The Limberger Incident

 “The Limberger Incident”

This is one of those crazy life stories, which happened during what was my first transitional year when I left my ex and lived with my mom’s first cousin, who was also a nun.

Behold! The Limberger Incident:

“Cleanliness is next to Godliness” apparently did not apply to my cousin, whether it be her house, her FIVE cats, her car, or more specifically for this thread, HER BODY.

Living with her had its own challenges, namely the filth, the hoard, and her borderline antisocial behavior, and my discovery that I was allergic to cats. 

She made an agreement with my mom that I’d pay rent for my room, and i paid the entire bill for internet, and I found out after I moved in, indentured servitude was involved, cleaning the house the bathrooms were riddled with black mold, and cleaning the TWO litter boxes she had for FIVE CATS. 

Mostly, I just tried to avoid her as much as possible, as she’d vacillate from antisocial to something that appeared as an attempt at friendliness.  

The only way to truly know someone is to live with them. At the time i could not articulate how I felt living there; however, now it is 27 years later, I can say I felt like an interloper. She had crafted a narrative at her church that she was an orphan without any family who cared about her. And I suspect my presence in her home was proof to the contrary. 

She even went so far as to not let me know the date and time of her ordination ceremony. And the weekend of the ceremony when she realized I was not leaving to visit my parents for the holiday and my cousin realized she could not have her guest, a stranger, sleep in my bed, she grew hostile towards me and told me to stay to myself that weekend. 

I contacted her church to find out the date and time, and I attended the ceremony. Turns out, some cousins on her dad’s side of the family did the same. We all somehow found each other at the reception, and we all  remarked how her church family thought none of her genetic family existed. 

There were sublime moments living with her, but they were not a daily occurrence—namely our explorations of Thai restaurants that opened in our community and a neighboring town. She’d blurt out “want to Thai one on?” and off we went for dinner. 

For the most part, we got ourselves into a system, a habit. I’d come home from work and immediately take a nap (from 6 p.m. ‘til about 10 p.m., when she’d go to bed). I set my alarm and would get up when she was already ensconced in bed with her CPAP humming along. One night in particular is seared into my memory, and the memories of friends of whom I told this story to over the years.

On this night in particular, I got up, splashed some water on my face and dried off with her cute little fingertip towel (the fancy velour one with the angel aplique which she kept by the sink & I thought was a special towel “for company”) and wandered to the den to pop online.

I became overwhelmed by a most-unpleasant “aroma.” Fetid. Cheesy. Quite possibly *CONTAGIOUS.*

I sniffed my pits, and whafted air up from my crotchal region, taking a stink assessment, both of which came up with negative results on my parts.

I got up, and as much as it pains me to recall this, I dared to sniff the upholstery of the chair, thinking perhaps I was sitting in her filth. No dice.

The smell surrounded me like a bad Lynyrd Skynyrd song.

WHEREVER. I. MOVED. IT. WAS. ALWAYS. THERE….

So I retraced my steps from whence I woke up. I found myself back in the bathroom. 

At this point, I was very afraid and reluctant to pick up the fingertip towel (which for all intents and purposes APPEARED  CLEAN).

Reluctantly… hesitatingly… dry-heaving-ly, I put the towel up within sniffing range… and FUCK-ME-RUNNING-WITH-A-RED-HOT-POGO-STICK-THERE-IT-WAS!~

I can only conclude that my cousin used this cloth to either dry her vajoosh or perhaps take a swipe at the yeasty underfolds of her belly--OR BOTH. 

OH-YES-THERE-WAS-MUCH-PROJECTILE-VOMITING.

Here endeth the first story of my cousin.