The Naked Neighbor

I know, late again! Good thing this blog isn’t my period! He he.

Anyways, moving on from that fairly bad attempt at a joke… I swear this is a true story. Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye.

It was Friday night, Russ and I had just gotten back from dinner/drinks which puts the time at roughly midnight. I was crawling into bed and Russ was brushing his teeth when an unexpected knock came at the front door.

Russ, being the man of the apartment, had to go answer the door. I heard him crack it slightly, pause a moment, then swing it open. “Babe?! Bring some clothes!” His tone was urgent so I unquestioningly hopped to. I grabbed a pair of my sweatpants and a baggy t-shirt before rushing to the front of the apartment where he and a naked woman were standing. Yeah, you read that right. There was a naked woman standing in our doorway and bless her little heart, she was using her arms to cover her stomach and not her lady bits. Priorities, am I right?

Neither were saying a word or moving a muscle. Both Russ and the naked woman were standing silently, staring helplessly at me. Russ is usually the authority when it comes to all things scary or bizarre but apparently (thankfully?) he draws his line at strange naked women standing outside his door because that man was doing nothing.

Kicking into action, I rushed over to the woman and gently pulled her into the apartment, closing the front door behind her. I handed her the pile of clothing and told her to put them on in the kitchen (located kitty-corner to the front door). I then shooed Russ (who had still not moved or spoken) off into the bedroom so that the poor woman could have a little privacy while she dressed.

The tears started to roll down her cheeks as she pushed her first leg into the sweatpants. By the time she had her head through the t-shirt, she was bawling. I didn’t know what to do or say to this previously naked woman. I dumbly opened my arms for a hug which she eagerly accepted. She cried for what felt like forever (time moves more slowly during awkward moments, anyone else notice that?) before she finally broke the embrace and asked for a tissue. She had a thick Russian accent and I couldn’t help but think, “Fuck, please don’t let this be a mail order bride arrangement gone wrong.” Ding, ding, ding, someone give me my prize!

She tells me that she just moved here from Russia to live with her new fiancé, a man she met online. Ugh. The transition had not been a smooth one; they’d been fighting essentially every day since she arrived. Apparently that night, he had wanted sex and she has refused so he attempted to rape her. He had ripped her clothes off and was attempting to choke her into submission when she managed to break free of his grasp. She escaped from the apartment and ran straight to mine because she had seen me walking my dogs around the complex and thought I looked friendly, like someone who might help her. She had very little money and nowhere else to stay, her fiancé was the only person she knew here in the US. Ugghhh.

I called Russ out of the bedroom and summarized her story- Domestic violence, foreign national, no money, no close contacts. I told him to go down to the fiancé’s apartment to get her passport and wallet, I was planning to help her find a hotel to stay at for the night.

Russ left and I was in the middle of giving the woman my best “leave the abusive asshole” speech when I realized that quite some time had passed and Russ had not yet returned. Shit. I asked her if her fiancé would hurt Russ and when she said she wasn’t sure, my heart sank.

I rushed out the front door and down the hall towards the apartment she said she was staying in. Three police officers were leaving the apartment with Russ and another man, who I assumed was the fiancé, in tow. The first officer gestured for me to continue towards him. He asked me to bring the woman out of my apartment so that she could provide an official statement. I looked over to Russ for some sort of visual hint as to how this situation was going to go down but he was busy checking out the officer’s duty belt. Thanks babe. I looked over to the fiancé and noticed that he had long, deep scratches on his face, neck, and arms and that his t-shirt was stretched out and torn. Serves you right, fucker.

I returned to my apartment and after some cajoling, I convinced the woman to go out into the hallway with me to give her statement to the police. And there was where shit hit the fan.

The Russian mail order bride part was true. Everything else, however, was a lie. The woman was suffering from a psychological disorder and had failed to bring her medication with her to the US. Unmedicated and in a haze, she attacked her fiancé mid-sex session (which she admitted to initiating), wrecked their apartment, and ran off to me to play the victim.

She was arrested right then and there and was hauled off to jail in my sweatpants and t-shirt. The fiancé was given the officers’ best “leave the abusive bitch” speech and was sent home to clean himself up. The next day, I was given my clothes back and a bottle of vodka, as a thank you for my troubles, by the happily reunited couple. Ugh.

