Assault with a dairy weapon

The run-in with my nutcase neighbor last week reminded me of another encounter my friend Lisa and I had about a year ago in Lisa's neighborhood on the other end of the city. We'd been out to dinner, and decided to go back to Lisa's house and enjoy some frozen Colorado Bulldogs. I realized when I mentioned these in my "Four Things" post that it's likely a very regional reference and I don't have any idea how far a familiarity with this drink extends. Any bar in the Twin Cities will make a Bulldog without question, but even in some parts of Wisconsin, you can easily stump a bartender by asking for one.

For anyone who's not aware, a Colorado Bulldog is basically a White Russian plus Coke, served in a highball glass instead of an old fashioned. It's a froofy and girly drink that may be as shameful for a self-respecting adult over the age of 24 to order as an Alabama Slammer or a Sex on the Beach, but it's sweet and it's tasty and it makes a particularly good after-dinner, in-lieu-of-dessert sort of drink.

When Lisa and I were in Mexico a few years ago, we noticed a drink called "Buda Colorado" on the plaque of specialties listed in our hotel bar, and when we inquired about it, we found it was essentially a Colorado Bulldog blended with ice to make a frothy frozen drink. I can't imagine the Colorado Bulldog has roots in Mexico; I have to assume that the influx of Midwestern tourists to Cozumel had something to do with the drink's inclusion on that menu. Regardless, we immediately took to this new variation on the drink, and we like to make them on occasion on our own.

But I digress. Back to that night. We decided to make some frozen Bulldogs, but Lisa didn't have any ice or cream at home. So we detoured to a Holiday station to pick up those supplies. We went in, bought the bag of ice and carton of cream, and headed back for the car. I walked toward the passenger side and stood waiting for Lisa to unlock the door. As Lisa opened her door and started lowering herself into the driver's seat, a short, portly, angry-looking woman began walking towards her. I thought perhaps she was going to inquire about the time, or maybe ask for some money. Instead, she said nothing. She just continued towards Lisa, until she was eventually two inches away and definitely violating socially accepted personal space boundaries.

The woman glared at Lisa fiercely, but said nothing. So Lisa got into the car, hoping to close the door and quickly retreat. The woman stood in her way, preventing her from closing it. Eventually, terrified and confused, Lisa scooted herself across the front seat, trying to escape. Since she hadn't yet unlocked the door, I couldn't open the passenger side and pull her out. I think the most helpful thing I contributed during the whole encounter was a freaked out stream of confused obscenities. (I believe my exact words were, "What the fuck?! What the fuck?! What the fuck?!")

Lisa continued clawing at the passenger side window, looking at me helplessly and clearly wondering why I wasn't opening the door. Eventually the angry mute leaned forward, grabbed the bag of ice from Lisa's hands, and chucked it towards her face. It grazed Lisa's cheek and slid onto the floor of the car. She then grabbed the creamer carton and beamed that at Lisa's head as well. Finally, apparently satisfied that she'd sufficiently tortured us, the woman simply turned and walked away.

Lisa quickly moved back to the driver's seat, opened the door to let me in, and tore out of the parking lot. I checked her forehead for a creamer carton dent, but found nothing more than a small pink abrasion, so I figured she'd recover successfully with no complications.

Since the most dangerous weapon involved was a dairy product, I thought we should just consider ourselves lucky, go home, and let a little Kahlua calm our nerves. Lisa was a bit more shaken, though, and decided to call the police.

"Are you sure you want to do that?" I asked.

"I just got attacked!" she replied.

"Yes," I said, "but it was with a carton of creamer and a bag of ice. And we have no idea where that woman went. What do you think the police are going to do?"

She wanted to call, however, and I understood her feeling violated, so I said OK.

The police showed up about 20 minutes later, listened to our story, and asked us a long series of questions. To their credit, they didn't laugh once. I'm not sure I could have been so disciplined, were I in their position.

Based on our description, the police felt fairly confident they knew who the creamer-pelter was. Like the lunatic across the alley from me, this woman has apparently had her share of visits from the men in blue as well. I'm not sure if my neighbor has ever been institutionalized, but apparently this woman has--more than once--but has been deemed not dangerous enough to keep tabs on more closely. Maybe if she were throwing full half-gallon cartons of dairy products it would be a different story, but clearly pint-size weapons are just a minor offense.

I tell this story not because I think it's fun or appropriate to laugh at mental illness (although I do think being able to find amusement in it later is the only appropriate response after being terrorized in such a ludicrous manner). My real focus when I think back on this story, though, is how lucky I feel that this is the worst I've experienced of urban life. Minneapolis isn't exactly plagued by violent crime, but I've still heard plenty of stories from people whose cars have been broken into or who've been mugged outside their front door, and the local news stations still find a shooting to talk about nearly every day. Knowing this, if the worst I can say is that I watched as my best friend was assaulted with a bag of ice by a small angry woman, or that I was startled one night by a crazy lady concerned about my garbage, then I think I'm doing OK.