T-Rex: ¨Those sunglasses are illegally too small.¨
My mom was smacking her hand into the door yelling for us to open it, I frantically pressed control-alt-delete to no avail, and my friend was still crying. Another friend started screaming and let my mom into the room. I catapulted my eleven-year-old body across the screen and shrieked, "It's not our fault, it's not our fault." My mom tore my body away from the computer and looked into a frenzy of particularly raunchy sex pop-ups. She wailed like a dying mother.
That was in sixth grade. Last week, a fellow Realtor wandered into my office. My mom's boyfriend bought her an iPad last Christmas. Recently he bought her an iPad case with a built-in keyboard. iPads are fantastic tools for Realtors, because we take them with us when driving around clients. If clients have any questions about other properties, the iPad delivers like a god. My colleague shook his hand at the iPad and asked me to show him the tricks.
"Please just show me a few things. Like how to get on the Internet. Show me the good stuff," he said.
I am the youngest Realtor in our office by fifteen years. As with most Real Estate offices, the agents are old. They don't have hearing aids, but ninety-nine percent are members of AARP with Viagra and wheelchairs looming in the near future. And our office might as well be in Japan, the walls are so thin. When I clicked the Safari button, a porn site popped up. Again, there were vaginas and penises and asses and mouths. There were videos. My colleague covered his eyes and started screaming, "Why is there porn? Why is there porn? Oh my God, my eyes, oh my God, why is there porn?"
I replied by repeatedly shrieking, "It's not my iPad! It's my mom's! It's not mine, it's not mine!"
Within seconds half of the agents in the building were in my office. We were both still yelling. I thought one of the elderly women was going to have a stroke.
After my first experience with the FIT Extreme class at the gym, my pride took weeks to recover. A roomful of geriatrics had dominated the fitness class. At the end, they had sashayed out of the class, and I crawled.
Last week was my second attempt at a class. I had been frequenting the gym at eight or nine in the evening, but this class was at 6:30pm. I walked into the changing room and it was packed. My eyes darted from boobs to bush to boobs to bush. I didn't know where to look. My breasts are so small they don't fit into a bra, so I am very comfortable being naked. Men have tits larger than mine. However, I am not comfortable being enveloped by old naked women. I stared at the ground while changing. I glanced up and I looked directly into brown hairy nipples. I looked down but could feel someone observing me. I flashed my eyes up into a three-hundred-pound forest of pubic hair and then over to a girl staring at me in the eyes from across the room. I didn't know what to do, I was flustered and confused. I screamed across the locker room at her, "Did you go to Montgomery High School?" There was no immediate response. I looked down again. When I looked up, she was looking at me like I had asked her if she injected drugs into her vagina.
"Me?" She yelled, "high school?"
"Ya," I shouted.
"I'm in middle school," she replied, smiling. She had braces.
I looked away, but my eyes connected with a brazilian bikini waxed vagina. Sweat swept into my eyes and my heartbeat reverberated through my body. There were so many naked women. I ran to the showers and directly into the largest naked ass I had ever seen. The woman had a small waist with a ginormous ass. She might as well have injected collagen into her butt cheeks. She screamed, I screamed. I wanted to cry. It was my fourth grade teacher.
This time I was ecstatic about going to Tahoe to play in the snow. I returned home from work with a handwritten list of items to pack. My desire to make a snowman paralleled my desire to one day be the mother of a small black child. I walked in to the house with a new pair of snow gloves. The microwave had been ripped out of the wall. It was sitting on the kitchen floor directly in front of my bedroom door. The oven was in the middle of the kitchen. A ladder blocked the hallway and a layer of white dust-like remnants of the wall settled over everything.
"Ummm, what happened?" I asked.
I said, "alright," and shimmied around the ladder to go to the bathroom. The light switch didn't work.
"The light's out," I shouted.
"Not really electricity in half the house?"
I walked over and looked at the place the microwave should be. There were two holes in the wall large enough to put Einstein's brain through. Wires hung out at schizophrenic angles.
"So you cut the wrong wire, we don't have electricity in half the house, and now you're looking at roof beams for answers?"
"You just looked at the wires, picked a color, and cut it?"
"I kind of looked it up first," he replied.
Pakistan is not an electrician. He canceled our Tahoe trip to stay home for the weekend to fix the kitchen.
As of now, it has been almost four months. The kitchen still doesn't have a microwave.