Strangers

I know, I know. This blog is called Musing on a Monday and I didn’t post on Monday… Honestly, I was a little hungover and running on roughly 2 hours of sleep, that didn’t prove to be a winning combination as far as blog writing is concerned.

Okay, moving on,

In keeping with my Crazy Commute Theme, please enjoy my latest tale.


“God I am so tired.” Startled by the unexpected declaration cutting through the silence of the train, I looked over at the woman sitting next to me. There was no iPhone glued to the side of her face, no headphones or Bluetooth nestled into her ear(s). She was talking to me. Okay lady, I’ll bite. “Oh I know”, I commiserated, “Monday mornings are just the worst.” She looked surprised by my response. Commiserating 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 widened with surprise then flitted down to the massive wedding ring glittering on her finger. Noticing my 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 about her life. A total and complete stranger was poised and ready to dive in and discuss 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 zone in on me amongst the sea of other unfamiliar people and decide to talk to me and share with me and then overshare with me.

Once, while waiting in a moderately long Macy’s line, the woman in front of me turned around to chat. Her opening line was “I have cancer…” One time, while pumping gas, the man using the other side of my pump starting complaining to me that his wife was always leaving the damn tank close-to-empty because she’s always in a rush to try and get home from her lover’s house before he gets home from work (at which point he hrmph’ed and said, “As if I don’t already know she’s cheating”). Once, while at the grocery store hunting for the cheapest box of butter, I noticed that the girl also perusing the butter section was repeatedly glancing over at me with a strange expression on her face. Thinking she was judging my oddly intense interest in that particular dairy product, I attempted to explain away my prolonged review of the butter section by stating that I was looking for a brand that didn’t cost $6(!) a box.  She politely giggled and replied that she doesn’t know why she even buys butter, she never actually lets herself eat it. Anddd 10 minutes later, I knew every detail of her long and painful struggle with anorexia.

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

I’m average looking (kinda cute but not the intimidating kind of cute), my eyes aren’t always glued to my phone, I’ll return a 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 Bigfoot or the origin of my leg bruises. And 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 married. She said, and I quote, they have “too much love to offer to just each other”. Since getting married a few years ago, they’ve each had a slew of relationships, several of which she deemed as serious. Her husband currently has a girlfriend who she says she adores and her boyfriend has a wife, who she really likes, who is also in another relationship. Can you even begin to imagine that “family” tree?! The woman told me that they all hang out together from time to time and genuinely enjoy going out on the occasional group date nights. No, they don’t participate in orgies. I wasn’t clear on why not. No, these relationships won’t stop once she has the baby she’s currently trying to conceive. I’m not sure what her boyfriend or her husband’s girlfriend will be to the baby- Auntie? Uncle? And yes, she’s making sure that the father of her child is her husband. How… noble? Her lifestyle, while not for me, was absolutely fascinating and she answered all my questions with explicit candor.

We rode the train and talked for about 30 minutes before it pulled into her stop. Her goodbye to me was as casual as her hello, if you could even call her opening line a hello. 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.

On a roll

I have a long commute. Like, looong. I spend a significant chunk of my days sitting in my car or sitting on a train or bus which gives me ample opportunities to mingle with strangers or come across a few crazies and witness their antics from a front row seat. Like this morning, a man caused me to spill my hot coffee all over my white blouse (of course) when he bumped my elbow as he jiggled and shimmied his way down the center aisle of my bus singing “Imma bum, touch my bumbum, Imma bummmm”.

Unamused

My Monday post covered a handful of my weird public transit experiences but I’ve got a few more up my sleeve so I’ve decided to roll with that theme and share a story or two about the folks I’ve come across on my commute. One thing that you should know about me (as mentioned in the Monday post) is that I’m a magnet for the slightly strange. I’m like a living version of the Statute of Liberty, “Give me your weird, your crass, your unabashed masses yearning to overshare.”

And with that, let’s proceed shall we?

My afternoon bus stops to pick up a man waiting along the side of the street. He steps onto the bus with wide, unsteady strides, haphazardly swaying past the farebox, neglecting to pay his $2.25.

