Is this girl completely crazy?
What does one say to an ego-inflating e-mail like that? I feel like she’s my new best friend, this Shanza Barbie person. She really gets me. Wait, I think I’m losing sight of the fact that this is the girl who snagged my chance of marriage by the time I still can walk down the aisle without requiring hip replacement surgery. But she called me “eloquent.” I’m wondering if I should come clean. Should I wish them both the best and move on with my life, giving my last two pre-paid yoga classes to Becky and just sticking with Tony Robbins from here on out?
I take a sip. Not bad for cheap wine. Herman looks at me like he knows what I’m thinking. I tell him to be quiet. Unless he’s walked in my shoes, he has no right to judge me. He licks his front paw.
“Hi Shanza, Thank you so much. I am humbled by your kind words. I only write what I feel, so the fact that you found it useful means so much to me. I would be honored to write my thoughts on gratitude. And yes, we will have to meet soon. Namaste, Nala.”
Chapter Ten
My body is amazingly not sore. For the life of me, I cannot figure out how so much painful stretching does not prohibit me from walking without a cane for the next year or so. But I find I am walking into the office with a bit of a spring in my step instead. Even my reflection in the shiny elevator screams good posture. I think I’ve gotten taller.
In the office Becky is reading something on her computer screen and doesn’t even seem to notice I’ve walked in the door. I suck in my stomach.
“Hi,” I say, striding by with my hips that are trying to open.
“Oh, hi, how are you?” This is not the upbeat Becky I have grown accustomed to.
“What’s so interesting?” I ask, sliding up behind her chair, noticing that she is engrossed by something on her computer.
“Oh, nothing.” She quickly closes the window on the screen, and I am immediately sure it must be about me.
“What?”
“Nothing, really.”
“Oh my God. Just tell me. I can take it.” I assume a courageous posture.
“You’re being silly. It has nothing to do with you.”
“Well then,” I say, completely relieved but still a bit suspicious, “show me!”
A reluctant Becky opens up the window she closed under threat of discovery.
“Psychic Look Hotline?” I ask, not sure I’m seeing what it is I’m not supposed to see.
“I was just looking.”
“Why?”
“I dunno. I just wanted to see how much they charged. I think it’d be pretty cool.”
I assure Becky that anyone who sits on a switchboard reading fortunes while filing her nails cannot possibly be worth a dollar fifty a minute. Talk about frauds! At least I’m not charging Yoga Barbie for my blog posts, and like she said, they are rather good. I am sure there is a rule that if you are doing good things with your lies that you won’t go to Hell, but I could be a bit off on that.
I am almost delighted to see Tac is nowhere in sight. For some reason, getting spiritually enlightened seems to be easier when he is not around. But then, just as I settle at my desk and admire my new “yoga on the beach” screen saver, in walks Mr. Show-off.
“Well, hello, Melissa!” he says with obvious fake enthusiasm.
“Hello, Tac.”
He swings by my desk on the way to his, but my desk is past his, so it makes for a very wide U-turn.
“Nice pictures!” he says, admiring my screen saver. Then he adds, “I had no clue you did yoga.”
“Sure. I’m a big fan,” I tell him, hoping he notices my straight spine.
“Cool. I’d like to try it. I guess it’s really good for you.
“Yeah, something like that,” I say, not having any clue how it’s good for you.
“Well, I’m off to show my big buyers some homes in the hills,” he tells me, as if I care.
“Nice. Good luck.”
“Thanks! Not that I need it.” He pauses long enough for me to look up at him. “My closing this week will put me twenty percent ahead of same time last year.” I want to punch him in his stupid stomach.
“That’s really great, Tac. I’m happy for you.”
The little vain on my temple starts to throb.
I seriously don’t know how he does it. I mean, sure, he’s not married, but then, I’m not either. But I had Ron all this time, and I’m sure once I’m more enlightened and Tony’s all done with me, that I, too, will be a mega top producer. I mean, Tac must live his whole life to sell houses. I, on the other hand, have a life. I quickly search my mind for what that is. Maybe I should make a list. I think that’s what Tony would say.
