Confessions of a Call Center Gal - By Lisa Lim Page 0,122
I walked into the living room to find my whole family watching the NBA Playoffs on the tube. It was the Utah Jazz versus the L.A. Lakers. Kobe Bryant was at the free throw line and my dad yelled, “RAPIST!” like a hooligan.
Next, Lamar Odom was at the free throw line and my dad screamed, “SCROTUM!”
Shaking my head, I grabbed a slice of Papa Murphy’s pizza and retired to my room. Ahh, my room. A place of impregnable safety.
Away from rapists and scrotums.
And my ballisticimus dad.
After my dinner of cold pizza and Coke, I lay in bed with an ice pack balanced precariously on my nose. I can explain. You see, dad listens to NPR and last Friday, I heard on Sci Fri (Science Friday) about the theory of evolution. Apparently, Neanderthals from colder climates are characterized with narrow superior nasal dimensions, where else Neanderthals from warmer climates have broader noses. Don’t ask me why. Something to do with the aspects of airflow dynamics.
I learn so much from NPR.
Hmm. In my guesstimation, that’s probably why the Vikings had such regal noses. They lived in cold Scandinavian countries like Norway. Or was it Sweden?
Oh how I’d DIE for a Swedish nose. A nose like Elin Nordegren’s.
Humph. This beats going under the knife. Hell, this is even better than non-surgical rhinoplasty. I pressed the ice pack to my nose, gently applying pressure.
If I wanted Elin Nordegren’s nose, all I had to do was keep this up.
Thirty minutes into my experiment, my nose went numb.
Brrrrrrr. It was colder than a witch’s tit. Hauling myself out of bed, I padded down to the kitchen and grabbed a new ice pack. Then I tiptoed up the stairs, climbed into bed, plumped up my pillow and settled back with a fresh ice pack on my nose.
No pain. No gain.
Hmm . . . what rhymes with gain?
This feels like acid rain.
My heavy eyelids flittered, fluttered and soon drifted shut.
Chapter Two
The Messiahs on Bicycles
Beep! Beep! beeped my alarm clock and I slammed my fist on it like a sledgehammer. Blearily, I glanced at the clock and the display showed: 6:45 a.m. With Herculean effort, I dragged myself out of bed.
Whoa! I must have climbed the summit of Mt. Everest in my sleep. It felt like I was suffering from a severe case of frostbite and hypothermia.
Shuffling to the bathroom, I glanced at my reflection in the mirror and jumped back in fright.
Holy Swedish Meatballs! I did not have Elin Nordegren’s le petit nose. I had Cyrano de Bergerac’s schnozzer.
Hastily, I applied some burn ointment and slapped on a Hello Kitty Band-Aid.
I felt much better after that.
Kitty Power! Kitty PO-WAH!
Squeak Squeak. My Target Merona Zakia rain boots squeaked as I traipsed into the kitchen. I gazed down at my rubber boots, admiring the funky houndstooth vector pattern.
Mom gasped, “Lili! What happened to your nose?”
“Don’t ask.” I shot her a morose look.
My brothers, Norm and Woody, just stared at me as if I were wearing a satellite dish on my head to get better signal reception from the aliens. In other words, they looked at me as if I were Victoria ‘Posh Spice’ Beckham.
In case you have missed the connection, Mom watched endless Cheers reruns while she was preggos. I thank my lucky stars every day that I only got saddled with Lilith. Mom never ceases to remind me that she almost named me Whoopi.
“Why in the name of Merlin’s saggy left testicle would you want to name your firstborn child Whoopi?” I’d asked her.
Her reply? “Once upon a time, some dude named Ted was married to some chick named Whoopi.”
Pssh! I do not understand grownups. They are seriously bonkerosity. Any person named Whoopi must be off their rocker and a whooping idiot if you ask me.
In an attempt to make me feel better about my engorged nose, Mom changed the subject. “Nice skinny jeans, honey. Are they new?”
“Yep, bought them at Abercrombie last weekend.”
Dad jogged in, dribbling a basketball. “Skinny jeans. As opposed to what? FAT jeans?”
Swallowing my annoyance, I forced a laugh. “Whatevs’ dad. And by the way, you have armpit hair sticking out of your sports jersey.”
“I can dress like this!” he retorted, “I’m a coach.” His scrutinizing gaze travelled down to my footwear. “Did I miss the weather report? Is there a flood somewhere?”
Mom tutted. “Oh Zachary, that’s just how teenagers dress these days.”
“What?” Dad snorted. “Like they’re digging for clams? Actually, Lili here looks like a crew member of the Deadliest Catch.”