He’s tanned and covered in a light layer of grime. He’s tightly clutching the front of his pants, which are sagging downwards at every other point around his waist; his eyes are quickly darting from person to person, silently assessing each rider as he makes his way down the center aisle.

He chooses to stop near the backdoor. I’m in the very back of the bus in a forward-facing seat, he’s standing perfectly in my line of sight. After taking a few moments to settle into his spot, he speaks to no one in particular, “It’s so fucking nice to have so many hot pieces of ass on this bus. Goddamn, there’s only like 3 fuckin’ dudes on here. I got no competition.” Sweet Jesus. Let’s all buckle in for a fun ride.

To start, he’s right. There are only a few men on the bus. Not like that matters at all though, the bystander effect is going strong on public transportation.

The man casually looks around and chooses his first victim, a woman quietly texting to his right. “Goddamn, look at you. You got tits the size of fuckin’ mountains.” The woman doesn’t flinch; she continues to tap away at her phone and ignores him. More power to her. “You not gonna talk to me? Alright.” He quickly gives up on her and starts to move further down the bus.

Second victim. “I bet you know where to get good shit. I need the good dope. Hook me up, baby.” The woman he’s speaking to is in her late 40s. She’s wearing a cardigan and expensive looking leather loafers. His perception of her seems to be a little off. She chooses to ignore him so he continues down the bus, towards the back where I’m sitting with an empty seat to my left.

Please don’t sit next to me, please don’t sit next to me, please don’t sit next to me.

“Oh yeah. You look like you can give a good fuck. Are you a whore? Are you a little whore?” Those comments are directed towards me. He wants to know if I’m a whore, a little whore. I’M A NICE LADY, MISTER.

My heart skips a beat as a wave of anxiety rises from the pit of my stomach and washes over me. I’m now hyper-aware of the fact that this man has me essentially pinned against the window. I choose to ignore him like his first two victims. “Aw come on, I know you heard me. All you fuckin’ ladies heard me.” He’s starting to get agitated. “Are all y’all too damn good for me? You’re just a dirty fuckin’ whore. You can talk to me.” He’s now shouting at me. The third time is not the charm for him and he’s pissed. I raise my eyes to see if anyone looks like they might come to my rescue. No, no eyes meet mine. Shit.

His body odor is stinging my nostrils. He’s now so close to me that I can see the whites of his eyes are more of a dirty, pale yellow. Why don’t I own pepper spray?

“This is the problem with you women now that you can fuckin’ vote. You think you can ignore a man when he speaks to you.” His arms are dangling from the bar directly above my seat; he’s pivoting from his waist, swaying side-to-side with his head hanging down heavily, essentially right above me, as he yells about his problems with me and other modern women. “You’re just a whore, a dirty whore.” My mind and heart are racing during this entire situation. Why won’t he go away like he did with the others? Should I try to move past him and get off at the next stop? Will he try and grab me if I do?

The bus pulls over at the next stop to let on a few more riders and miraculously, he decides to get off there. Phew. He’s ranting and raving as he walks towards the back door but at least he’s getting off the bus.

He exits the bus and turns right, walking past my window. There he stops, turns towards the bus and slams his open hands against the glass of the window causing me to jump and squeak out loud. “You dirty fucking whore, fuck you.” Slam!

The bus pulls off and my fellow riders finally tear their eyes away from the phone screens. “God he was scary”, “OMG that was awful”, “Are you okay?” Oh okay, now you people care? One woman, who had gotten on the bus at that last stop, walks up to me and places her hand gently on my shoulder, “You did the right thing, breaking up with him, he wasn’t good enough for you.” THANKS.

 

 

This is why I can’t have nice things

We all have that one friend who always has weird stuff happening to her/him. You know, that one friend who constantly has crazy, barely plausible stories to share with you during your regularly scheduled drink date. A small part of you wants to not believe her/his stories but time and experience have taught you if that particularly strange situation could actually happen to someone, it would happen to that friend so you slowly sip your Old Fashioned and listen to their latest tale, unquestioningly accepting each detail no matter how loudly your brain screams that there is no way a clown would show up outside her door*

Well if you don’t have that friend already, you certainly do now because I’m that friend. I’m that person who always has weird shit happening to them. I’m that person that if something odd can actually happen, it’d certainly happen to me.

