Carissa Goes To Jail

Jeepers Creepers appeared again for an encore show the night after his first performance, now with a new act: masturbating in front of his window while looking up at ours to see if we were watching. For what we pay for rent, we should have a view of shirtless hunks washing dishes or carrying heavy lumber, not a man who only gets close and personal with blow-up dolls, his palm, and apparently, us. While variety may be the spice of life, his little variety show understandably turned us way off, so the living room blinds have been closed for the past two days, and today, Alli and I went to Burlington P.D to lodge a formal complaint against our unsightly scenery.

Considering the last time I talked to two cops, I was drunk and said "good evening" like a Transylvanian brothel madam, I was understandably a little nervous. That, and I may or may not engage in some activities not exactly kosher with the law. And I always feel cops just know that about you. Like psychics. But with handcuffs instead of crystal balls. And arrest records seem to be far more damning than birth charts, from what I've seen, at least. But knowing that I am a grown-ass independent girl (or at least, should be), I sucked it up, and went.

In hindsight, I really shouldn't have been worried. My behavior never came up-- just his. If you were wondering, "lewd and lascivious" is the definition for it, and in Vermont, you can only be fined up to $300, which to me is a pittance when compared to what you're knowingly inflicting on other people, or spend under 5 years in jail for it. Unfortunately, unless Creepers initiates more attention from us than just standing full-frontal in his window and whacking it silently, there's not much the police can do about it, given it is technically in his own apartment, as I suspected. I voiced my concerns about the fact we're two small young blonde women living together, and that this may be his way to seek attention, be it positive of negative, along with the fact that I wouldn't recognize him if he and I were both out on the sidewalk checking our mail, which is just icky to think about brushing shoulders with this freakshow and not know it.

However, I was pleased as-- no pun intended-- punch when the Corporal gave us permission to either have a male friend talk to our Chippendale's wannabe or, and I quote here, "kick his teeth in." So-- how many male friends do I have who are willing to help me out of this awkward skin-pinch? Because we really do need some help, guys. We would do it, but we were instructed to not involve ourselves with him in order to not egg his delusions on any more. We're here for another year, and I don't want to be afraid to walk in or out of the front door to my own apartment or feel forced to not stand by the same window the cat loves to sleep in. After being grabbed in Italy, I'm more sensitive to these things than I'd like to admit. I wasn't able to do anything in Florence, but I'll be damned if I do nothing on my own home turf. That's just not cool, at all.

Later, as Alli and I sipped our restorative Slushies from Cumbies in the oppressive afternoon humidity and discussed our dilemma, I looked at her and said, "I can't tell if I'm disgusted by it or if I really like it."

She looked horrified for a minute before I caught myself. "I mean the slushie. Not the creeper." Obviously.

XOXO

The Peep Show Next Door

Last night, I inadvertently saw a naked man. I'm warning you now, this has nothing to do with me getting any. But everything to do with me feeling uncomfortable.

Girls are weird about seeing people naked. We get a kick out of it, and--unless it is someone we want to see naked and there is sex for us involved--then we want it to be over. Patience walked into my room with a shell-shocked-prisoner-of-war face on, and said, "I think there's a naked guy next door." As any red-blooded American girl will, I asked "Where?" and followed her into the living room to investigate. And yes-- there, across the driveway, was a naked thigh. Followed by a naked ass. Followed by a-- OHMIGOD, DID HE SEE US?

Paish and I dived for cover and nervously giggled for a few minutes. This seems to be the natural response of women to nakedness-- duck for cover, then giggle about it. Gradually, we crept back up to see if he was still there...

...And he was. Staring up at our window. Not trying to conceal anything.

He stayed there, flaunting his nakedness and our growing discomfort for over 15 minutes. It was at this time that I put 2-and-2 together about what Twan had warned me about the guy next door with a fetish for both blow-up dolls and not closing his blinds, and Mister Red Light wondering where we'd gone. It was worse than that time in Perugia-- well, I mean, the guy wasn't in at least his mid-forties, and had a better body, but it was creepier; Perugia Nudie didn't give a flying fuck if anyone was watching him. Jeepers Creepers next door wanted to know if we were watching. Twan had told me to call the cops the first time Peep Show creeped us out. I couldn't justify calling the cops yet, and at 3 AM, so I texted Twan instead. He didn't answer; Paish and I went out on the back deck to get out of sight and smoke a stress-cigarette, and when we came back, the blinds had closed again. All in all, nothing accomplished but feeling dirty.

As Patience asked, "Why does this always happen to me?" I feel like I too have seen an unfairly disproportionate number of naked men from across air spaces and driveways. And mostly, always men. Now, I know I'm no blushing daisy myself, of Naked Tuesdays fame, but when I realized on two separate occasions that our hot carpenter/next door neighbor-- not to be confused with Jeepers Creepers-- was the person who lived directly across the driveway from me on the second floor and not only was the guy who got to watch me cooking in a bra and shorts, but also was the same person closing the blinds in the kitchen that looks directly into my bedroom window every morning because I may-or-may-not-but-definitely-do sleep in just underwear and didn't have curtains yet, I started thinking about flashing my naked body around a lot less than I did in say, Italy. A little respect is all I ask. And respect is not craning your naked self out of your window to look up toward my living room and see if we're watching your

naked ass. Respect is shutting your damn blinds before we have to.

I guess this is my welcome to Mister Roger's Naked Neighborhood. Why can't all naked men over the age of 25 just look like Rusty DeWees, I ask you?

XOXO

P.S-- And yes, I'm going to use that image as much as humanly possible in the foreseeable future. I also, for shits and giggles, want you to guess how old that man is. Just, please-- guess. I can't wait to tell you the truth and blow your mind.