The Scab Lady

So, there's this gross old lady who lives on my floor and parks her car next to mine in the garage. I call her Scab Lady.

She earned this name because she has these nasty, weeping sores all over her lower legs all the frickin' time. They're usually bandaged, but I can tell right where they all are because you can see the pus seeping through the gauze. Ew, ew, frickity EW.

I have a feeling she might live in her car part-time. The back seat is filled with crap... boxes, bags, empty food containers, you name it. Oh, and her walker, which I have yet to see her actually use. A couple times I've gotten home or have been leaving, and she's been sitting in her car. Just SITTING there, listening to the radio or talking to her dog. And she sits there for a super long time, too. I know this because I often putz around before getting out of my truck or pulling out of my spot. I may decide to clean out the garbage the kids left in the back seat, or throw out the empty cigarette boxes in my center console, put on lipstick, organize my purse, or what have you. And when I finish whatever I'm doing, she's still sitting there in her car. One time when I left, she was sitting there. When I got back more than a half hour later, she was STILL THERE.

Here's another thing that bugs me: she's got this yappy weiner dog named Deuce, and he's never on a frickin' leash. I see them sometimes in the hall, and that stupid dog is running all over the place willy-nilly, yapping away. Once he got underfoot when I was coming back from the laundry room with a huge basket of clothes. That glorified rat almost got himself kicked. Oh, come on... I wouldn't have kicked him on purpose! Luckily I saw him and stopped walking until Scabby Mc Scabsalot could get him to go back into her apartment. One of these days something will happen to him, though, if she doesn't get him on a frickin' leash. He's gonna get stepped on, or get closed in the elevator door or something. And the way she tries to get him to come back when he takes off down the hall... she says PLEASE, and talks to him like he's a kid. I got news for ya, lady: he's NOT HUMAN. He's a frickin' DOG. One, he can't understand you. Two, saying please is not gonna change his mind about bolting down the hall to yap at neighbors trying to get out of the elevator with their groceries.

Here's another thing I've been wondering about that dog: where the hell does he crap??? I mean, she doesn't leave her apartment for days on end, I never see her outside the building, and apparently she needs a walker to get around, and the walker's in the back seat of her car all the time. So, does she let the dog crap in her apartment? Does he use a litter box? Did she train him to use the toilet like some people do with their cats? Inquiring minds wanna know!!!

Maybe this is super mean, but that lady creeps me out to no end. I actually hold my breath when I walk past her, her car, or her apartment because I don't want to breathe in whatever bacteria is infesting her nasty legs. I've never had the dilemma of having to get into the elevator with her, but I kinda think I wouldn't be able to hold my breath that long. I think I'd have to make some excuse to take the stairs or say, "Oops, I forgot something," and go back to my truck or my apartment until the coast was clear. The thought of being trapped in the elevator with her and her rat dog makes me feel like hurling a little bit.

I know what you're thinking: I'm going to hell for being so mean, intolerant and judgmental. Whatever... I am what I am. However, if hell is indeed an eternity of your worst experiences ever, my hell would be being trapped in an elevator with Scab Lady and Deuce, and I could only get off the elevator at Steve-O's on karaoke night.

Maybe I should try to be nicer.......

Nah.