Let’s review the evidence, shall we?

Exhibit A

I boarded my usual morning train and chose an empty seat near one of the windows. Before I could even settle into the seat, a woman materialized at my elbow, swiftly crouched down to my level, and screamed directly into my ear that I was in her seat and I better move. Eff, last time I checked there wasn’t assigned seating on these trains but I’m not a combative person and she was clearly already well on her way to losing her shit at some point that day so I wordlessly grabbed my belongings and relocated.

A stop went by and a man boarded the train, taking the seat kitty-corner to mine. He sat quietly for a stop or two, peacefully looking out the window but then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement. His hand had snaked into his pants and had started to pump up and down, up and down. Just in case I’m not painting the proper picture with my words- He was masturbating. So I moved seats again.

I found a seat on the opposite side of the train car and settled in. Within my line of sight was a homeless man who was tightly clutching a large bottle of dark brown liquid. Tea? As the train pulled into the next stop he rose from his seat and walked towards the doors where he stopped and proceeded to open his bottle, invert it, and pour the contents out onto the floor of the train before walking out. His bottle wasn’t filled with tea. It was pee. Dark, pungent pee. So I moved cars.

The next few minutes were wonderfully uneventful. My train pulled into a new station and a new mass of commuters flooded into the train. Among them was a man who, after choosing his seat, whipped a cigarillo out of his jacket pocket and proceeded to light it up, sending big puffs of gray smoke into our enclosed, shared space. Sigh.

Exhibit B

Once, while walking to work, I was punched by a homeless man.

It happened early in the morning when I was walking along the sidewalk completely alone, heading towards the end of the block where the man was leaning up against a building. As I neared him, I saw him take note of me but hey, I was the only moving, living, breathing thing (other than him) on the entire block. As I walked past him, out of the very back 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. I remember a squeak sneaking out of my mouth (seriously, I sounded like a 6 year old who finally found that last elusive Easter egg a week after Easter ended) and starting 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. I eventually allowed myself to stop and glance behind me to find that the sidewalk was empty and that I was (thankfully!) not being pursued by the man.

The man gave me a decent-sized bruise and mild case of PTSD. I now give all homeless people a wide berth, no matter how deeply asleep or otherwise preoccupied they may seem.

Exhibit C

During my afternoon bus ride, my wandering thoughts were interrupted by an unexpected hand flapping in my face. The woman sitting across from me was waving her hand mere inches from my eyes, wordlessly imploring me to remove my headphones and interact with her. After a moment of hesitation, I begrudgingly obliged and removed one of my headphones.

The woman gestured at the empty seat to her left and said, “Please tell her that she looks fine, she thinks she’s overdressed.” I blinked slowly, processing what she had just said. She raised her eyebrows ever so slightly. I casually looked around for knowing accomplices or hidden cameras. She continued to stare me down, expectantly. So I addressed the empty seat-

Me: You look great; I think it’s always better to be overdressed than underdressed at an event.
The woman: And what about her shoes?
Me: They really pull together the outfit.
The woman: *claps* I told you so!

Exhibit D

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 straight towards an intersection. He was moving so fast that I barely had the time to analyze his speed vs. the amount of road he had remaining between him and the car that was currently turning within the intersection and to realize that he was most likely not going to make it past the car. Sure enough, he slammed directly into the broadside of the car. His body went tumbling across the hood before falling limply onto the asphalt while his skateboard shot underneath the car and continued down the hill.

Following the impact, there was a moment of stunned stillness in which no one moved a muscle or uttered a single word. The man laid motionless on the street, the driver sat bewildered in his car with his mouth open slackly and his hands still on the wheel, and I remained glued to the bus’s window.

After a few heartbeats, the skateboarder slowly picked himself up off the street and started walking gingerly towards the car. Halfway to the car, he opened his mouth and yelled, “That was fucking epic, man!” He then punctuated his statement by enthusiastically fist-bumping the still-stunned driver before turning and limping off after his long-gone board.

You just… You just can’t make that shit up.

*This is a reference to a true story that I’ll share later. 

25 faits sur moi

Sorry, I know my blog is titled Musing on a Monday but I’m feeling a little wild and reckless and want to post today, on a Friday.

