“That’s a horrible idea!” she says, making me feel like an evil human being.
“I agree. Don’t know why I said it. You keep him.”
Now Anna looks at me like maybe I passed gas in public. Then, thoughtfully, she scoops the little weenie dog up and looks him square in the eye and says, “Would you like to stay in your same house but live with me instead of the mean people who abandoned you?” The dog licks her face, and I think I hear wedding bells.
So it’s decided. Anna and her new dog, “Sniffy,” are bonded for life. She holds him in her arms and walks around the inside of the house that I have now given her access to. She is happy, Sniffy is happy, and I am eager to get this transaction closed.
No matter how much my mother may annoy me, especially with her new cell phone, it seems that when something really good or really bad happens, she is the first person I want to call. After all, mothers tend to accept us as we are. Not that she doesn’t try to change me, and certainly not that she doesn’t judge me, but unlike others, she does it to my face and would plummet anyone else who said a negative thing about me. This is what family is all about. So I call her. I am still in denial about the whole texting thing.
“Well, I know who this is,” she says, all full of fun.
“Hi, Mom.”
“I know it’s you because your name pops up when you call now!”
“Genius,” I say. “I got a deal in escrow.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful, honey! Why didn’t you text me?”
I remind her that I’m not a big social text person, but I suspect she’s starting to know I’m lying. I tell her I will text her later. She asks about Ron.
“Have you heard from him at all?”
“No,” I say, figuring the hiking boot e-mail exchange will just prolong the conversation when, really, all I want to do is look up juicers online and think about my karma post. My mom tells me I can get off the phone if I text her good-night. So this is what it’s come to—blackmail from the woman who gave birth to me. I surrender and agree that I will text her later.
I make myself a glass of half orange juice, half water, and only one shot of vodka. This is a big deal for me. I mean, it’s not like I’m some kind of alcoholic or anything—let’s not forget, I do yoga and write a spiritual blog. But it has, over the years, become the way I like to wrap up my weeknights. And weekends. So yes, a drink (or three) a day is normal, but my plan is to start adding less and less alcohol to my drinks until they are pure juice. And with this new juicer and all, it will be a breeze. I guess it’s superficial that the whole reason I want to quit drinking is so I lose weight faster and avoid dry skin, but let’s face facts, my birthday is right around the corner, and if I have to choose vodka over crow’s feet, I’m going with good skin care. Thank God for vanity.
It only takes me about two minutes to find the juicer that Becky is all up in arms about. This thing costs more than a home inspection. Becky’s boyfriend must be doing really well in the computer repair business if he sprung for a juicer that costs this much. I sigh deeply. It’s one thing that she’s younger and thinner, but now this? I feel juicer envy setting in. Herman indicates it’s time to go watch some LifeTime Television, so I add one more swig of vodka in my juice/water combo and head to my room. I remind myself that a “swig” is not a shot; it’s more like a pinch, only since it’s liquid, I call it a swig.
Remembering my promise under threat, I text my mom.
“OK, going to bed. Nite-nite.” I plug my phone in and go wash my face. I hear my phone buzz and figure it’s just her reply. Great fun. But then, as I brush my teeth, I cannot help but notice the buzzing has continued. Quite sure my mother has written me a book, I look at my phone. Only three messages from her and one from…Ron?
Ignoring my mom’s cute little smiley faces, kisses, and well wishes for sweet dreams (really, Mom?) I quickly read Ron’s: “Miss you.”
Are you kidding me?
I am, at first, infuriated. How could he cheat on Shanza! She was totally willing to forgive him based on my brilliant blog post. Then, I am flattered in a “Ha! You sucker” kind of way. But wait, why does he miss me? He hasn’t even seen any of my yoga poses yet or the fact that I have lost three and a half pounds. Maybe he knows I have a deal in escrow? Becky better not have announced it on some e-mail list she has. I decide that he is drunk and doesn’t really mean it. I resolve to text him back in the morning if I can stand waiting. I do not sleep all night. I have effectively rehearsed fifty-two various responses. I have to think about it. Meditate on it. Yes, that’s what we enlightened ones do, right? We meditate on matters of great importance such as these.
Chapter Twenty
I am seriously torn this morning between going to Dawn’s class and calling Crystal Visions. I compromise and decide I will hit the studio, impress Dawn with my straight spine and ever-improving forward bend, and then come home to shower and call the psychic hotline. This decision shows that I am learning how to better prioritize. I think Tony would be super proud.
In class, I survey the room to see if anyone is there from yesterday when I took my tragic fall. Fortunately, there is not. I want to tell Dawn all about how her fellow yogi pushed me down, but then, I figure that would be gossiping, and spiritual gurus do not gossip.
