Teaching Ashlie

My name is Gianna. I’m a 28 year old public relations agent from California and recently became extremely successful. I decided to move from my two-bedroom condo to an upscale house in Beverly Hills, and plans to sell my current digs just went underway yesterday. I agreed to meet my new real estate agent at my place after work this today. I was worried I would run late, so I handed the attractive older woman a copy of my key and told her if she arrived there before me she was welcome to have a look around. When I pulled into my driveway the next day around five o’clock there was already a new-model white Mustang parked in the street. It didn’t surprise me that she beat me there since I told her I would meet her at four, but what did catch me off guard was the type of car she apparently drove. A white Mustang seemed a little, well, young for this woman. But I shrugged it off, not thinking too much about it since after all, this is Cali, baby.

I got to my front door and realized it had been left unlocked. I inwardly frowned at that, but it seemed there was no harm done. Upon entering, I immediately regretted giving this woman a key.

My living room was a disaster. A bag of potato chips had been left open on the coffee table, surrounded by crumbs that had managed to get on the floor and couch as well, and my dog had his tongue in a bowl of french onion dip that sat beside it. Also on my antique wooden coffee table was a half-empty glass creating a ring due to the lack of a coaster, a stack of which was right next to it. The television was left on and some raunchy hip-hop video flashed across the screen. A large silver purse lay on its side on the floor, makeup and miscellaneous items spilling out of it. In the middle of the room sat a pair of expensive Manolo Blahnik heels that had just been carelessly tossed there. Then I smelled alcohol. I grabbed the glass and held it up to my nose. That bitch was drinking my expensive liquor, and she had the nerve to mix it with a neon orange energy drink.

I glared at the scene, fighting hard not to yell. She had seemed like such a mild-mannered, considerate lady and here she was treating my home like she was some teenager who’s parents were away for the weekend. I shut off the TV, pulled the bowl of dip away from the dog and brought it along with the bag of chips into the kitchen where I left them on the counter. Next I noticed the ketchup-spattered plate and bowl full of half-eaten cereal in the sink. Was this chick stoned? It seemed she had eaten her way through my house. I turned and stomped down the hall off the kitchen and began to follow the sound of water running. Oh no, she wasn’t seriously using my shower too, was she?

Yes she was, I learned as I walked through my bedroom to the master bathroom, the door of which had been left wide open, and saw the outline of a petite blonde through the clear glass shower door. I became confused. My real estate agent was certainly not a petite blonde.