeans?

Anyways.

Because I spend such a large chunk of my time in the restroom, I’ve learned a thing or two about proper bathroom etiquette. I have expectations of my fellow restroom users and it’s oh so disappointing when they fail to meet those expectations. Especially when one of those failing folks is my boss’s boss. Dun dun dunnn.

Let’s call my boss’s boss Jessica.

Jessica followed me into the restroom for the first time a few months ago. I held the door open for her, like a gentlewoman, and took the stall a few stalls down from the one she selected because Rule #1, if there are multiple open stalls, do not take the stall immediately next to an occupied stall. Let the gal tinkle in peace, for Christ’s sake.

Jessica and I emerged from our respective stalls at roughly the same time. I approached the sink and pumped the soap dispenser, Jessica waved a perky goodbye and left WITHOUT WASHING HER HANDS. Y’all, this woman schmoozes for a living, she must shake a dozen or so hands every single day. At that moment, all I could think about was all those unsuspecting hands that have been contaminated with her pee mist and all her other germy odds and ends. Jessica. WHY.

Fast forward a few weeks- Jessica and I were in a morning meeting together. I was keeping an eye on her hands like a hawk. Ain’t no way was I using the same knife as her to spread cream cheese on my bagel. I prefer my bagels without other peoples’ germs and grime, thank you very much. An hour or so went by and the free coffee started to kick in for everyone, you could see a marked increase in fidgeting and the glances at the clock becoming less and less furtive. Jessica, like an angel sent from up above, suggested we take a 10 minute bio-break. Score. I trotted off to the bathroom and she followed suit, asking for my “off the record” opinion on how the meeting was going and what I thought of her proposal as we walked down the hallway towards the restroom.

This time, when we reached the restroom, she held the door open for me. I entered the stall on the leftmost side of the restroom, she took the stall immediately to my right. Strike 1. She continued to talk to me from her stall, speaking over the ziiip of her trousers and the groan of the toilet as she sat down. Strike 2. Never engage in a stall-to-stall conversation, people. Have your moment and let the other gal have hers, pure and simple. And then you guys, then came Strike 3. Mid-one-sided-conversation, Jessica ripped the loudest, nastiest, wettest fart I have ever heard leave a female asshole and proceeded to dump several seconds worth of lumpy, chunky sounding diarrhea all while continuing to chat about her proposal and why she really thinks it’s just what our organization needs.

I could barely get my (clean) hand up to my mouth in time to stifle my laugh. I was a little surprised by my response but honestly, I just couldn’t believe the hailstorm taking place next to me and the fact that she was continuing to unabashedly hock her proposal throughout the entire event.

I quickly flushed and left my stall to wash my hands, like a normal adult with good hygiene practices. As I toweled dry, Jessica emerged from her stall, approached me, placed one hand on my shoulder and grabbed the bathroom door handle with the other, “Shall we?” ALL WITHOUT WASHING HER HANDS.

We returned to our meeting and got back to business. Jessica, feeling re-energized (and probably lighter), paced around the room as she really pushed her idea. She punctuated her pitch with passionate gestures and meaningful, well-timed touches on the shoulders of the final decision makers. Urp. Though maybe that’s how you get it done, invade the immune systems of the final decision makers and force an answer out of them when they’re feeling weak and sick and mentally compromised. Perhaps Jessica is on to something…

At the end of the meeting, Jessica grabbed a few grapes from the fruit platter while making some end-of-meeting small talk with one of my coworkers. As I attempted to sneak out the door, Jessica asked if I’d drop the fruit platter off in the communal kitchen area on my way back to my office. Oh the internal struggle…

My 1st Massage

Until recently, I had never gotten a professional massage before. The concept of a total stranger caressing my naked body has never been wildly appealing to me but then again, I’ve enjoyed my fair share of one night stands so clearly I have double standards. Whatever.

My shoulders and back and well… my whole damn upper body had been killing me for weeks on end. I’d been casually complaining to anyone who would listen and finally decided to book myself a massage after I got tired of hearing people say, “Go book a massage”. I mean gosh people, can’t a woman unproductively complain about something? Just let me whine, keep your logical solutions to yourself. Yeesh.

