Some Would Call Me A Hero
Well I’d like to start by thanking everyone for reading my last post, for subscribing and for all of your wonderful feedback. I am just floored. I hope I can live up to expectation! <3
Moving forward I am going to start using my mom’s photos to accompany my posts. So all the credit for the beautiful pics goes to her!
I am hoping to post a couple of times per week and to figure out how to send out a notification to subscribers when I do. But bare with me. It’s going to take some time for me to figure it all out.
Now let’s get to it!
Have you ever met someone that was so unbelievably oblivious, you are forced to squint when they talk? You know... to keep from rolling your eyes into the back of your head? I myself have had the pleasure of meeting many a mouthbreather, but one in particular takes the cake. Let me paint a picture for you.
Scott is the love of my life. He is kind, handsome and so intelligent that it still catches me off guard. Between my -what can only be described as crippling- anxiety and being so high strung I literally vibrate, it’s hard to believe I landed him. So when he was offered the career opportunity of a life time, of course I said go for it. Even if it meant us moving hours from everything we knew. This was going to be an adventure. A chance to rebuild ourselves and experience new things. I could become the June Cleaver, that somehow overnight, I was always meant to be. Making homemade pies from the fruit in the orchard out back, frequenting farm stands for fresh produce, perhaps having a few chickens to gather fresh eggs from. I began having these wonderful visions of me always in a sundress. Pimples? Never! Infertility issues? Nope! Wrinkles? Impossible! The new me was going to be awesome. A perfect, balanced, beautiful woman with her shit together! Fuck this was going to be great!
Spoiler Alert: Uprooting your entire life does not cure mental illness and can in fact bring new fears to light you didn’t even know you had. 2/10 stars, would not recommend without some serious meds on board. And I'll have you know, chickens can be mean little feathered fuckers that will draw blood if given the opportunity and can smell fear. Being treed by a chicken, or heaven forbid a turkey, I feel is now a very viable and real possibility in my life. But I digress.
We set up three showings on a Saturday. The first showing was... well, it looked like the hunter from Bambi lived there. Taxidermy and gun cabinents everywhere. All I could muster after stepping into the living room was, “What. The. Fuck?”. The second house I absolutely loved. A century home, perfectly perched on a hill. Unfortunately no one had updated it in what appeared to be a century. As soon as Scott pointed out the completely rotted wood eaves, I knew it was not an option. When we arrived at the third house, I was taken aback. A large red brick home on two acres, surrounded by beautiful corn fields. Walking into the house felt warm and like... Home. Which was completely wrong. The house was a sty. Food smears on the walls and ceilings. No trim anywhere in the house. A plywood cupboard kitchen with old appliances and a weird smell in the air. But still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this is where we were meant to be.
A realtor from the selling agency, Karen, had insisted on being present for the showing. She trailed Scott and I around the house, constantly chattering and regaling us with tales of her selflessness and charitability.
“Now last month I sold a house to a boy in town.... Not from a good family if you know what I mean? Lots of drugs, teen pregnancy and *voice lowers, eyes shift from side to side* gays”.
No, I am not shitting you. This lady actually exists and unfortunately this interaction lives rent free in my head. And no, she wasn’t done yet.
“But regardless I said to myself Karen, you need to help this boy and you shouldn’t let his family get in the way of that. And would you believe it, two days after the house closed, the stove broke. And I just went to the hardware store and said to the owner load a stove up in my truck. I dropped it off and told the boy he could pay me back by the end of the month.”
By this point, I am about ready to drop kick her. And I am squeezing Scott’s hand so hard that I’m probably drawing blood with my nails. Which is never good. Because the OCD kicks in and I worry if I have in fact kicked her. And then the inner dialogue starts. *What if you kicked her?* No I would never actually do that. *Are you sure?* Yes. *Really sure?* Well, I.... yes.... maybe. STOP! *You know it’s assault if you kick her, you’ll go to jail.* Scott would have intervened if I tried to kick her. *Then once you’re in jail you’ll have to do what you have to do to survive. Start riots, possibly shank people. Then you’ll never get out with the time added to your sentence.*
This inner battle went on for a while as Karen chattered on. But her last statement snapped me right back to reality, “Now some around here are calling me a hero for doing that....”. Scott and I looked at each other and then at her. Were we supposed to say something? Were we supposed to call her a hero? Awkward silence engulfed the ENTIRE room. The kind of silence that makes you extremely aware of your knees.
Thank goodness this is when our realtor finally appeared from his -what I can only assume was fake- phone call that he used around “teen pregnancy” to leave. He quickly whisked us out of there, leaving Karen open mouthed and fuming.
“Well that was weird,” was all he had to say.
Ya, no shit. Thanks for abandoning us with Ms. Muppet and for shaving five years off my life with the spike in blood pressure I just had.
So the next time someone is making you want to bang your head against a wall (or possibly theirs), remind yourself it could be worse. They could expect you to call them a hero.