Tag: blog

Rule Breakers

Posted on by buffythebitchyblogger

Rules are a funny thing. Okay, maybe not funny, but interesting and perhaps a science. Unless you are a recluse or live alone in the wild blue yonder, you probably see at least one person break the rules Every. Single. Day. If you don’t, it’s because you’ve become immune to rampant rule breaking by people who don’t think the rules apply to them.

So let’s step on the soapbox together, shall we? It will give us a better view of the rule-breaking world.

I recently blogged about the no parking zone at The Children’s Museum and translated it for the Range Rover mom so she’d know the meaning: You (yes, even you… wonderful, wonderful you) can’t park here. All together now: d.i.t.z.y.

Just the other day, I popped by the grocery store to get a gallon of milk and some oranges. Oh, and bread. I MIGHT have tossed in some Pepperidge Farm cookies and a bottle of wine, too, but enough with the grocery list. A 30-something male pulled his trendy SUV into a reserved and very-close-to-the-store Stork Club parking spot. He was wearing lululemon workout gear and appeared to be headed to the gym (errrr, members-only athletic training facility), not from it. If you have an IQ over 10, you can easily tell from the signage that Stock Club parking spots are for expectant mothers. If the cute little stork graphic isn’t enough, the words “Reserved for Expectant Mothers” should be. Of course, the rule didn’t apply to him because, well, he’s him.

Carpool lines are a breeding ground for rule breaking. Precisely when moms and dads should be attentive, safety-minded, law-abiding citizens, they turn into crazed freaks. Everyone has an agenda, some more meaningful than others. Many parents are racing the clock to get to work while others simply can’t be late for their Starbucks coffee talk and mid-morning tennis matches. Susie and Bobby and Timmy and Cindy are instructed (forced) to risk life and limb because the rules don’t apply to their adult behind the wheel. As heirs to the rule-breaking throne, these children learn rule exemption before they’ve completed their first semester of intensive get-ahead-of-the-pack after-school tutoring at Kumon.

This next little diddy takes the kook cake. Every morning for an entire school year, THAT mom — you know her: the one to which none of the rules apply — parked her SUV in the driveway of our friend Kevin, who lives across the street from the neighborhood elementary school. You see, parking her shmansy vehicle in an actual parking spot or inching her way through the carpool line like the rest of the zip code was just waaaaaaaaaaaaay too inconvenient, if not beneath her. You can write the end of this story: Mom got mad when asked not to park there. Very, very mad. Oh, and she continued to park there. Snaps to Kevin for not having her towed.

The worst place to see someone break the rules is at a funeral. Yes, a funeral. Years ago, the hubs and I attended visitation for a precious friend who’d died. She was one of those incredibly awesome people who touched countless lives in a bazillion ways, and the countless lives she’d touched stood in line for more than an hour to have their turn to share condolences with the family. A friend couple decided the line was just too long for them and, because of the status they’d attained in the workplace and the perks that came with it, walked straight to the front of the line like you see celebrities do at night clubs. To say everyone else in line was shocked is an understatement, but no one was up for a fist fight or verbal exchange under those circumstances.

Breaking the rules is often for fools, and if that’s not enough to make Buffy bitchy, I don’t know what is. Only Buffy isn’t bitchy because my IQ is over 10, I park far, far away from other cars so no one can dent my doors, standing in line to pay respects to a friend is in itself respectful and carpool days will soon be in my rearview mirror.

 

 

A Calendar Sprinkled with Offbeat Celebrations

Posted on by buffythebitchyblogger

Offbeat celebrations sprinkle almost every day of the calendar year, and March 12th is no exception. In addition to Alfred Hitchcock Day, tomorrow is also Katie Fisher Day. We’ll come back to that.

Before we do, mark your calendar now for Friday, which is the 232nd anniversary of the discovery of Uranus. Let’s pause, shall we, so you can insert a discovering your anus joke here.