Does anyone remember those annoying social media posts that you and 49 other unwitting folks would get tagged in and essentially be forced to respond/repost/re-etc lest you be cursed with 30 years of bad sex? Do you remember how those longgg viral threads would clog your Facebook and, dare I date myself, MySpace feeds? Maybe you’re one of those unfortunate souls who is still painfully aware of the “You’ve been tagged, it’s now your turn to…” posts because your mom or your grandma is still catching up on current social media rules and etiquette and hasn’t yet realized that those posts are a putting her on the fast track to getting unfriended…

Well, for all your sakes, I’m hoping that there aren’t too many of you still being tagged on those viral threads and that those types of posts are a thing of the past for you as they were for me until Facebook Memories (what a horrible idea those are) reminded me of the very last viral thread I begrudgingly participated in.

Actually hold up, let’s dive into Facebook Memories for a second, shall we?

Who thought we needed that particular feature? Who over at Facebook HQ thought, “I bet Adeline would like to see the passive-aggressive statuses she posted on this very day when she was fighting with her college roommate over her excessive use of the air conditioner” or “I’m sure Addie would like to peruse the pictures taken during the peak of her Freshman 15/25 weight gain when she hadn’t yet realized how chubby she was and was still trying to get away with wearing her size 2 Abercrombie & Fitch jeans from high school”. No. Just no. No one has any interest in rehashing WTF happened on Friday, June 2, 2012 because I’m sure it was regrettable and cringe-worthy, like most of my past is, and my brain already does a fine job of reviewing and re-reviewing those moments at 2am thank you very much.

Brain

The person who thought up Facebook Memories needs to be shaken until s/he comes to her/his senses and deletes the coding for that sadistic, throwback feature and releases us from the hell that is “On this day…”.

Phew. Rant over. Let’s get back to the last viral, “You’ve been tagged!” post I participated in…

Rules:
Once you’ve been tagged, you are supposed to write a note with 25 random facts about you. At the end, choose 25 people to be tagged. You have to tag the person who tagged you. If I tagged you, it’s because I want to know more about you… Or I was just continuing the viral fad.

Okay now, when I saw a note titled “25 Facts About Me” pop up in my Facebook Memories for today and noticed that the note was written in 2009, I couldn’t help but think “Ohhh this is going to be hilarious” because, you know, I was a mere child in 2009. I’ve matured so much and I’ve come so far since ‘09… I’m basically a whole new person now [hair flip].

But, much to my chagrin, many of these “facts” still ring true for me. I guess I haven’t changed all that much despite feeling like this successful adult who has everything all figured out and knows all the secrets to the world…

Anyways, I thought it would be fun to share this list with y’all while I’m still trying to establish myself and this new blog. So, with much ado, here it goes! “25 Facts About Me” written by almost-10-years-younger me:

