Confessions of an Ugly Girl Read Online Free PDF Page A

apartment on the top floor of a house with my own private entrance. The bottom floor is occupied by my landlady Martha, who is around 70 years old. I’ve lived here for about eight years, and I could definitely afford a better place (in a building where the landlady doesn’t take my mail), but I’m reluctant to leave Martha. She’s not my favorite person in the world, but I’ve become attached. She’s like that annoying relative that you hate seeing during holidays, but you still sort of love her.
    I knocked on the front door to the house, and after a lot of shuffling, the door cracked open. Martha never opens the door all the way. She only opens it about six inches and expects you to do the rest. So I pushed the door the rest of the way open.
    The second I walked inside, my black work pants and blouse instantly became coated with a fine layer of cat fur. Martha is like this horrible stereotype of a crazy cat lady. She has about eight cats, and I feel bad for saying it, but I’m almost positive that when she eventually dies, I’m going to walk into her apartment and find her cats eating her. And then the cats will inherit the house. I’ll have to pay them rent.
    (Actually, at that point, I’m pretty sure I’ll find a new apartment.)
    Tiny, rotund Martha was standing in the middle of her living room in her bare feet, wearing a flower-printed nightgown. I’ve literally never seen Martha wearing anything besides a nightgown or any shoes besides slippers. She never leaves the house aside from going out to the mailbox. She gets her groceries delivered, and if there’s anything extra she needs, she can usually persuade me to pick it up.
    “Hello, Millie,” she said, like she was surprised to see me. As if she didn’t realize she had taken my mail hostage.
    “Do you have my mail?”
    Martha nodded. “It’s in the kitchen.”
    She made no move to retrieve my mail for me. I guessed she expected me to go get it.
    As I walked through Martha’s living room, my nose started to feel itchy. I don’t have cat allergies, but the sheer amount of cat dander in this room would make anyone itchy. Except for Martha, I guess, who is now immune.
    “Do you have any plans for tonight, Millie?” Martha asked as she followed me to her kitchen.
    “Not really,” I replied.
    Martha looked pleased with my answer. She’s never been married, and she doesn’t seem to approve of any of the (few) men I’ve brought over here. The last guy I invited over stepped on the grass when he was picking me up, and Martha ran out in her nightgown and bare feet to shoo him off the lawn using her broom.
    I have to wonder when Martha got so crazy. It seems like she’s gotten worse during the time I’ve lived here. I wonder if the cats are what makes her crazy or are a symptom of her craziness. Apparently, 50% of cats have evidence of infection with toxoplasmosis, a parasite that’s usually asymptomatic, but can sometimes cause encephalitis, which is inflammation of the brain. Maybe that’s what happened to Martha. Maybe she was totally normal prior to the cat era.       
    In any case, it’s pretty much convinced me to never ever get a cat.
    “If you’d like,” Martha said to me, “you can come down here for dinner. I’m making chicken pot pie.”
    I was tempted. Martha is a really good cook. Everything she makes has at least one entire stick of butter in it. The first year I moved in here, I gained 15 pounds. No kidding. That’s how I learned to say no to Martha’s dinners. I may never be skinny, but I draw the line at being so fat that I have to wear a circus tent to work.
    “I’m pretty tired,” I said. “Maybe next time.”
    When I got into the kitchen, I saw my mail was on the kitchen table. And on top of my mail was a black-and-white cat who was busy licking himself.
    I looked at Martha, who was making no move to remove the cat. “Um, Martha,” I said. “Peaches is on top of my mail.”
    Martha frowned at me.