(pause)

March has a number of offbeat holidays and anniversaries, and maybe you’ve celebrated a few of them whether you intended to or not. This month kicked off with National Peanut Butter Lovers Day. If your student goes to a school that still allows peanut butter (and as an asidem, does it seem smart or equitable to ban peanut butter but waive vaccination requirements?), or if you’re a sack luncher at work, then you helped propel this one onto the map. The first day of March is also the anniversary of the Peace Corps, which took its first steps in 1961 when JFK signed an executive order for a trial mission. Snaps for that organization, because it’s incredibly awesome. (snaps)

If you’re into the same old same old, then March 2nd is your day: National Old Stuff Day to recognize the same old stuff you do every day. I don’t personally need a day to recognize the same old stuff I do every day because, well, I just do it without celebration. Getting kids and hubs out the door with a smile and a prayer, walking the pooch while I talk to God, licking the floors clean again (did I mention we decided to sell our house?), chasing the deadline clock at work, and being the shipping and receiving department for family life is a snapshot at my same old same old. So yeah, there’s that.

On a patriotic note, March 3rd — National Anthem Day — deserves a resounding round of applause. I love this great country, and I hope you do, too. I’m THAT person with a tear when the anthem is sung at sporting events. And I’m also THAT person who’ll knock the hat off the chap that ignores “the rules.” While I join the crowd in singing along, I also think about the sacrifices others have made on my behalf, even though they didn’t know me, and then I think about my two brothers and uncles and cousin and father-in-law and Tommy Chenault from my little south Texas hometown who served our country. To honor them, I keep my hand over my heart until the music ends. Sometimes I hold it there just a little longer.

Moving on.

March 7th is Alexander Graham Bell Day. He’s the guy that patented the invention formerly found in most homes until recently: the telephone. If you’re younger than 30, you probably thought AGB was the graham cracker guy. No. He. Wasn’t. The brainy guy’s celebration is followed by a weirder-than-weird one: National Panic Day, which “encourages you to indulge all of your deepest fears and let loose a rampage of unbridled hysteria.” So wait. Does that mean I should wear a sports bra in public? That might unbridle hysteria BY the public, which defeats the purpose of that celebration. Arg.

And that brings us back to March 12th and tomorrow’s celebration: Katie Fisher Day. Katie was the younger sister of comedian Matt Fisher, and she baked cookies for him every week for the four years he was away at college. Katie, at the age of 24, was killed in a car accident in 2010. Her brother declared “Katie Fisher Day” to encourage others to follow Katie’s example and send cookies to someone they love.

I’m walking the talk on this one, my friends. There are two bags of fresh-baked chocolate cookies headed out the door tomorrow morning. One bag is tucked in my daughter’s lunch tote with a note about Katie and her cookies, and I chose gal peep because this kid can rock the recipe world with her intimidating mixer and savvy cooking skills. The second cookie bag is for our pup pal’s dog groomer. I love Myriel (the groomer) so much. And she loves my pup pal. And us. I call her “friend” because she truly is one.

Confession time. I bought the cookie dough at the grocery store, and even stooped so low as to buy the ones that are already made into little squares that you just bake. In my world, that’s hard-core cooking.

I obviously didn’t know Katie Fisher. But here’s to her brother for allowing his sister’s spirit to live on through cookies and kindness and calories.

 

 

OU(ch)

Posted on by buffythebitchyblogger

This post is from Buffy’s original blog.com site from March 2015, marked by both spring break for many and a bad situation on a frat party bus ride.

 

Unless you’ve had your spring break head in the sand on an island that doesn’t have high-speed internet or cable TV, you’ve seen the nine-second video. You know: that one.

Endless media coverage tells us that two students were quickly identified, punished by their university and forever branded as “those guys.” Believe me, I’m not making light of their conduct or punishments or viewpoints. They’re jerks and a hot potato that’s not the focus of my thoughts today.