But anyways, yeah, I scheduled my very first massage at some spa I found on Yelp that had 4.5 stars and no mention of pervy or awkward masseuses in the reviews on pages 1-6 which is where I lost interest and decided to just trust the 4.5 star rating. Oh and sorry, “massage therapists”. Apparently calling them masseuses is like calling a flight attendant a stewardess- It’s an outdated term that is mildly offensive. But seriously, what’s not mildly offensive anymore? It’s 2017, everyone is offended by everything in 2017. Sigh. Sorry if that offended anyone.

Moving on.

The woman who scheduled my appointment told me to “mind” my hygiene on the day of the massage. Check, I’m a pretty consistent bather. She also asked me to refrain from requesting sexual favors of any kind from my massage therapist. Check check, I’ll ask Boyfriend to recreate the massage room sex scene I saw on PornHub instead. *eye roll*

The day of my massage came and I rolled into the spa wearing yoga pants and a loose top (I planned my outfit per the customer pics on Yelp). It was eerily quiet inside, the only sounds were the bubbling of the foyer’s fountain and the sound of me awkwardly clearing my throat to allow for a whisper to emerge instead of my usual deafeningly loud speaking voice (my voice has been rumored to wake the dead). A wholesome looking blonde with meticulously groomed eyebrows and a perfectly thrown together Free People outfit offered me cucumber water while she checked me in for my appointment which, by the way, began perfectly on time. How nice, right?

My massage therapist appeared in the foyer exactly at 10am. She was a slight woman who looked like she would snap right in half if a strong wind blew her way. I wondered how she could possibly have enough oomph to give the deep tissue massage I requested but I decided to trust the judgement of the spa’s hiring manager and didn’t outwardly question her capabilities. My massage therapist walked me through the hallways back to my room where she instructed me to “disrobe”. Me being the noob that I am asked if that meant everything. As in everything-everything. Yup. So out she went and off my clothes went. I folded my yoga-but-never-actually-worn-to-yoga outfit, placed it neatly in the cubbie next to my bed/table/thing, and laid down awkwardly stuffing my face into the middle of the O pillow. When my massage therapist returned, she turned on some soft music, oiled up her hands, and away we went.

When her slick hands connected with my bare shoulders, her lips appeared next to my ear and she whispered, “Do you feel safe?” Oh uhm… Why? Am I feeling tense? Relaxrelaxrelax. “Uh yeah, yes. I feel safe. Erm, thanks for asking.”

As she systematically worked her way down from my shoulders and eventually below my butt, her lips would appear and reappear at my ear and time and time again she would whisper, “Do you feel safe?” Uh yes, I feel safe… I think… Why are you asking so many times? Is that the wrong answer? Should I not being feeling safe? Do you know something I don’t?

MAssage

As long as you don’t do this, I’m good. 

Well… I sorta answered my own questions when her fingers brushed against my side-boob which was squishing out from underneath my body. My boobs very rarely get touched by anyone. Boyfriend and my doctor and the occasional drunk friend are really the only people who ever touch my boobs so an unexpected grazing, from a total stranger, did send a jolt of discomfort through me and made me realize that she was probably hoping I’d speak up if her touching my side-boob made me feel “unsafe”. I opted to not change my answer because really, it’s not her fault that my boobs don’t tuck neatly underneath me when I lie on my stomach. I acted like I didn’t notice the boob grazes and later, decided to act like her massaging my butt wasn’t totally weird. Do you still feel safe? Uhm like in this exact moment when you’re massaging my butt cheeks in a slow, circular pattern? Sure.

I should have asked about napping etiquette before the massage began. The music alone was enough to lull me to sleep but that paired with the rhythmic motion of her hands, man, it’s a miracle that I wasn’t passed out within the first 5 minutes. Because I didn’t know the rules on sleeping and because she clearly needed to frequently check in on how I was doing emotionally, I desperately attempted to remain awake during the massage. Honestly, it was touch and go. Sometimes I only realized I had fallen asleep because she was waking me up asking again to confirm if I still felt safe. Check the box: Do you feel safe? Yes, No, or Maybe.

By the time my massage was over, I felt amazing. All loose and like I could take on a Comcast service appointment and still feel at peace. I seriously considered asking if there was some sort of extension package and if I tipped enough, would she not ask if I felt safe ever again. Seriously. That got a little creepy. Is it normal to ask that question 172 times in one massage session?

So yeah, my first massage experience was, overall, a success! I’m definitely going to be quite pleased when my future children get me massages, year after year, as my usual Mother’s Day gift. Cough future baby daddy cough make sure this happens.