  1. I HATE viral things like this and yet I always participate in them because I have this need to always feel included. Go figure.
  2. I don’t lie. I embellish. My stories are true for the most part. Yes some parts might be exaggerated or some parts might be left out but the additions or omissions are made for your benefit/entertainment. I mean, you’re welcome.
  3. I hate shaking hands. It’s so formal and stiff, when I meet people I usually hug them unless the stiff formality of hand shaking is absolutely necessary. Okay, this fact is 100% incorrect now. I’m not sure what happened between 2009 and now to scar me so deeply but I hate hugging. Absolutely abhor it. Do not, I repeat, do not enter my personal space and attempt to hug me. I’m sharing this information with you for your own safety.
  4. My family and I are close, a little too close. An evening with my family is not for the faint of heart. My grandma is the one who taught me about ben wa balls. Mic drop.
  5. I have absolutely no boundaries. I blame Grandma for this.
  6. I’m legally blind but absolutely refused to get LASIK because I YouTubed it once and will never voluntarily sign myself up to be tortured by an Optometrist. Update: I haven’t forgotten about that YouTube video just yet so I’m still over here, you know, being legally blind and tripping on my dogs when I walk to the bathroom in the middle of the night.
  7. One of my pet peeves is homophobia. I think that it is the epitome of ignorance and that’s all I’m going to say about it over a note on Facebook. And now WordPress!
  8. I can’t say no in any situation or to any person, I am very much a “yes woman”. [Adeline], can you help me move my house full of heavy, awkwardly shaped furniture? Yes! [Addie], do you want to come to this incredibly boring lecture, required for my Stats class, with me t o keep me company? Yes! Sigh.
  9. People-watching is one of my favorite pastimes. I could sit in the dining commons, in an airport, or sit in traffic for hours contently observing people and their interactions.
  10. I love to iron. “…my hobbies include cuticle care, and the E! network”
  11. I am not a “go with the flow” kind of a gal. You wanna hang out? Imma need a date, time/duration, location, activity type, etc from you ASAP before I can make my decision.
  12. I have these amazing women in my life who I will do anything for; do not hurt them or I will be coming for you. “I do have are a very particular set of skills. Skills I have acquired over a very long career… Skills that make me a nightmare for people like you… I will look for you, I will find you and I will kill you.” Name that movie!
  13. I have this incredible boyfriend who I know is cringing as he’s reading this. I also know that as he’s reading this, he won’t learn anything new about me because he already knows me through and through. While it’s a different boyfriend, this is still a true fact. Especially the cringing part.
  14. I have a bad habit of driving at least 15 miles above the speed limit.
  15. I just recently started not straightening my hair and wearing minimal makeup. This is because I just recently started feeling comfortable with myself, and dare I say it, beautiful.
  16. I think sarcasm is the best form of humor. I know some people say it’s a sign of weakness, it’s a defense mechanism blahblahblah I disagree.
  17. I am possibly one of the most stubborn people you will ever meet.
  18. I hate blowing my nose… Yes, I am my mother’s daughter.
  19. Speaking of my mother, I look so similar to her that it scares me. You know how some people wonder what they’ll look like when they’re older and what they’ll be like? I don’t. I know. The resemblance has only gotten stronger over these last few years. Shudder.
  20. I’m a good listener. Do you need to vent? Want to ramble on and on about something? I’m your gal.
  21. I have dreamed about being a clinical psychologist and fixing people my entire life. Whoops, I veered a little left here…
  22. I love kids. Not in a creepy pedophile-ish way. I just think they are humans in their most pure and untainted state… Children renew my hope in humanity. Plus they are just so cute!
  23. I can’t eat spicy food which is almost blasphemous because I’m from [PLACE] where the locals think that the hotter the Mexican food is, the better it is. Edited to hide my place of birth from Amy’s spying eyes.
  24. I get into trouble on a regular basis mainly because I never think twice about my actions or the words that are pouring out of my mouth. I don’t think my foot has ever really left my mouth.
  25. I have an obsession with CSI-like and House-like shows.

And there you have it! Any fun facts about yourself that you want to share in the comments? You don’t have to write 25, well, you could if you wanted.

The 411

Alright, I think it’s only fitting that my first “official” post provides more background on Amy (the stalker/reason I’m starting this new, more anonymous blog) and Russell (my boyfriend) and the saga that be (my life). Grab your popcorn folks because here I go.

Amy and Russ dated for roughly 1 year about 6 or 7 years ago. Russ describes the relationship as being incredibly unhealthy and Amy as being a loner who relied heavily on him to support her through what sounds like a serious anxiety disorder (Russ says she was a hypochondriac and that she was constantly battling an eating disorder and vaguely paranoid thoughts). I struggle with anxiety and horrific panic attacks myself so I won’t mock Amy for battling what I’ve diagnosed, as an official Armchair Psychologist, as an anxiety disorder of sorts. I’m petty but I’m not a monster.

Okay moving on.

Due to a combination of her loner status/anxious personality, Amy followed Russ essentially everywhere like a female version of the shadow in Peter Pan, meaning usually attached to him but occasionally functioning independently. Amy ran all of Russ’ errands with him, accompanied him to all his doctor/dentist/haircut appointments, tagged along to every guy’s night out, she’d even turn up at his work from time to time for a surprise lunch date. When they were miraculously apart, Amy would flood Russ’ phone with a constant stream of texts and calls until she eventually broke his spirit and convinced him to head back home to his parents’ house where he was living at the time and also, where she would be waiting for him. Oftentimes, she had already been waiting for hours at his parents’ house because she couldn’t stand to be in her apartment alone for too long.