But this is. Tyrone Speller, President of the Phi Delt chapter at OU, wrote a letter that has gone viral. Since I sat down to blog, seven Facebook friends have shared it on their timelines. If you haven’t read Tyrone’s letter, you should, and here it is: https://www.phideltatheta.org/2015/03/message-tyrone-speller-phi-delta-theta-chapter-president-university-oklahoma/. This young man is smart and articulate; it’s worth three minutes of your time. I promise.

Another friend posted a similarly interesting article yesterday, titled “A Message to the World from an Anonymous Fraternity Member at the University of Oklahoma,” which you can read here: http://totalfratmove.com/a-message-to-the-world-from-a-fraternity-member-at-the-university-of-oklahoma/. Anonymous has plenty to say also, primarily out of concern for safety.

And while I’m linking you to links, don’t miss this incredibly insightful blog post by SMU professor Maria Dixon: http://www.patheos.com/blogs/mariadixonhall/2015/03/a-teachable-moment-how-ou-failed-transformation-101/

Thankfully, the students at the University of Oklahoma are now on spring break. The two students in the video are not only on break, but they’re gone for good. Whether or not the school had the legal right to kick them out remains to be seen, but they needed to get the heck Norman and go faaaaar, faaaaar away because they’re “those guys.”

The media is now reporting that the chant just might be a deep dark sickness shared by Sigma Alpha Epsilon chapters across the nation. I’m not buying it. If you’ve ever seen people chant at a sporting event or even on a picket line, it’s usually just something with a cadence and some words. Once the leader says them a few times, the others follow along. So no, you don’t have to belong to a fraternity, participate as protestor or be brainwashed to pick it up quickly.

I don’t know much about a lot of things, but I do know this: Our society gets the gold medal for talking out of both sides of its mouth. We’re told with a big wagging finger in our faces not to profile people or groups, and yet SAE chapters from coast to coast are now under the microscope and likely to be profiled as racists. According to Anonymous, the entire Greek system is under attack at the University of Oklahoma. My cloudy crystal ball predicts that it won’t be long before all fraternities, and possibly sororities, are All. Very. Very. Bad. At least they will be until something else becomes the new target of all media focus.

Anonymous tells about heightened security at OU. Oh the irony, as SAEs across the nation now have something in common with the police force: They’ve both been unfairly labeled. Fraternity boys are racists; cops are killers. And both of those labels are utterly ridiculous. Whether members of a fraternity, a police force, an exercise facility, a medical group, a real estate company (Krazy K comes to mind) or the PTO, there’s at least one jerk and two bad apples in every bunch. And that’s enough to make Buffy bitchy.

Only Buffy isn’t bitchy because Michael Jackson’s song “One Bad Apple” reminds us that it “don’t spoil the whole bunch.”

And it hasn’t.

 

Things I Don’t Freakin’ Get

Posted on by buffythebitchyblogger

Dear Buffy Nation,

Things I don’t understand fall into one of two categories: (1) don’t know/don’t care, and (2) WTF? Since my parents and possibly a few pastors follow my blog, I’ll rename category two: things I don’t freakin’ get.

This afternoon, someone was driving by my house and actually pulled over to debate this very topic. I fell asleep on the sidewalk.

Let’s skip category one and dive straight into category two, shall we?

Tops on category two’s list is the ridiculous reference by Aggies to the University of Texas as “tu.” Frankly, it’s ignorant. I didn’t go to The University of Texas, nor did I go to Texas A&M. I went to UMS (in Aggie speak). If I had gone the super-size me public school route, U.T. would have won hands down because I could have walked on the grass and wouldn’t have had to squeeze my crotch at sporting events.

