The highs and lows of parenting and real estate.

I Do My Little Turn On The Catwalk

Me (to Jason one evening a few weeks ago): I just got the weirdest voicemail… listen…

Voicemail: Hi, Elizabeth, this is Sasha. I don’t know if you know me, but I know you. I work with Kristin over at Keller Williams and you came up in conversation. I’m calling to see what you’re doing Friday… I have a… hopefully flattering request. Call me!

Jason (eyebrow raised): Weird. What do you think she wants?

Me: I think she might be asking me out. 

Jason (with an eyeroll): You always think everyone is hitting on you.

Me: No I always want everyone to be hitting on me because I like the attention. But for reals, I mean, she ‘knows me’ and has a ‘flattering request’ about Friday? The cards are on the table, right? She’s totally hot for me.

Jason: Right… 

Me: She’s probably trying to recruit me to Keller Williams because of the Thompson’s/eXp merger. But it’s a funny message, don’t you think? I’m totally going to Facebook it. 

Me (to Facebook): Dear RE Recruiters, If you leave me a vm saying “I don’t know if you know me, but I know you and I have a hopefully flattering request about Friday… so call me.” I’m going to think you might be asking me out and be afraid to call you back. Even if you’re a girl.

Me (to Jason, seconds after I’ve hit post): Crap… what if she’s one of the random Realtory people I’m Facebook friends with but don’t really know. That would be pretty obnoxious of me to make fun of her message if she can actually see me doing it… I should figure that out and delete it before she sees it if I am…

Facebook instant-messenger: *Ding, message from Sasha*


It turns out Sasha was neither asking me out nor trying to recruit me. She was coordinating the Southeast Valley Women’s Realtor Council Fashion Show, had a model drop out at the last minute and thought I might like to fill in. So yes, I basically publicly insulted a woman who was just nice enough to try to invite me to participate in something she thought I would enjoy. And of course, by the time I figured all of this out, even though it was like 10:30PM, there was a parade of snarky comments on the Facebook post, so I couldn’t delete it to save either of our faces. Luckily, because she was already Facebook friends with me, Sasha wasn’t completely shocked or offended by my inappropriate behavior. Score one for having a reputation that precedes me.

I’m not gonna lie, though, I was a little disappointed she wasn’t hitting on me. I don’t think I’ve ever actually had a girl hit on me before. It would be kind of fun to be able to say, “So this chick, Sasha, asked me out the other day, but I had to tell her: Listen, baby, you’re cute and everything, but I’m married. I’m sorry. But if my husband ever ends up the victim of a random prairie dog stampede and I’m widowed, I’ll totally call you.”

Nevertheless, this is how two days later, I ended up awkwardly shuffling down a catwalk in front of a room full of Realtors, my face frozen in a circus-clown-esque smile that did nothing to conceal my terror, with hysterical laughter bubbling up in my throat. At one point I was literally swinging my same arm as leg while I walked because I had completely forgotten what the normal way to do it was.

I might be the worst model ever, is what I’m saying. In addition to the stilted, uncomfortable walking, I apparently only know one pose:

This is Outfit 1 in Pose A.

And this is Outfit 2 in Pose A.

I looked through some of my old photos and for reals, only one pose:

Ragnar startline, Pose A.

I always thought in modeling school you pretty much just learned how to exist only on cucumber water and cigarettes and how to maintain a bored expression while strangers molest you with fabric and makeup, but I’m guessing now there’s like a whole class on poses that aren’t just planting a hand on your hip and popping the opposite leg. Modeling is way harder and scarier than those tall, skinny bitches make it look.

I’m also assuming they teach you in modeling school to never, ever do this:

This is called trying to be cute and engage with the audience while realizing how stupid you look and bursting into completely unmodel-like giggles.

Dear Sasha,

I apologize for making assumptions about what you wanted from me. I’m also sorry for publicly mocking your voicemail. Additionally, I’m sincerely sorry for being a total dork and not model-material for your fashion show. But hey, the trying on clothes and picking out outfits part was super fun! So… thanks for having me?

Platonically (unless my husband dies and you’re up for it),



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