HUMOR
Living With a Fake Supermodel is the Worst
I hope my bird pecks her
“There you go, Sweetheart,” my grandmother, Dorothy said to my daughter as she pointed to a large wrapped box under her Christmas tree.
I eyed the box suspiciously, knowing it was too big to contain the painting kit or Peter Rabbit book we discussed.
Dorothy patted my hand and said, “I went a different way.”
Which is code for, I bought something to piss you off.
I faked a smile as my three-year-old daughter kneeled next to the gift and began carefully pulling at the Santa-patterned wrapping paper. Finally, a large pink box emerged from the mass of paper.
My daughter gasped, then giggled as she clapped her hands excitedly. My eyes found the large, gold lettering on the top of the box.
It read, “Supermodel Charlene.”
Fucks sake.
“Turn it around, let us see,” I called to my daughter.
She pushed on the box, spinning it around. Behind the plastic window in the box sat a human-sized head.
Nope.
“Thank you, Granny,” my daughter squealed as she bounded over to her.