Just under idiotic references about other schools are idiotic posts on Facebook groups. Just today, someone posted about getting a plastic surgery procedure and a group member warned her about being “under Anastasia for three hours.” Equally mind numbing are these posts that I could rip to pieces like a high-capacity shredder:

  • Car question. Should we get a nice sedan?
  • Need recommendations for my son’s birthday party tomorrow.
  • Gross question. Has anyone had an animal die in their walls?
  • Where can I get a grilled cheese sandwich?
  • What’s the best brand of baby wipes, or should I just wet a paper towel?
  • Can someone tell me how to (Buffy here, and I’m not even going to tell you what that one was about).

I’m an equal opportunity nitpicker, and Little League dads are up next. I have nicknames for many of them, and my favorite — actually my least fave — is Mr. Kravitz, the male counterpart of Mrs. Kravitz on my favorite childhood TV show Bewitched. Cravitz is sooooooooooo up in everybody’s business because he has waaaaaaaaaaaay too much time on his suspicious hands. More than once, I saw Kravitz park his wheels a block or two from the fields, and then peak around corners and from behind trash bins to make sure no one was using “his” fields. Kravitz got mad at the league this year and took his bat and ball elsewhere. I feel sorry for elsewhere.

Next up: bikini photos on Facebook. Sure, it’s possible to post a tasteful swimsuit photo of beach frolicking on family vaca, but 99.999999999999999999999999 percent of the photos I see are of tiny Triangl swimwear on teens, mommies with vavavooom implants and the 30a crowd — that’s a place, not a bra size — making sure we all know it’s vacation rental week.

I may have things out of order, because exercise photos also rank high on the list. I’m saving that rant for another blog day.

Constant chatter about elementary/middle/high schools has almost put me in a coma the past two weeks. Thanks to acceptance letters that went out recently, parents are fighting for airspace to debate “the best school,” which I have politely and weirdly blogged about. Missed it? Scroll down.

All this ridiculousness is enough to make Buffy bitchy, only Buffy has farrrrrrrr too much on her plate these days to give it much more thought beyond wondering FTW?

 

 

 

 

Questioning Questions

Posted on by buffythebitchyblogger

Yep: Another entry from Buffy’s original blog.com site. This one dates back to February 2015. If anyone ever finds out the answer to the bald question, let me know. 

 

Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens. Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens. Yeah, that’s sweet, but Buffy isn’t known for her show tunes, so let’s move on to the obvious.

Some things just don’t make sense. And things that don’t make sense keep me questioning the world as we know it. The World as We Know It — upper casing has been assigned intentionally — encompasses two primary categories: (i) taken for granted, and (ii) political correctness. The latter is for another day because I’m typing at break-neck speed to get outta here and over to what will be most certainly be an efficiently run dance competition that ends the stroke before midnight. (Note to self: dance moms blog entry).

In the interest of time (mine), let’s jump straight into today’s dissection of the things taken for granted and never questioned. So let’s question them together, shall we?

• Do vegans count sheep when they can’t sleep?

• Why aren’t playoffs called playons? Similar question for cook-offs.

• Along those lines, why are crayons not called crayoffs?

• Why do golfers and tennis players demand complete silence when other athletes don’t? (Seriously, can you imagine being told to zip your lip and sit quietly at football, baseball, soccer and volleyball games?)

• Why do we stretch in the seventh inning and not in another inning?

• Why did Seinfeld have such a lousy finale?

• Why does Kim Kardashian get all the big butt praise?

• If the Theory of Evolution was correct, wouldn’t monkeys be gone?

• When parents tell their teens not to be too late, what time is too late?

• What color is bald on a driver’s license?

• Can you appraise a picture that tells a thousand words?

• Why doesn’t honey come in a plastic bee?

• Where do astronauts stare when they’re already in space?

• Why does grass only have a smell when it’s mowed?

• Does a cursing Frenchman say, “Pardon my English”?

• Why are buttons on a lady’s blouse opposite of a man’s shirt?

• Why isn’t Allstate insurance available in every state?

• What are quakes on other planets called?

• What made her a bad mama jama?

And if these questions and many, Many, MANY more aren’t enough to make Buffy bitchy, then I don’t know what is.