Exhibit E

You did it! You made it to the end of my mini-series!

Who remembers the creepy clown craziness that was stirring the US up into a frenzy in late 2016? Come on, you know what I’m talking about- The clowns who were randomly appearing in the forests of one of the Carolinas and along lonely dirt roads in Florida. And not the friendly kind of clowns who make the balloon animals for smiling, laughing children, oh no, the terrifying kind of clowns with sinister mouths painted onto their faces, the kind who want to club you to death with one of their oversized shoes. If this is not ringing any bells, go ahead and Google “terrifying clown hoax” and then come back to my post.

You back? Do you remember now? Should we proceed? Okay.

My story takes place at roughly 2am on a Saturday, technically a Sunday by then. I was in bed, deeply asleep, with thoughts of sugar plums dancing around in my head when I was jolted back to consciousness by a loud pounding at my front door. 2am-ish is not a normal time for visitors so uhh yeah, I was a teeny bit scared. I checked my phone to see if I had a text from Boyfriend, who worked nights, maybe telling me that he forgot his key and would knock when he got home. Nope, no text from Boyfriend.

My heart and my mind were racing. Should I go peak out the peephole to see who is behind the pounding? Maybe I knew the pounder. A murderer wouldn’t freakin’ knock and announce himself, right? “Oh hello ma’am, I’m here to uhhh stab you to death.” Should I load Boyfriend’s gun? It wouldn’t hurt to have it prepped and ready to go if the pounder somehow made it inside, my state has Stand Your Ground laws… Maybe I should call the police? Nothing unlawful has really happened but eff was I scared.

As the pounding and general discombobulated, concern-inducing sounds moved from the front door and started to travel around the side of the house, I decided to load Boyfriend’s gun. I always promised myself that I wouldn’t ever go down without a fight. My obituary won’t read, “She laid in bed peacefully waiting for her murderer who entered her room at approximately 2:34am, her murder was an easy, uncontested death.” Nooo thanks.

I left my bedroom, which had an incredibly breakable window in it, and went into the living room AKA the very center of the house. I rearranged my couches and Boyfriend’s big ugly recliner to form a barricade around me and I dialed the police. I told the dispatcher that I thought someone was attempting to break into my house and that I was armed and hiding inside a couch fort (seriously, no shame) in my living room.

Lights from the police car(s) illuminated my living room windows in what was actually record timing though, to me, an eternity. In the time that passed between me placing the 911 call and the police arriving, the pounding and the bumping and the noise had traveled into my backyard and my sliding glass door had been jiggled a few times by whoever was persistently attempting to enter my home.

The police announced their presence several times and after another eternity, found the pounder in my backyard. Shortly afterwards, an officer announced himself at my door and asked that I open the front door, without my gun, with my arms up so that he can confirm I was, indeed, unarmed. I did as instructed and opened the door for my savior who would describe to me a scene that would have been funny if it didn’t happen to me.

The police found a man, who had recently moved into my neighborhood, piss drunk and dressed in a clown costume in my backyard. WHAT. The man had attended some party in that costume, got wasted, and headed back to what he thought was his home. Welp it wasn’t, it was my home. He thought his wife had locked him out and was hunting for another way into their house.

Do you know what I would have done if I had the balls to look outside and I saw a clown? Do you even know?! I welcome guesses because I don’t know what I would have done. I was all about that killer clown nonsense, I followed all the stories and kept up-to-date on the conspiracy theories. I just know that I would have lost.my.shit.

Clown

Oh sorry, no one is home right now.

Exhibit D

4 of 5, you’re almost to the end!

As per usual, I was staring out the window of my afternoon bus when I noticed a man on a skateboard whizzing down a hill, speeding towards an upcoming intersection. He was moving so fast that I barely had the time to analyze his speed vs. the amount of road remaining between him and the car turning left in the intersection before I realized that there was no way he was going to make it past the car. Sure enough, he slammed directly into the broadside of the car and went tumbling across the hood, like an uncoordinated version of James Bond, before falling limply onto the asphalt. As his body made contact with the street, his skateboard shot out from underneath the car and continued down the hill, rider-less.