Russ finally hit his breaking point after 12 long months of dealing with Amy and her many insecurities and paranoia-induced rages (Russ won’t come out and say it but he’s alluded that Amy was physically abusive towards him during her rages). Amy reacted to the news of the breakup like any normal woman would by not changing a damn thing… Wait no, sorry, that’s not a normal reaction but then again, she is not a normal woman. Post-breakup, Amy continued to appear, uninvited, at Russ’ parents’ house, his regularly scheduled guy’s nights, his work, even the one dentist appointment she knew he had scheduled. In an attempt to escape her, Russ moved out of his parents’ house, transferred offices, got a new cell number… all for nothing. Amy managed to find his new apartment, office, phone number, etc. Again, NSA/CIA? Y’all might want to consider hiring this chick, she’s damn good at what she does.

Obsessed

Okay let’s fast-forward through a few years and a few relationships and get to the most important character in this story- Me.

Russ and I met on Tinder so we did about a month of casual, confirming-that-you’re-not-a-serial-killer texting before meeting in person at a cute hipster bar for our first date. I’ll never forget walking back from the restroom and catching Russ slamming his phone down on our table with a look of pure, unbridled anger on his face. In the 11.3 seconds I had left before I reached the table, a debate raged within me as to whether or not I should ask this cute, non-serial-killer about what I had just witnessed. Thankfully, Russ freely offered up an explanation when I sat down. He shared with me that he had an ex who had a habit of buying prepaid cellphones to call/text him from and when I was walking back from the bathroom, he had gotten a text from one of his ex’s latest burners. Boom. That’s right, on Date # 1, I found out about Amy and her particular brand of crazy. Russ warned me that he has been doing his best to keep her at a distance for years but that I might have to deal with her at some point in our relationship and asked if I could handle that. Well by that time, we had already been talking for a month, I already had a little crush on him, and I had already finished 2 Old Fashioneds so of course I said that I could handle his crazy ex. Duh.

Well Russ and I are now roughly 3 years into our relationship and Amy is still very much around. Praise be to her amazing cyber stalking skills. That woman has managed to keep tabs on our coupley activities and developments despite our social media accounts being as private as possible.  Amy knows where both of us work, she found the address to the house we own together, the link to my blog, etc. Amy knows absolutely everything that there is to know about us. I hope she’s impressed by my credit score, I’m actually pretty proud of it.

And how you ask, how do I know that Amy knows all this? Well, Amy is still quite close to Russell’s mother who absolutely refuses to cut Amy off because she pities her and is afraid to “abandon” her like Russ did. I’d hardly equate ending an unhealthy relationship to abandoning someone but that’s how Russ’ mother sees it and out of her twisted sense of guilt comes this compulsive need to indulge Amy in Adeline/Russell stories despite the numerous occasions that Russ and I have begged her to not tell Amy anything about us…  Though maybe I should stop caring about what his mom tells Amy, right? I mean, that ship has clearly already sailed because Amy is claiming to be sitting on a real information bomb that she has promised to destroy (or did she say ruin?) my relationship and my life with. Part of me is dying to know what she found or thinks she found. Last time I checked, I’m a fairly boring, law-abiding citizen with only a few teeny, tiny skeletons in my closet. Well okay, if I’m gonna be honest with y’all- I did smoke a lot of weed in college. And one time, I had sex with a guy while he was driving down the freeway. Okay and sometimes I change lanes without signaling or will go back for a second round of free samples at Costco. But that’s hardly life-ending dirt, Amy isn’t planning to ruin/destroy my relationship/life with news of a minor traffic violation, she thinks she has something juicier.

And okay, while I’m feeling honest, I know I’m coming off as only mildly annoyed but mostly unaffected by the Amy stuff (well, at least, that’s how I’m trying to come off) but the Amy stuff does bother me. A lot, actually. It doesn’t feel good to be afraid to post a picture on Instagram in real-time because Amy might somehow see it and race to where we are in an attempt to rendezvous with Russell before we leave the location. It’s scary to wonder if one day I’ll answer my front door to find that it was Amy who rang my doorbell. It not fun to know that someone is still deeply infatuated with the man I have decided to make a life with. But it’s the doubt that this Amy crap shoves into the very back of my mind that is the worst of all the mental torture she inflicts on me.