Only Buffy isn’t really bitchy, because I haven’t arrived at the dance competition yet.

 

 

 

 

 

Light and Bright with Room for a Pool

Posted on by buffythebitchyblogger

Another flashback to Buffy’s blog.com site, dating back to early 2015. 

 

So we decided to sell our house… Only we didn’t really decide to sell it. If that sounds vaguely familiar, then you read my inaugural blog entry. If you’re a slacker and missed it, rewind (errrr, scroll down) and read it so you’ll be even steven with the rest of us.

Today is a day of reflection as I look back on the words that have occupied my brain space since we decided to sell our house.

What buyers MUST have, according to them:

  • light and bright
  • tons of natural light
  • room for a pool
  • de-cluttered everything
  • open concept
  • granite countertops
  • spacious master bedroom
  • ensuite
  • his and her sinks
  • high ceilings
  • at least 5 bedrooms
  • media room
  • exercise room
  • landscaped yard

What people beat the shit out of you for not having:

  • a pool big enough to host the next Olympics
  • a summer kitchen because, you know, everyone is Houston wants to grill outside in the summer when it’s 100 degrees in the shade and sweating through one’s clothes is super sexy
  • three-car garage (really? REALLY? Because the best I can tell, people with Range Rovers never park in their garages because who would see their RRs and be impressed? And for those who drive the large SUVs, it’s a tight squeeze, and who wants to be squeezed tight while they’re unloading kids and pets and groceries and sporting equipment and…)
  • a yard the size of Disneyland
  • Disneyland

What people beat the shit out of you for having:

  • light and bright
  • tons of natural light
  • room for a pool
  • de-cluttered everything
  • open concept
  • granite countertops
  • spacious master bedroom
  • ensuite
  • his and her sinks
  • high ceilings
  • at least 5 bedrooms
  • media room
  • exercise room
  • landscaped yard

If you’ve ever sold your house, please Please PLEASE tell me this will all be over soon, because it’s enough to make Buffy bitchy.

But Buffy isn’t really bitchy because I have a fabulous de-cluttered open concept home that’s light and bright with beautiful granite countertops and room for a pool in the spacious, meticulously landscaped backyard that’s big enough for people and pets to play. And? I’m the winner because I get to live in this fabulous house we call home.

A Weirder than Weird Look at Education

Posted on by buffythebitchyblogger

Like the preceding entries, this highly educational discussion dates back to Buffy’s original Blog.com site, which went amuck because no one on the face of the blog.com planet would respond to technical questions. Sooooooo, cheers to Buffy’s very favorite masterpiece, below:

 

Spring break is just around the corner, which means there are two topics filling the adult airspace in my zip code: (i) where families are taking their designer luggage for spring break, and (ii) where their kids are going to school next year.

So I’ll go first. (i) We are going to neither sunny Florida nor the slippery slopes of Colorado. (ii) Peep 1 is settled, and Peep 2 will attend one of two schools because he only applied to two and not 10. Both answers make our family weirder than weird.

Having grown up in a small town that had two elementary schools (one on the north side and one on the east side), a falling-down junior high (eventually rebuilt) and one high school (new and modern), the highly discussed school topic was new to me when I had children in the nation’s fourth-largest city. I realized JUST. HOW. SERIOUS. the business of getting into “the best school” was when mommies and daddies were phoning “the best school” from the birthing table to secure a spot for bouncing baby. Silly us just winged it, and miraculously, the kids were accepted at a nearby preschool when the appropriate time came. I had a second realization: Our family must be weirder than weird.

Things calmed down in elementary school… until fourth grade. Rumor had it, at least then, that if you didn’t apply to “the best school” during your student’s fourth-grade year, well tisk tisk and finger wag. Silly us winged it again because, after all, our kids attended an exemplary-rated public school and were receiving an excellent education just seven blocks away. Miraculously, they both made it to middle school. Whew, because our weirder-than-weird family didn’t chew our nails to the quick waiting for the acceptance letters during our spring break staycations.

