Playful, elegant, and not above the judicious use of the word “shit."

Not only did I tell Jon, I’m telling the Internet

The realtor we used to by our house is a bit of a gasbag, and no offense to realtors, but are any of them not? He drives a Lexus and lives on the poshest street in the city and is so short I could use him as a stool to reach the flour at the top of our pantry.

When we were in the process of buying our house he was constantly hitting on me, in front of Jon, but it always came off like a really gross uncle who was trying to make his niece’s best friend feel good about herself, very benign and obvious and RIDICULOUS. We put up with it because we really wanted this house in this neighborhood and His Shortness is THE realtor to make that happen. And anyway, if he ever crossed the line Jon and I could call in our favors with the Mormon Mafia and have he and his three wives tarred and feathered in Temple Square. You think I’m kidding.

Today I was driving up to the grocery store when I saw him raking leaves on a property he owns up the street. I knew it was him because I saw his Lexus parked across the street and because I don’t know anyone else THAT short. I pulled up next to him, rolled down the window, and shouted, “I thought people like you paid other people to do your dirty work for you.”

He walked up to the window, a huge grin across his face, and he said, “Hey there! Why don’t you come join us, cuz we need us some hot chicks to keep us company,” and he motioned toward his oldest son across the yard, a guy who looked so haggard that I originally thought he was some homeless man hired to make a few bucks.

I shook my head and said, “You don’t want me to tell my husband that you just said that.”

He shot back, “Aw, I’m not afraid of Jon,” and then he looked in the backseat and said to Leta, “How you doin, little fella!”

“She’s a girl, you asshole,” I kindly rebuked. “And you should be very, very afraid of Jon.”

We continued small talk for a few minutes, and he asked about our kitchen remodel, the one we finished almost a year ago. I told him about the back-breaking work of doing it all ourselves, and how Jon had demolished the kitchen himself and then wired the whole room for electricity.

“He did all the electrical work himself?” he asked, noticeably impressed.

“Yup.”

And then his eyes shot back and forth nervously and he pleaded, “Hey, you know what I said earlier? How about you not mention any of that to Jon.”

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