Immediately following the impact, there was a moment of stunned stillness in which no one moved a muscle or uttered a single word. The skateboarder laid motionless, splayed out on the street. The driver sat bewildered in his car with his mouth open slackly and his hands still gripping the wheel. I remained glued to the bus’s window, unsure of what to do, while my fellow passengers started to chatter about someone needing to get off the bus and go help the man. Side note: It’s always “someone”, never “me”. Granted, I didn’t do squat so I guess I’m not really in a position to make a passive-aggressive comment about the bystander affect. 

After a few heartbeats, the skateboarder slowly picked himself up off the street and started to limp gingerly towards the car. Halfway to the car, he opened his mouth and yelled, “That was fucking epic, man!” He punctuated his statement by enthusiastically fist-bumping the still-stunned driver who had robotically pushed his fist out his rolled-down car window to meet the skateboarder’s fist halfway. After fist-bumping the driver, the skateboarder turned and started to half-limp, half-run down the hill after his long-gone board.

Looks like I stumbled across the only person in all of America who is not sue-happy. Honestly, before this day, I had considered that kind of a person to be more of a mythical creature than the unicorn.

Skate

Exhibit C

Hi! Welcome back for Part 3 of 5!

During my morning bus ride, my wandering thoughts were interrupted by an unexpected hand flapping in my face. The woman sitting across from me was leaning deeply into the space between us, waving her fingers mere inches from my eyes, wordlessly imploring me to remove my headphones and interact with her.

Clearly this woman had never heard of the 3 Golden Rules for commuting via public transit:

  1. Don’t touch anything.
  2. Don’t make eye contact with anyone.
  3. Don’t talk to anyone.

She was trying to get me to violate 2 of the 3 Golden Rules; whatever she had to say better be freakin’ important. After a few moments of hesitation, I begrudgingly obliged and removed one of my earbuds though I kept the bud up and hovering just an inch or so away from my ear as a silent indication that I was not willing to engage in a long conversation.

The woman gestured towards the empty seat to her left and said exasperatedly, “Please tell her that she looks fine, she thinks she’s overdressed.” I blinked slowly, processing what she had just said. This is why those golden rules exist, this exact reason. The woman raised her eyebrows ever so slightly. I casually looked around for knowing accomplices or hidden cameras. She continued to stare me down, expectantly. I sighed internally and then I addressed the empty seat-

Me: You look great.

The woman continued to stare unblinkingly at me. Clearly that was not enough.

Me: I think it’s always better to be overdressed than underdressed.

The woman: And what about her shoes?

Me: They really pull together the outfit.

The woman to the empty seat: *claps* I told you so!

Invisible

Exhibit B

Hey guys! I’m back! Just FYI, this post is a continuation of my first post and will be part of a larger thread of semi-related stories.

One time, I was punched by a homeless man. Yup. Not in the face or anything but a punch is a punch and I took one from a homeless man.

It happened early in the morning, roughly 6am, when I was walking to work. I was plodding along the sidewalk completely alone (because who else, in their right mind, would be out and about at that time?) heading towards the end of the block where I spotted a man leaning up against a building. As I neared him, I saw him take note of me but hey, I was the only living, breathing thing on the entire block other than him and the invisible being he was quietly muttering to.

As I walked past the man and his invisible friend, out of the very corner of my eye, I saw him ball his fist and wind up. Before I could even think to react, his fist was making contact with the meaty part of my shoulder.

My reaction was so… lame. You’d hope that when a stranger assaults you, you would react, well, appropriately. Right? You’d hope that your fight or flight instincts would kick into high gear and that you’d react to the situation properly. You know, fight back or immediately take off with lightening quick speed. Well, that didn’t quite happen for me. I squeaked. Yup. I sounded like a 6 year old who finally found that last elusive Easter egg a whole week after Easter ended. Talk about an embarrassing reaction. A squeak. Thankfully my flight instinct kicked in shortly after the squeak emerged from my throat and I started to run. I ran and ran and ran until I was out of breath and my sweaty feet were threatening to slip right out of my heels, which miraculously remained intact despite how hard I was pounding the pavement.

maxresdefault

Basically. 

I eventually allowed myself to slow and to glance behind me. I found the sidewalk to be empty, there was no indication that the homeless man was pursuing me. Phew!

The man left me with a decent-sized bruise and a mild case of PTSD. I now give all homeless people a wide berth, no matter how deeply asleep or otherwise preoccupied they may seem. Oh and I flinch a little whenever someone raises their arm unexpectedly. Sigh.