Up next? You guessed it: high school. We’ve been there/done that once, and we’re being there/doing that again. With both Peep 1 and Peep 2, we visited a handful of schools, applied to two, asked God to open the door to the right fit, and went about our business as the family that is weirder than weird. Hubs and I agreed that if our kiddos couldn’t get into one of the two schools, we had a bigger issue at hand. But yeah, that’s just us the weird people.

The reality is simple — and this is coming from the simple-minded member of the family that is weird. There are sooooooooooooooo many great public and private schools in H-town, and both parents and students are darn lucky to have sooooooooooooooo many options. No parent takes a child’s education likely, and I have yet to hear anyone say, “I really just want the third best for my child.” Sadly, that’s what you’d be led to think when parents of students at “the best school” blab on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on about how much better “the best school” is than the crappy alternatives.

And if that’s not enough to make Buffy bitchy, I don’t know what is.

Only Buffy isn’t bitchy because it WILL work out. It always does. And wherever my peeps and your peeps end up, it will truly be “the best school” for each of them.

 

 

 

He Walks With Me and He Talks With Me

Posted on by buffythebitchyblogger

Dating back to Fall 2014 from Buffy’s original Blog.com site is this taking-it-down-a-notch entry about childhood Sundays. So see? Buffy isn’t always bitchy. 

 

I’m taking it down a notch today and am just Buffy the Blogger. It’s Sunday, the best day of the week, and it belongs exclusively to God.

Sunday is a lot different than when I was a kid. Mom usually popped a pot roast in the oven before we left for town, and it cooked while we were at Sunday school and church. We’d come home, have lunch, clean the kitchen, and then mom and dad would spend what seemed like a long time reading the newspaper. The afternoon was spent at home, and then we went back to town on Sunday night for youth choir, youth group and church. Fast forward three+ decades. It would never enter my mind to leave the oven on while we’re at church, much less to cook a meal. Sometimes we go to church on Saturday and sometimes on Sunday, but never on Sunday night. I can read the Houston Chronicle in less than 10 minutes, less if Ken Hoffman’s column is about wrestling or monster trucks.

Church music is different, too. Back in the day, we sang hymns, and we followed along in the hymn book. Today’s church songs are generally more progressive, and the words are flashed on super-sized screens behind the pulpit.

Sermons have taken a turn also. A lot of churches offer feel-good sermons, and I like to watch those on TV and listen to them in the car. Who doesn’t like to feel good? But, in my opinion, there’s no replacement for back-to-the-Bible basics that are thought provoking and challenging… and life changing. The reverence of traditional worship offers blessings that are indescribable.

When I was a kid, prayer time was generally spent alone. Today, I use my dog walking time to talk with God. His beautiful creation is right in front of me. There aren’t any distractions. Work deadlines and household chores and to do lists and and and and and and and aren’t invited to follow me out the front door. Walk time is the perfect time to thank Him, praise Him, ask Him and listen to Him. I’ve learned that basically any time and anywhere is an appropriate time to connect with God, and thankfully, He’s everywhere I go. Everywhere.

The bottom line is simple: Times change; God doesn’t. And that makes Buffy thankful.

Waving Bye-Bye to Dr. Doolittle

Posted on by buffythebitchyblogger

Shortly after Buffy’s blog was launched in Fall 2014, and on the coattails of Krazy K, who you met in the post that started it all — “So We Decided to Sell Our House” — Dr. Doolittle took center stage. This entry, originally posted on Buffy’s blog.com site, reminds us to weigh our options before we do “it.” Oh, and guts are good, so go with it. 

 

After a hefty “signing” fee and 36 monthly hits on the plastic, a straw just broke the camel’s back, and we just waved bye-bye to Dr. Doolittle.

Dr. D is an orthodontist. Hopefully you or your peeps don’t have one and won’t ever need one because it’s a long and winding road. But if you’ve traveled down Braces Boulevard, I’ll say a prayer for ya because I feel your pain.