Amy has a blog of her own that Russ and I will read from time to time in an attempt to remain apprised of her mental state, her plans, etc. Amy writes about Russ and reminisces on their relationship with alarming frequency and occasionally writes that she has recently heard from him… Russ vehemently denies talking to her and I usually believe him but on my bad, insecure (most likely PMSing) days, I can’t help but wonder if he’s lying to me. What kind of a woman remains actively obsessed with someone without getting any encouragement from that person? Perhaps Russell’s mother is providing the fuel to Amy’s fire but maybe, just maybe, Russ is talking to her every now and then like when he’s mad at me or needs his ego stroked. I choose to believe him when he says he hasn’t talked to her in years but there is this teeny tiny speck of doubt in my mind when I see Amy write, “Heard from Russell today…” that I usually attempt to brush away by reminding myself of the beautiful home we bought together, our two dogs, the awesome hobbies we share, and the way he looks at me when he says “I love you”. We wouldn’t share any of those things or moments if he was still marginally interested in his ex who I am simply writing off as being delusional.

Annnnd okay! If you made it to this sentence- Congratulations! You get… an e-hug for actually reading this post which was oh so cathartic for me to write. Do any of you have crazy ex stories that you want to unload in the comments? If you do, don’t be shy! I’d love to know that I’m not alone in this struggle.

 

“First” Blog Post

Okay, here we go again. You see folks, I’ve had a blog before and it was a lovely blog. I put a lot of time and energy into my posts. My blog had wonderful followers who would leave engaging and thought-provoking comments on my posts. I adored that blog and every single one of my followers. But that blog was taken from me. Are y’all ready for a little background on me? Let’s call me Adeline, by the way. Well ready or not, here comes some background information.

I’m dating a guy. Let’s call him Russell. Russ is great and all and probably “the one” for me but he’s not “obsess over for 6 or 7 years” great. At least I don’t think so. But his ex-girlfriend certainly does. Yup. His ex-girlfriend, let’s call her Amy, has persistently stalked him and his family and all his girlfriends (which now means me) ever since their obviously-well-merited breakup 6 or 7 years ago. They dated for only 1 year by the way. Does that make her obsession better or worse in your opinion?

Anyways.

Amy found my blog. How? I have no idea. Literally not one clue as to how she realized I was writing a blog in the first place and then managed to actually find said blog. It’s not connected to my Facebook or my Instagram, I didn’t tell any friends or family about it, and within the blog itself, I was vague regarding identity-confirming-specifics like my age or where I lived or what my occupation was. The fact that she found my blog and was able to confirm that it was mine is some serious NSA/CIA shit. They should consider hiring her. Or locking her up. My preference is for the latter but hey, I’m not gonna tell the Feds how to do their jobs.

So yeah, Amy found my blog. And she wrote on one of my posts that she was actively deciding how to ruin my relationship and my life. Or maybe it was “destroy” my relationship and my life. I think that was her verb of choice, “destroy”. She made sure to promise me, just in case I doubted her, that she certainly could destroy and/or ruin my relationship and my life. As if stalking me and my boyfriend and our friends/family for the last several years wasn’t enough, she has something else up her sleeve. Oh Amy, you over-achiever you.

Anyways, I decided that instead of fueling her fire with an expletive-filled response or a pointed passive-aggressive post (ahem, like this one), it would be best to simply delete my blog. Life lesson: You should never engage with crazy. Always back away from the crazy.

So here I am, starting a new blog filled with fake names and even vaguer (more vague?) references to identity-confirming-specifics like my age (I’m 20-30), where I live (the United States), and what my occupation is (employed). Good luck finding this blog, Amy. Oh and I hope that your plans to ruin and/or destroy my relationship and life are coming along swimmingly!

For those of you who aren’t Amy- Welcome to my new blog. I’m Adeline (I’m really not but let’s just roll with that). I’ll be using this blog to talk about this or that, nothing earth-shaking or mind-blowing, just normal ol’ musings on my life and such. Hopefully you find me to be marginally interesting. I personally think I’m a hoot but I know that I’m a tad biased.

Anyways, enjoy! I look forward to getting to know y’all.