I have fashion. Wait, so does he. Damn it.
I have a blogging job! Ha!
I have a cat.
I do yoga!
I am heavily involved in my Tony Robbins training. Just this alone is like another full-time job, what with all these lists and goals and planning sessions. I’m tired just thinking about it.
Chapter Eleven
I’m pulling up the long driveway to the big house that still takes my breath away. While that damn drug dealing Luke Tucker messed up my biggest sale ever, this house will be even better. And I’m relatively sure that my eighty-four-year-old seller is not getting divorced, nor will he be reduced to the life of a crack dealer.
Ernie greets me in the big circular driveway. He did that the first time I met him when I listed this amazing house. OK, I’m the first to admit that the way I got this listing was a complete fluke, but don’t think for a minute that stopped me from parading around the office with pride, stopping momentarily at Tac’s desk, leaving the “Just Listed” flyer Becky helped me make to show off a house I’m selling for $899,000!
Actually, the way I got the listing was kind of an accident. OK, the way I got the listing was because Ernie forgot the name of the agent who he talked to before, and since I happened to answer the phone that day when Becky was having cramps and in the lady’s room an extra long time, I got the lead.
I answered the phone, and he asked if I was Janet. Being completely honest, I told him no. Then, he said maybe he was off on the name, but a nice lady he met someplace, sometime, told him she worked at my office and that if he ever wanted to sell his home she would help him. Well, really, if you can’t even give the poor old guy your business card, then what kind of agent are you anyway? Still, I thought really hard about whether we had anyone named Janet in our office, and I knew for certain we did not. In fact, the closest I could think of was Jeanie, who by the way, left the office more than two months before his call came in. So naturally, I told him I remembered him.
Ernie is old. And he’s also a real live Nazi. Not like the mean yoga teacher, but real as in, a soldier during World War II, on the German side. When I related this information to Ron after I first got the listing (wondering if it was against any moral codes to represent a Nazi and all), he told me that just because Ernie was a German soldier, it did not make him a Nazi. I told Becky this, and she, naturally, did some research and told me that Ron could be right; not all German soldiers were the bad guys. This eased my conscience more than you can imagine.
Ernie’s home sits on a hill in Granite Bay. He and his tiny wife, Helena, live in this enormous house. They are so old I am not sure they even know how many rooms it has. However, they bought it ten years ago when they thought their kids were moving back home, but they never did. So now, these two small, sweet elderly people live in a house that they must certainly get lost in. Helena fell last year, and I think that’s what really made Ernie decide it was time to sell. And since they have a ton of equity (and are old), I guess the fact that this is not the best time to sell is not such a big deal.
I get out of my car that looks particularly low income next to the shaped shrubbery and plantation pillars.
“Melissa.”
Ernie greets me like a long lost granddaughter. He did this the second and third time he saw me too. This is
time number four, and I feel like I should hug him and sit on his lap.
“Hi, Ernie,” I say, all smiles, admiring my big listing in the background.
“Come in.”
Ernie puts his arm around my waist and leads me into the house. The steps are steep, and suddenly I can understand how they may be too much for Helena, who uses a walker now. Helena is standing at the open double door, which is bigger than my garage door, and is smiling widely.
“Hello, Helena,” I say.
“Melissa, dear.”
She welcomes me and asks if I would like some tea. At least that’s what I think she said. Her accent is even stronger than Ernie’s, and I can barely understand him. We sit in the living room, and I admire the sound system, recessed ceiling, and amazing molding. I wish desperately that Tac would show this house to one of his snooty clients.
“We were wondering if we should lower the price,” Ernie says, with his darling German accent, removing his little bifocals and massaging his eyes. He is so cute that I want to hug him and tell him it will all be OK. I will do more flyers, hold open houses, and stand outside in a chicken suit in order to sell this house. Suddenly I feel bad. Here they are in a bigger hurry to sell than I realized, and I’m searching for yoga screen savers when I should be promoting their house. They already missed the market when it was worth more than a million, and now they are willing to take even less.
