I was going to talk about all sorts of things in my blog this week, like the three-hour liquid lunch I had with my boss on Friday, and the sheer joy at having Burger King – where you can get a cappuccino and a latte (!) – after two months without fast food. But instead, after what happened a few nights ago, I can only talk about one thing: Gemma, the fat whore landlady.
A typical day at our house starts off innocently enough. Shane wakes up at 7 am to get a jumpstart on the showers (you’ll know why if you read last week’s blog about man-whore and the hogging of the showers). I hit the showers at 7:40, and by the time I’m out, Shane’s already left for work. As I’m getting ready for work, I can hear fatso in the kitchen pulling bags of chips and other junk food out of the cabinets; in other words, she’s making her lunch. The door slams a few minutes later, and I head into the kitchen to make myself lunch. On the stove top is last night’s dinner. Not ours mind you. Our housemates choose to tempt fate day in and day out, leaving their half-eaten food sitting on the stove 24 hours after it’s been cooked. Disgusting. As soon as you walk into the kitchen, the smell hits you. The cats have used their litter box, and used it well. It smells like stale urine and shit, just the kind of thing you want to smell first thing in the morning. Oh, but wait. Right beside our cupboard is a cat turd that didn’t quite make it into the litter box. Fantastic.
I refuse to clean it up, because they’re not my cats. Besides, I have a bus to catch. So, I head out, and brave the 45-minute trip, all the while trying not to inhale everyone’s B.O. on the tube. According to regulations, the conditions I travel in to get to work would not be fit for transporting animals. Nice. Anyway, I get to work, and am busy the entire day. When it’s finally time to go home, all I can think about is having dinner, and maybe watching a little TV.
But life’s not like that here at Maison de l’enfer.
When I got home four days ago, I could hear shouting, and I hadn’t even come through the door yet. Fatso and her flavour of the week man-whore were having a shouting match. I don’t know how long they had been going at it before I came home, but the fight continued for another good 20 minutes. Then, he leaves, and she takes off 10 minutes later. She comes home completely shit-faced an hour later, grabs some ice cream from the freezer, and leaves a mess on the counter before heading to her room. Not a good time to ask for our tenancy agreement, I guess.
The next day is pretty much the same, except this time fatso’s man-whore isn’t here. That means she can focus her attention on us. Oh goody.
“Gu-uys… can I have a word?” Every time I hear this coming out of blubber butt’s mouth, I cringe. Why? Because it means she has some other bone to pick with us. Lately she’s been on a “clean the kitchen” kick. As Shane has explained in his blog, we’re responsible for cleaning the kitchen every week. Unfortunately for us, the kitchen is definitely the messiest room in the house, and our housemates are filthy. The worst offender is the fat cow herself. Example: instead of emptying the trash can when it’s full, she continues to stuff weight watchers containers and empty tubs of ben and jerry’s ice cream into the can to the point of overflowing. Sometimes it gets so bad, the trash falls onto the kitchen floor. Once, instead of emptying the can she filled with crap, she left it sitting in the hallway for an entire week. Then, she had the audacity to ask me to empty it, since it is, after all, my duty to clean the kitchen.
Anyway, that night’s conversation was basically about how if we don’t like cleaning the kitchen, we can hire a maid. This is the second time in three days that she’s said this to us. The only reason I can think of is that we’re not cleaning the kitchen “her way.” Anyway, she went on about how we weren’t cleaning her microwave properly (she’s the only one who uses it, by the way) and that we hadn’t cleaned off some knives and utensils she keeps on display (again, things we’re not allowed to use). I felt like punching her in the face. When she cleans things, she does it so half-assed, it’s embarrassing. The other day she decided to mop the floor, and left dirty streaks all over the place. At least when we clean something, it’s clean. She’s so filthy.
Anyway, instead of telling her off or protesting, we just sat there, dumbfounded. I looked over at Shane, and could see steam coming out of his ears. We exchanged a look, and didn’t say anything. Why? Because we have a plan. Oh yeah. We’ve been cooking up some damn good revenge schemes. Shane keeps suggesting we vandalize her property somehow, but I prefer more subtle tactics (and ones that won’t get us thrown in jail). So, that night, while we were cleaning the kitchen again, we took a spoon from the fat cow’s special drawer of utensils (ie the ones reserved especially for her) and stirred the cat shit with it. I hope she enjoys the special flavour that accompanies her ben and jerry’s ice cream.
Plus, we’re moving out, leaving her with no tenants for the better part of December and January, the hardest months of the year to find tenants. She finally gave us a copy of our lease, and we are only required to give her one month’s notice, not the six to eight weeks she’d prefer. So basically, as soon as our rental agents (oh yeah, we have rental agents doing all the work for us) find us our dream home, which right now is any place that is fatso-free, we’re giving notice. Then, we’re out of here. Ahhhhhh…. The thought of leaving here is so nice. This place, while better than the hostel, sucks major ass. I feel like burning down the house and walking out while the fire rages behind me, kind of like that scene in Barton Fink. Ah… a girl can dream can’t she?
Okay, that’s it for now. Sorry it’s taken so long to post my blog!
S.
P.S. Matthew and Jessica: package Buffy has arrived! I love you guys!!!