The I-wish-I-was-a-rock-star-and-not-an-orthodontist orthodontist recommended a Radical Procedure — I have assigned upper casing to the r and p in radical and procedure because that’s how radical the procedures was — that would have resulted in life-long consequences. By life-long, I mean forever, and by consequences, I mean horrific. “It” involved a lot that I won’t go into, but “it” seemed farfetched, and second opinions from an oral surgeon and another orthodontist confirmed what my gut had already shouted from the rooftops: Do. Not. Do. “It.”

Which brings me to this: Go with your gut, folks. Whatever size your gut is, go with it. I’ve long thought Doolittle was doing little and that his office is a marketing circus with faaaaaaaaaar too many patients. I’ve been in smaller crowds inching (err, elbowing) my way up the steps of the Cotton Bowl during Texas/OU weekend. But I’ll give DD this: A lot of mouths with a lot braces with a lot of “treatment plans” creates a pretty cushy cash flow. Pitch in fresh-baked cookies as a consolation prize at check out — does that seem counter to promoting dental hygiene?

In the 36 months we’ve been hanging out at the braces factory, I don’t think my son saw the same “technician” twice. Maybe he did and maybe he didn’t; it was hard to see their faces through the elaborate body protection that would provide optimum safety if the office were to come under nuclear attack. Pack a snack and grab a pillow because I might just jump on another soapbox about inconsistent care by the revolving door of staff that gave conflicting information time and again. And again. And again and again and again. And those ridiculous Doolittle Dollars. Oh wow. I need another soapbox.

And if that’s not enough to make Buffy bitchy, then I don’t know what is.

Only Buffy isn’t bitchy, because we dodged a bullet… or in this case, a rockin’ smile. And if you caught that pun, you know Dr. Doolittle, too.

So We Decided to Sell Our House

Posted on by buffythebitchyblogger

This blog entry was originally posted on Buffy’s blog.com site in Fall 2014. Here’s to the blog that started it all:

 

So we decided to sell our house.

Only we didn’t really decide to sell it, rather someone else decided we should sell it. With the likes of “hot market” and “bidding wars” filling the air, the idea of pocketing some change and moving on to the next home was indeed worth consideration.

Rewind to October. The hubs and I were just minding our own business and livin’ the dream in one of Houston’s vibrant inner-loop neighborhoods. Happy marriage: check. Incredible kiddos: check. Good health, solid careers, fab home: check, check, check. So yeah, lots of checks.

Enter stage left: Krazy K, the neighborhood’s new part-time player in residential real estate. You know the type: squeezing in a sale or two each year between PTO and keeping up with the Joneses. Twice my size — and I’m talking height — and deceiving from the word go, this crack of a pot convinced the two of us she had a buyer for our home. I have to hand it to girl wonder: Her shtick was intriguing. According to a carefully crafted script, all KK needed was a one-time showing and we’d have a contract in hand by the end of the day. Easy peasy. Pop the cork on the champagne and toast a quick victory. High fives and fist bumps. No need to declutter or clean closets or blah, blah effing blah.

Of course, that ended up a super-sized joke. Big Bertha simply brought a sidekick employee from the office and presented her as this extremely interested buyer. While I could insert a soliloquy-length’s commentary here, in the end, Amazon girl only wanted our listing. In. A. Big. Way. We cried foul and promptly shooed her out the door like the rat she is. (Stay tuned, because Krazy K isn’t out of the picture yet.)

And if that’s not enough to make Buffy bitchy, I’m not sure what is.

But Buffy really isn’t bitchy, because no one, particularly not a deceptive part-time real estate salesperson, is going to steal my joy or trample the happy life I enjoy. All the things I cherished when we decided to sell our house still have check marks by them: a happy family, good health, a fabulous home and a very bright future.

So until next time, cheers to all. (clink)