Invasion

It was such a lovely morning. Both times, actually. The first morning, I had run up the hill to my parent’s house. It was my birthday and I had Russ and his friend Ty, two baby boys, the girls at school, and did I mention it was my birthday? I came home and as I pulled into the driveway, I noticed my front door, wide open.

I had been robbed. On my fucking birthday. Somehow, that made it worse. I don’t know why. I mean, if a person will invade your home and steal your TV, I’m pretty sure the birthday decorations aren’t going to make their heart grow three sizes that day. No, they’re still going to take your roast who beast. Because they’re shitty. That’s how it works.

But apparently, there are more shitty people than just thieves. Of course there are. Wall Street execs, corrupt politicians, child molesters, plagiarizers, Realtors…

Yes, I said Realtors. Don’t get me wrong. Realtors as a whole are not shitty human beings. I know several that are lovely, ethical individuals. But there are a few that ought to be brought up on charges.

The second morning, I had coffee with friends. A fun morning of conversation and laughter, catching up and celebrating the freedom that comes with all your children being enrolled in school. I pulled up to me driveway and saw it was full of strange cars. And lo, my front door was ajar. This time, fear and uncertainty were not on the menu. Today’s special was pure, distilled rage, served with a chaser of embarrassment.

My house is on the market, with a lock box and a stipulation that it be shown by appointment only. There were no appointments, so I had felt entitled to leave a sink full of dishes and a bed adorned with laundry of the delicate variety. There may or may not have been certain, *cough* marital aides left out in plain view. Which in hindsight, was foolish, but appointment only means appointment only, right? And there were three offers on the table. I think I can be excused for thinking my home would be left alone. Right?

Wrong. A fifty-something skank of a realtor was showing my home to a slimy looking douche bag flipper. Without an appointment. I parked behind their cars, blocking them in, burst into my home and confronted the stringy-haired ho. “Do you have an appointment,” I demanded in full fishwife mode. “Because my realtor did NOT inform me of any appointments!”

She claimed they did, that she had been emailing my agent and the minute I picked up the phone to dial him, that lying, cheating bitch beat feet out of my house. Which proves she has some sense, if no ethics. Because I was three seconds from full on Springerizing her ass. My agent denied giving her an appointment and talked me down off the ledge, perhaps guessing (accurately) that he was in my cross hairs as well.

He told me how to file a complaint with her office. I attempted to do so, but was informed she and her husband owned said office. Awesome. I wasn’t aware that owning your own office gave you the right to enter any home you wanted. It doesn’t. Not even if you’re a pathetic, can’t-dress-your-age tart with the cosmetic skills of a ten-year-old boy. I checked.

My next step is filing a complaint against said sad cougar with the local board of Realtors. I tried on Friday, but apparently, the High Priestess of Realtor Ethics does not work on Fridays. Nice work, if you can get it. Maybe she was showing houses without appointments!

I’ll call back on Monday. Because it’s been 3 days and I’m still pissed as a Tea Party conservative at a gay wedding. Absolutely, to the marrow, livid. And hopefully, the Board of Realtors will do more for me than my local police department did, all those years ago on my fucking birthday. Because so help me, patron saint of angry bitches, if I get the same, too bad, so sad, line that the police gave me, I’m going to have to kill me a Realtor. Or two.