Confessions of a Call Center Gal - By Lisa Lim Page 0,123
“Are you married to Mom or the Discovery Channel?”
Dad ignored my jab and tousled my hair. “Big day tomorrow, Liliput.” Then he heaved a big sigh. “My baby girl is growing up. How old will you be again? I forget.”
I made myself a bowl of cereal—Honey Bunches of Oats. “Old enough to party.”
Dad did not seem pleased with my answer. So I said with a grave and serious face, “I will be eighteen months and five minutes. For you see, I am what they based The Curious Case of Lilith Button. And each day I grow nearer and nearer to birth . . . Oh! Now it’s sixteen months, twenty days, eighteen hours, five minutes, and two seconds. Soon I will crawl back into Mom’s vagina.”
Mom just treated me as if I were an inanimate object.
Woody banged his spoon on the table and howled, “Vagina, vagina, vagina!”
I gave Woody a crisp nod, for you see, I am primping him for The Vagina Monologues.
Dad took a sip of coffee, unaffected by Woody’s vagina chant. He reached for The Salt Lake Tribune, flicked the paper, and said pointedly, “Now I understand why some species eat their young.”
I surveyed the school hallway for my posse and spotted Monica in the crowd. We gave each other the standard fist bumps and Monica tilted her chin. “Quienes tu pappi?”
Translation: Who’s your daddy?
I replied, “Yo soy tu pappi.”
Translation: I’m your daddy.
Monica is my Spanish tutor. In order to prep myself for the competitive job market and to gain a better perspective of the world, I’ve decided that I need to be bi-lingual. But so far, all I’ve learned is, “Quien es tu pappi . . . yo soy tu pappi.” Which would only be useful in the barrio. Or in a bordello.
The Lick-a-Like twins, Kylie and Keira, slithered past and stuck out their tongues, like lizards.
We cringed. This school is teeming with wannabe lezzers. Honestly, I have nothing against the real lesbians, the Shilohs of the world, or the girls who wear lots of plaid and flannel. But Kylie and Keira are just posers, mean girls, and they have this sense of entitlement that really irks me. Their power is the status quo and they’re the reason high school is deemed the prime suffering years. In short, they are prized bitches. Hateful bitches.
Anyway, where was I before I so rudely interrupted myself?
Oh yeah, and did I mention they were posers?
After the whole Britney and Madonna kissing brouhaha at the MTV music video awards, followed by Sandra B. and Scar Jo locking lips at the Oscars, Kylie and Keira announced that they were ‘lesbians.’ Which didn’t really jive with me since they publicly kept jock boyfriends on the side. But it worked! The twins’ popularity skyrocketed, reaching a zenith.
One of the evil twins stared at my nose and screeched, “HELLO KITTY MUST DIE!”
Then they carried on with their business, spewing hate dust everywhere.
I was surprised when Monica agreed with our archenemies. “What’s up with your Hello Kitty Band-Aid? How old are you? Five? And how come Hello Kitty doesn’t have a mouth?”
“Hello?” I did a zig-zag-finger-snap. “Hello Kitty does not have a mouth because Hello Kitty speaks from her heart. She is Sanrio’s reigning ambassador to the world and she isn’t bound to one language.”
Monica made a cuckoo sign at me.
My first class was English with Mr. Turner.
“Everybody listen up,” Mister T. called our attention, “today, we’re going have some fun with Shakespeare. For this exercise, I’d like you all to hurl Shakespearean insults at one another.”
Turning to face Monica, I addressed her in a frou-frou voice, “O’ how darest thou leave me hangeth! Gird thy loins, drink thee from a poison challis, clean thine waxy ears and grow unsightly warts, thou errant boil-brained barnacle.”
Monica fired back, “Forsooth say I, be those panties or pantaloons? Trip on thy sword, rip thy pansy pantaloons, swim with leeches and sit thee on a spit of blood, thou artless beetle-headed clotpole!”
“Phui! I say. What wanton debauchery!” Sun Li exclaimed, puffing out her chest. “At the King’s behest, I shall see thee hang’d! Thou treasonous, bawdy, besluberring flax wench.”
Zahara raised an imaginary sword. “Thou dost intrude. Get thee gone! Thou goatish, gorbellied, wayward flap-mouthed, fat-kidneyed maggot pie.”
Phwoar! Kiss my codpiece! Who knew Shakespeare could be so entertaining?
The cafeteria was utter chaos and mayhem. It was so loud—the cacophony of noise, the piercing chatter, the abrasive clatter of silverware and utensils. Truly deafening! I carried my tray to my usual table and