Look out Cherrywood Estates—I’m on a rampage. When the evil thoughts emerged, lives changed and I acquired the nickname Raging Roxy. My name is Roxanne “Roxy” Davenport and I’m part of a dying breed: I’m a suburban housewife. According to the ancient set of mental instructions —better known as the Suburbia Rulebook—I’m supposed to follow the edicts of previous generations. Outdated rules like all married couples must procreate and raise, at a minimum, 3.2 children, preferably staggered in ages by three years. The hubster and I only had one child so we received a demerit. Thank goodness we were saved by my nailing another rule: high school sweethearts must marry; the wife is to stay at home and raise the children while the husband brings home the bacon. I didn’t count the demerit of we had to get married during our second year of college. We tied the knot because I neglected to read the part on how taking antibiotics might disrupt the effectiveness of birth control pills. Oops. Honestly, I’ve tried to follow the rules by being the perfect wife, mother, friend, sister, and child. For the most part, I think I did a fine job. Things changed rapidly when a series of heartbreaking and tragic events rained down on my world. Something inside of me snapped, and now, no one is safe from my wrath. I tossed the handbook out the window and decided to follow a new set of rules. Roxy’s Rules. Suburbia will never be the same. \t \t