And this concludes the fourth and final day of Three Truths and a Lie, which is still an idea stolen straight from the pages of CJane.
In case you haven't been following along, I've written four stories this week--three are true, and one is a total and complete lie. Voting will commence tomorrow to see if you guys are smart enough to know when I'm fibbing.
And, as always, if you know me in real life, please don't spill the beans...
Sticky Sweet Revenge
Back when I was pregnant with James, I had the sweetest little attitude. I have no idea how or why I've morphed into such a hormonal nightmare over the last five years, but I promise, these two pregnancies are totally and completely different.
We were new to Dallas at the time--living in a neighborhood that was super manicured, ultra-trendy, and in my opinion, friendly-to-the-point-of-almost-being-creepy. Our neighbor on one side drove an Audi TT, our neighbor on the other side drove a convertible Mercedes Kompressor, we on the other hand, drove an '89 Blazer. It's needless to say that Jared and I didn't fit in as seamlessly as we would have liked to.
We had rented the duplex sight-unseen, while we were still living in Maine, so we really had no idea how lucky we were to be occupying the rattiest, crookedest, crappiest house in a very well-to-do neighborhood.
I was already ten weeks pregnant by the time we made the move, and people were so incredibly kind--bringing plates of cookies while we unpacked, listening (with true interest mind you) to the details of where we'd come from and where we were going, and constantly complimenting my pregnant glow.
We most certainly weren't in New England anymore. And looking back, I think I had no choice but to be super sweet and happy--you know, in a Southern chicken-fried kind of way.
One afternoon, when I was about eight months pregnant, I was walking Gracie down the street when a black Toyota Camry pulled next to me on the side of the road. The window rolled down and a super-coiffed head popped out and said (in a sticky Texas accent), "Ha hun, when er you due?"
"In April," I said. "I've got two more months to go."
"Wow," the woman replied. "Ma sister had twins and I promise she never got nearly that big! Yer cute, but ya sure are big!"
The New England in me wanted to clean her glossy, little clock with my big, fat, pregnant fist--but I resisted, acted like a proper Southern lady and giggled in response to everything she had to say.
Turns out she was a real estate agent, prowling the neighborhood for new clients and new listings. Mmmm yeah, at that time our income consisted of nothing but student loans and my husband's biweekly check from the petfood shop--I'd have to go out on a limb and say that we definitely weren't interested.
She handed me one of her cards, on which her hair appeared even larger than it did in real life that day (nothing short of mind blowing), I thanked her and proceeded on my way.
I managed to make it about three steps before her Toyota lurched forward and stopped next to me again. "Sweetie," she questioned? "Would you mind terribly just runnin' up to that door and stickin' one of ma cards in it?"
"Um, sure. No problem. I can do that," I answered.
"And how 'bout that next house?" Why don't ya just go ahead and get that one, too. Ya know, while you're up there."
"Yeah, that's fine," I said--with the reasoning that pleasing this women might somehow lead to her departure.
Well friends, I was wrong. The woman in the Toyota continued her lurch-beg-con scam for the entirety of the street. Before I knew it, I had been tricked into peppering every single screen door on Valencia Drive with this blow hole's business card--at eight months pregnant, in the eighty degree heat, while her Gucci ass never left the comfort of the cool, leather seats.
I knew what she was doing, I just didn't know how to put my foot down. And just like that, I was a sucker.
When we reached the end of the street, she thanked me profusely, called me a 'sweetheart' over and over again, handed me a chilled bottle of Ozarka saying, "Aw hun, you need this," and promptly sped off.
I walked home, feeling stupid, tired and defeated. By the time I reached my front door, I was sobbing like a preteen--what a mother lovin' ho she was.
When Jared came home later that afternoon, I recounted the story, and it's needless to say that he was angry. "She WHAT," he exclaimed?! "Amy that's horrible, you should call her real estate agency or something."
"No, Jared. I feel stupid, I just want to forget about it."
"Fine," he agreed, not wanting to rock the S.S. Hormonal.
I went to bed early that night, couldn't sleep, and continued to cry in embarrassment when I got out of bed the next morning. I felt so used, so tricked, so dirty, so pregnant--and that my friends, is when Jared pulled into the driveway with the solution to my problem.
My husband, my sweet Jared, had gone to the computer lab at school, taken this lady's picture and contact information off of her website and printed up one-hundred-or-so homemade business cards with the following slogan stamped in bold:
I hate everyone, I suck at my job, and if you hire me I'll steal your money.
At least I think that's what they said--something to that effect.
I was beyond touched by his loving gesture. And even more touched when he raced up and down three blocks, sticking the cards in every doorway before our neighbors began to filter in from work.
I'd have to say we won the war. In our three-and-a-half years of living in that neighbor, not once did we see a real estate sign bearing her name.
And still, to this day, that was nicest thing that my husband has ever done for me. What a guy!