“Well, we can lower it a bit, but how about I hold a big open house next weekend?”
Helena’s eyes light up. “I can fix snacks,” she says. Now, I want to hug her too. How cute and rare to have a homeowner say she will make snacks for an open house. I consider telling them that as a rule of thumb we like sellers to leave during open houses because it tends to make buyers uncomfortable when the sellers are following them all through the house. However, I take a look at little Helena and her walker and conclude that she’s probably not ventured past the first guest bathroom in quite awhile anyway, so I don’t tell them they should leave. Besides, I don’t know for sure that Ernie wasn’t a real Nazi, and I don’t want to make him mad just in case.
Chapter Twelve
I’m back at home and have decided that I will actually set my alarm and go to the early morning yoga class. I figure that if I get it out of the way earlier, I may be inclined to go more often. That being the case, I also figure that I deserve a little treat. Say, for example, a nice glass of wine and some chips. Doritos, if you must know; however, I’m only having a small amount. In fact, to make triple sure I don’t over-indulge; I pour part of the bag in a bowl. That will keep me on track so I don’t mistakenly overeat. I suppose it could be argued that chips and wine are not a very good way to be enlightened on a Wednesday night, but as I reminded myself earlier, I have to produce an article tonight on gratitude, and quite honestly, I am pretty damn grateful for these Doritos.
Tony Robbins has mentioned gratitude too; I am sure of it. I know I can’t steal what he says, but I’m wondering if I can at least get some ideas. Then it dawns on me; I need a list.
Things I am grateful for:
Doritos
LifeTime For Women (and cable in general, really)
Wine (and vodka, if we’re going to split hairs)
My nice listing that I will hopefully sell very soon.
My blogging job (that isn’t really a job and that I’m faking).
Reviewing my list, I find nothing very appropriate to discuss for my growing yoga readership. I laugh at the fact that I’m more concerned about making Yoga Barbie tell me how great I am instead of worrying what she’s doing to Ron in her yoga bedroom. I bet she burns incense and he hates it. Ha! Herman reminds me that I’m procrastinating. He does this by jumping off my desk and leaving the room.
OK. Gratitude.
“What can we say about gratitude that hasn’t been said before? I mean really, when it gets down to it, we have so much to be grateful for. Our very breath, for instance. In yoga, our breath is our connection to all that is. When we stay grounded in our bodies, our breath takes us through our poses. Oftentimes we think of gratitude as appreciating things; however, I urge and challenge all of us to think of the non-things we have to be grateful for. Sunshine, yoga, friends to practice with. Even people in our lives who challenge us, ultimately, are the very ones we should be grateful for. After all, it is the challenge and tension that make us grow, and truly, is there anything more wonderful than to grow?”
I rattle on for a few more minutes. I can’t decide if “non-thing” really needs a hyphen. But then, Yoga Barbie can always edit my post, right? It’s not like I can be expected to be a perfect grammarian and a yoga guru. Taking another drink of my wine, I add on the importance of being grateful for our healthy diets. I hit send and then make sure I say my prayers. I know I am going to Hell.
Checking my personal e-mail before hitting the tube with the rest of the bag of Doritos and just one more glass of wine—it’s so close to the end of the bottle, and we yogis just hate to waste—I see a response from Ron. He’s so snarky.
“Hello, Melissa. Thanks for getting back to me, but no, I do not think you saw my hiking boots in the back of my truck the day “I left you.” And I really wish you wouldn’t put it like that. I’m trying to do what was right for both of us, and I am sorry I have hurt you. It was not my intention to “leave you,” and I prefer to think of it as us having grown in different directions. Do not worry about my hiking boots. I am sorry I bothered you. I did find a few of your CDs in my pile that I can bring by if you like. Take care, Ron.”
