Confessions of a Call Center Gal - By Lisa Lim Page 0,106

an unnatural and unattractive manner.

They go Muah, Muah in the air like a pair of seasoned Europeans.

At least Mika is the real McCoy; my Aunt Benedicta is just a wannabe. And I can tell she’s charmed. Over Mika’s shoulder, she shoots me a look of surprise. One that says, ‘How did mousy Maddy manage to snag this guy?’

But then again, it could just be my overactive imagination since she always looks surprised. Sadly, in her attempt to freeze the aging process with endless Botox treatments and frequent face lifts, Aunty Benedicta’s face looks frozen.

Not frozen in time, but in the moment.

It’s in a perpetual state of no-emotions and no-expressions.

Correction. There is one expression: perpetual surprise.

Meanwhile, the air kissing debacle is far from over as Uncle Stuart and Constance make their rounds. Finally, after all that pretentious nonsense is done with, we settle ourselves in the living room.

Constance emerges from her curtain of jet black hair, and her eyes narrow at me contemptuously. From the look on her face, I can tell she’s not a fan of my dress. She leans to her right and whispers something to her mom; then they look me up and down in a very impolite manner and exchange supercilious smirks.

Swallowing my annoyance, I force a smile, then I incline my head toward Mika and whisper, “I can’t stand my cousin and my aunt.”

Mika’s lips twist into a smile, but he adopts a neutral facade, remaining placid and polite.

I cast a disdainful eye Constance’s way. She’s dressed like a character straight out of a Tim Burton movie. Dark horn rimmed glasses adorn her shifty, rodent-like eyes, and she’s got so much eyeliner caked on that she looks like a panda bear. Her makeup is a stark contrast to her pale, corpse-like skin. Everything about her is severe.

As usual, Uncle Stuart dominates the conversation and I find myself staring amusedly at his Donald Trump comb-over piece. The strawberry highlights clash with his salmon pink sweater. I’m sorry, but a grown man should never ever wear pink. No sane mom would ever dress her baby boy in pink, or paint his nursery pink. And any grown man who chooses to dress in pink is just plain ridiculosity.

As distracting as his funny hair piece and girly attire may be, I try to tune myself in to the conversation that is swirling around me. When the economy was booming, Uncle Stuart loved to boast about all the riches he was raking in from the stock market.

He fancied himself a mover and shaker, and hobnobbed with all the Wall Street head honchos and hedge fund managers. He also heavily invested in Madoff’s ponzi scheme.

Now that the economy is tanking and Stuart has lost his high-flying job, all he ever does is whine about how much money he is losing, how his investments and 401K are dwindling to nothing.

We make all the appropriate sympathetic noises.

“Bernie Madoff has got blood on his hands,” he growls.

“Um, didn’t Steven Spielberg and Kevin Bacon invest with him too?” I ask casually. It was something I read in US Weekly.

Uncle Stuart shifts his anger to me. “Yes! But those are just stupid, gullible Hollywood celebs. Let me tell you, lots of smart people got duped. Smart people like me!”

“I didn’t say you weren’t smart,” I implore.

“You implied it,” he grumbles and sulks like a two year old.

I roll my eyes and Uncle Stuart throws me a murderous look.

A bubble of laughter escapes me.

Hah! It’s a good thing Uncle Stuart is cross-eyed. Although he’s glaring at me, it appears as if he’s glaring at Mika, who happens to be sitting next to me on the leather settee. Poor Mika has no idea why my Quasimodo Uncle is giving him the evil eye, and so he focuses his full attention on Stuart’s hairpiece.

I do the same. For obvious reasons, conversation is driven to an absolute halt.

After an awkward silence, my mom clears her throat. “Let’s adjourn to the dining area, shall we?”

“Let’s,” concurs Aunt Benedicta and struts to the dining room, flanked by her two toddlers.

A feast fit for a king is spread out before us.

My Quasimodo uncle pads heavily into the room and squashes his humongous rear into the seat next to Mika. Now if there is one thing Uncle Stuart loves, it is new company. To him, it is an opportunity to brag in their ears nonstop. And when he does not brag about himself, he brags about the next best thing—his evil daughter, aka the Devil’s