See that house over there? Let me tell you…

A guy I dated several years back used to live there with his mother. Yeah. The two story number with the plastic gnomes out front. The place stunk like the inside of a fake leg.

I never told you? About when I moved in with Mike and his mother, after I was fired from the Hungry Hunter, all that? I really never told you? Can you hand me a cigarette? No, I’ve got a light right here. Thanks. Actually, my ex boyfriend used to kind of stink too, in all honesty. Especially his breath. He wasn’t the most hygienic of fellows, bless his heart. Boy was that house a pigsty! His mother—dreadful woman—she wasn’t much of a housekeeper. She wasn’t much of anything, besides a witch about fifty with an Ogilvie home perm. She had it in for me, always watching my every move, the old cuss. They would’ve burned her in Salem if she were born any earlier. One of those Jesus freaks. They really are the worst, those Jesus freaks.

Grab the wheel for a second, will you? Gotta get this jacket off, I’m sweating like a hog. That’s right, just hold it steady. Good. Well Mike demanded that we move in together, so we could take our relationship to the “next level.” Living with his mother wasn’t exactly my idea of taking it to the next level, but hell. I gave it a shot. I will say, there was one thing taken to the next level, and it was my patience. Living with those two slobs would’ve driven anyone with a pulse crazy.

Just walking around the house was tough. At first I’d hop over the clothes and books and papers and trash lying on the floor. Eventually I got tired and just started kicking everything aside to clear a single path. I remember the living room had stacks of old newspapers from years back, piled into a fort. Those two refused to throw anything away. A couple of honest to goodness pack rats. I even had to clean out their refrigerator once. I must have thrown out five pounds of rotten cabbage that day. It had nearly fermented. But that couldn’t have been any worse than the time I cleaned the bathroom. I must’ve lost ten pounds from all the sweating I did while scrubbing that filthy bathtub of theirs. It looked like a corpse that’d just jumped out of its grave bathed in there.

Oh hey, can you put another CD on? My CD case is in the backseat. Say, I’ve got a request: ABBA’s Greatest Hits. Thanks. Where are you putting that other CD? You’re not just going to leave it out of the CD case, are you? No, no. It’ll get scratched that way. That’s just wrong, honey. It belongs in its proper compartment. My god.

So anyway, Mike’s mother slept right next door to us, as if the situation weren’t already bad enough. Just walking past that old goat’s bedroom was a feat. It smelled like a litter box in there. Not kidding. She had cats you know. There’s something weird about them, those cat people, something off. And the stench of cat shit can really clear a room. That and the carton of cigarettes she smoked every day. Jesus! It was fetid. I had to use the bathroom in her room once. Mike’s little brother had locked himself in our bathroom; he was probably whacking off or something. Anyway, she didn’t like to flush the toilet often. Yeah, I know. It was repellant. She said she was only trying to save water, but I’ve got other theories.

Now that I think about it, I can’t believe she allowed me and Mike to sleep in the same bed, with her being such a Jesus freak and all. We had to sneak around and keep quiet while that lazy cow was around. We felt just like a couple of naughty teenagers. Wow that kind of thing, the risk of getting caught, it really made Mike horny. Gosh, he was like a bull moose in hea—

Oh wipe that look off your face. What? Did I cross some line? I thought this sort of talk interested you. Well then. I stand corrected.

Well anyhow, the final straw came when his mother started stealing my underwear. I don’t lie about these things. They didn’t even fit her; they had to be three sizes too small. Then she would put them back when she was done with them. Did she really expect me to use them again? Those panties weren’t fit to wipe an abandoned car in a junk yard. Especially after that whale broke them in. They had been all stretched out of proportion, not to mention stained. An abomination, is what it was. I mean, who does that? Who steals underwear? You don’t do that. You just don’t.

So when I confronted her, she lied about it. She “didn’t know what I was talking about.” She said told me that I had some nerve. And you know what I said to her? I said, “I hope Jesus forgives you.” Just like that. Then I walked out of there, for good. I got her with that one, boy. She was fuming.

Sometimes I’ll drive past that old place, and slow down a little. I swear I can still detect the faint smell of cat urine. Then I step on the gas.