Laundry Room Happenings

I was downstairs, talking to a friend who was working at the front desk, when another resident approached to check out a cart. No big deal. For the most part, I don't care what other people do.

But about forty-five minutes later, when I went to the laundry room to start my laundry, the same resident was present. I was minding my own business, sorting laundry, when he just had to start a conversation. No big deal? Not so much.

The laundry room is an interesting place--a place where no one really wants to interact with strangers. Think about it. There you are, sorting your undergarments and towels and clothes, when a total stranger starts talking to you. And if he's particularly creepy, he'll stand just a little too close, and make you want to hide said undergarments, just in case he's as pervy as you suspect.

This particular stranger started the conversation with, "I like your tattoo. Can I see it?"

No big deal. I have tattoos on my feet. When I wear flip-flops or open-top shoes, I expect people to look. If I cared, I would wear real shoes. So I said okay and turned around so he could see them.

"Oh wow. Flowers. That's nice. Kinda reminds me of how your hair smells like flowers."

Umm. . . yeah. . .

One: there are no flowers on my feet. There's a piece of Indonesian tribal art (which doesn't look like flowers), a butterfly (again, not to be confused with flowers), and a bird in flight (which definitely doesn't look like flowers). Two: I know my hairspray smells like flowers, but strangers are not supposed to talk to me about it.

My response: Nervous laughter and a quick "thanks." I have no clue what I was thanking him for, but it seemed appropriate, and I thought it might shut him up.

"I know it may sound cheesy, but it's true. You know?"

"Uh huh," as I avoid eye contact and quickly sort laundry into the washers.

"What's your name?"

"Allison."

"Where do you live?"

"[General area of the building.]"

Note: I did not ask for the same information. It was readily offered. I don't really give a shit where he lives or what his name is. In fact, I couldn't care less as long as he doesn't show up as the resident stalker/pervert. If he does, then his personal identifying information and address could come in handy when turning his ass in to the police.

So I finished sorting my laundry, waited for the doors on the washers to lock, debated staying to guard my clothing, and then left the room, muttering a quick "Have a good day" on the way out.

But I would not be so lucky as I had hoped. Guess who was still in the laundry room when I returned to put my clothes in the dryers? That's right. Creepy flower boy.

He even stuck his hand out as I walked past, which forced me to brush up against him. As you may have guessed, one of the last things I wanted to do today was touch that guy.

"You don't like high-fives?"

Umm. . . think fast!. . . "Oh. I just wasn't paying attention."

Then I switched my clothes over to the dryers, kept an eye on him to make sure his pervy self stayed on the other side of the room, again debated staying to guard my laundry, and made my exit, hoping that all my clothing would still be there when I returned.

I'm thinking of putting up signs in the laundry room--right next to all the signs that say, "Warning! Laundry has been stolen. Please stay with your laundry until it is done." My signs are going to say, "Warning! Creepy pervy guy has been spotted. Speak to him at your own risk. (His name is ******, and he lives on *********.)"

Just another night

This story should've been posted a long time ago. In fact, it was originally written more than a month ago. But alas, I return from my hiatus from blogging, and I bring you a fun little story about my being stupid. (I know. When will I get some original material?)

The night before returning from winter break, I did something unusual--for me, at least. I went to a party where I knew only three people and liked even fewer. And I was social. I got along with everyone.

Of course, I wasn't social until I started drinking. I drank far too much. I couldn't even tell you the grand total. The night started with whiskey and diet pepsi (I was chasing other drinks with this combination; and, as tends to happen, the drink kept getting stronger throughout the night), then there were recreational shots of tequila, rum, and other whiskeys, plus all of the shots incurred as part of a drinking game.

That isn't the noteworthy part of the night though. It wasn't until I was sitting on the porch with my sister the following morning (three cheers for the beautiful December weather, thanks to global warming) that I started having flashbacks of my ridiculous behavior. And I just sat there, doubling over with laughter.

What did I do? Oh, what could be so far from my normal level of idiocy? I'll tell you.

Remember that I started the night knowing almost no one. They were all friends of my stepbrother, and they knew me only as "the other sister."

By the end of the night, I had a personal bartender, personal handwarmers, a personal escort, and a personal cuddler.

But what does that mean?

Bartender. People brought various drinks with them, and they were being a bit protective of their alcohol. But for me, they were offering to share, having me taste test pretty much everything--hence the tequila, rum, whiskeys. . . yeah.

Handwarmers. My hands are always cold. And I hate it when my hands are cold. But rather than putting my hands in my pockets or any other reasonable option, all I had to do was lift my hands in the air and my personal handwarmers, standing dutifully on either side of me, would lovingly warm my hands with their own. It was hilarious. These two guys did whatever I said.

Escort. One of those two guys followed me nearly everywhere I went. And that meant I had an arm to hold, someone to carry my drink, and someone to make sure I was alright at any given point. It also meant that at some point they decided it was my bedtime.

Cuddler. My stepbrother was the one who told me to go to bed, and even took my shoes off my feet. (I felt like a toddler.) But then, after I had been tucked into bed, I decided for no reason that I was going to refuse to stay in bed unless someone cuddled with me until I fell asleep. So that's what they did. One of the guys, who I had met only a few hours earlier, dutifully climbed into the bed and left a few minutes later. (As my roommate will attest, I can fall asleep in a ridiculously short amount of time.)

But, it gets even better. I thought the guy just left after I fell asleep. No. He didn't. My stepbrother informed me a couple days later than about fifteen minutes after they went back downstairs to continue drinking, they heard a loud thud. Then my person cuddler came trotting downstairs. "Dude, what happened?" "I don't know! She was snoring, and then, out of nowhere, she rolled over and with fuckin' superhuman strength, she shoved me outta bed!" Hence, the thud.

Yeah. I am amazing. And idiotic. And moronic. And a terrible drunk.

Ugh.

What the fuck was I thinking?