Oh, how I loathe him. I actually think I hate him more than I do Tac, and that’s a lot. OK, actually, shame on me. As someone who is trying to get enlightened and start up a local “I Love Tony Robbins Fan Club,” I suppose talking like that is not appropriate. Besides, how can I truly be an enlightened person if I can’t even be nice to people? I instantly regret burning his boots on the back patio last night. I got the idea from Tony Robbins telling me that he has events where people walk on hot coals. I thought it best to be wearing solid footwear when I tried it. The lighter fluid was a little overkill I guess, but I wasn’t actually wearing the boots when I was burning them.
Chapter Thirteen
It’s very chilly now, and since the time has changed it’s also very dark when I get up. It would be impossible to hit the 8:30 a.m. yoga class without some caffeine. I drink some coffee, make sure I pee twice, and then put on my yoga outfit. I’m starting to notice my thighs look thinner, and I know it must be because I am working so hard and eating so much better. In fact, I completely skipped dinner last night. Unless you want to count the chips, and really, how bad can a bag of Nacho Doritos be anyway?
A small redheaded woman is sitting behind the counter. I am surprised that this many people have showed up for morning yoga. Doesn’t anybody work anymore? I find my space in the back. I am still quite a ways away from being a show-off in the front row, but I am confident that my day will come. These hips are going to open if it kills me.
The redhead introduces herself as Dawn. She spells it for us and explains that Dawn does yoga at dawn and that she was named after the early morning hours when her mother first learned she was pregnant. I immediately think Dawn is an awesome yoga name and wished I’d thought of it for myself. Dawn tells us to connect to our breath and be present in our bodies. She says that when we stay connected to our breath, we can do anything. I believe her. I get into a downward dog like Dawn tells us to, and she pats me on the back, and says, “Nice.”
It may seem silly to some people, but that my new yoga teacher likes my downward dog has me reeling with excitement. I mean, she wasn’t just saying it, she really meant it. I have a good downward dog. I am so immersed in pride that I barely notice the push-up pose that only days earlier was like trying to give Herman a bath. I have no upper arm strength, and Herman is strongly opposed to bathing. Dawn has become my favorite yoga teacher on the planet.
Back at the office, I finally get a
hold of a live person regarding Kim’s short sale. This day just keeps getting better. This time I reach a young man on the phone who sounds very close to reaching puberty. I tell him that we have an offer on this short sale and that I need to check the status. He actually finds the file—a miracle in itself—and tells me that it is under review. Under review! This is great news. I like this guy on the phone and feel like I can trust him. I bet he does yoga. That means that the file is not lost in short sale hell and that a real live person—hopefully one who can read—is reviewing it for approval.
Next I call Kim to tell her the good news, only she doesn’t quite understand it.
“Well, if it’s just now being reviewed, what’s it been doing the past few weeks?” This is an excellent question for which I wish I had an excellent answer; however, short sales seem to have a mystery phase, meaning it’s a mystery to everyone—agents, banks, people who answer phones and order foreclosures—what happened to the file. It’s almost as if it goes into hiding…or, maybe like a caterpillar, it’s in some kind of gestation/cocoon phase. Yeah, like that. Then, when the mystery/cocoon phase is over, you either end up with a butterfly/short sale approval or a moth/short sale rejection. We do not like moths because they will often turn into foreclosures.
Kim does not understand the cocoon analogy.
“So when do we know if I’m going to end up a moth?” she asks.
“Usually it takes about two weeks,” I tell her, hoping she’ll appreciate how many times I had to call before someone could actually find the file. Then, once I get her to see this is all very positive and I am sure this day can’t get any better, Tac walks in and plops down at his desk. He doesn’t look very happy, and I am glad. Then, I remember my role in life is to help other people. That is something Dawn said this morning when she was telling us how important our breath is. “Breathe deeply, and be of service to others,” she said. And really, how often is there a time when I can do something nice for the agent who seems to have everything and rubs it in my face so often? I hang up the phone and assume my most spiritual expression.
Secrets of a Spiritual Guru (Guru 1) Page 5