We all inhale a lot of air. This helps us clean our lungs out or gets our circulation going so we can be really proud warriors. The other thing I like about Instructor Dawn is that she says smart things like, “Just go at your own pace; listen to your body. If that’s all you do today, it’s perfect.” It’s like she couldn’t say more perfect things. We are told to do a forward bend. Touching our head to our knees, or our shins, as meanie yoga teacher tells us, is not forced in Dawn’s class. I want to really try for her, so I bend down extra far. The distance between my forehead and my knees is like from here to Dallas, but Dawn doesn’t judge me. She walks past, lightly touches my back like a good yogi, and I drop even farther. I am certain I will never stand again.
Draping myself over my car seat, wondering how many Advil I will need tomorrow, I head home to call my friend. Well, my paid friend. It takes a few minutes to go through the process, and this time I go all out and tell the nice lady on the phone to go ahead and keep my credit card on file. I mean, Crystal and I seem to have a real connection, and who knows when I’ll need to call her again? I pay for ten minutes.
“We’ve spoken before, yes?” Wow. She’s really good.
“Yes. I just have this situation,” I tell her, deciding I won’t go into great detail, “where a boyfriend who I want back told me he missed me.”
“That seems good?” she says.
“Yes, but it seems too soon, and, I mean, he has this really great girlfriend.”
Now Crystal Visions is quiet. Maybe she’s getting a premonition?
“So, let me understand. You want back a man who is with another woman? Is this a three-way relationship?”
Eww!
“No! Of course not. It’s a long story. I just want to know how to answer him.”
I try not to be short with my psychic friend, but after all, I’m paying by the minute. If I wanted therapy, I’d call my mom. I just want instant psychic insight.
“I’m getting a message that says enough time has not passed.”
I knew it!
“That is exactly what I thought, Crystal. You are so spot on.”
Next, Crystal gives me some very wise insight. I love this about her.
“It feels to me that you have some additional growing…learning…before you are ready for a committed relationship. And honestly, I do not feel that this man is the one. I see a younger man.”
I immediately wonder if there is a transcript from our earlier calls. That would make sense, right? I mean, they can’t possibly remember every single insight with each repeat customer.
“You told me that before, but trust me, Ron is who I want to get back.”
“Sometimes we think we know what we want. Have you been medita
ting?”
Now I know she’s reading past transcripts. It’s OK, though. I kind of like the idea that she’s got a psychic file on me. Better than a short sale file.
“I tried to meditate, but just don’t have time.”
“We all have busy lives…taking ten minutes each morning or evening is doable.”
Suddenly I am sure Crystal Visions sees right through me. Knows that my idea of “busy” is petting my cat, playing online, pretending to be a spiritual guru, and drinking too much wine.
“OK. I promise to try more.”
“And the man…your boyfriend? Tell him you need time to think.”
Brilliant!
At the office, I hope Becky doesn’t mention her dumb juicer that I can’t really afford right now. Once I close a deal, I will buy two if I want.
“Oh, hi! Guess what? I brought you a blueberry smoothie!” she says. How can you hate anyone who brings you smoothies?
“That’s so sweet,” I tell her. I then feel compelled to say, “After yoga this morning, I can really use it.” I hope she asks something so I can tell her how good I am getting, but she doesn’t. So I add, “And I’m getting really good.”
“Nice! I’m dying to go with you, but I live downtown, so I may look for a class there.” She says this like she doesn’t realize my whole life just flashed before my eyes. I stumble off, hoping she sticks to juicing and forgets about yoga.
A few minutes later, my phone rings. Fortunately, Tac is sitting at his desk, acting like he doesn’t notice it’s my phone ringing and not his.
“Hello, this is Melissa,” I say, in my best successful agent voice.
“Hi, Melissa, this is Angie.”
I rack my brain. Where do I know that name? Oh! The listing agent of the house I just sold Anna. Angie, baby, my pal.
“Hey, Angie, how’s our escrow going?” I say this loudly so Tac can hear.
“Oh, it’s fine. I should have disclosures tomorrow, but that’s not what I’m calling about.”
“Oh. OK, what’s up?”
“Well, the people that live next door say you stole their dog?”
Uh oh.
After I deal with my dog-napping faux pas, I get busy on paperwork for Kim’s short sale. Most people in real estate use the term “location, location, location;” however, it’s wrong. In the real world of real estate, especially in California, the term is, “disclose, disclose, disclose.” It seems that people in this sunny state sue for sport; thus, everything, and I do mean everything, must be disclosed.
To be more specific, our rule is anything that qualifies as a “material fact” must be disclosed. This used to confuse me because aren’t most facts material to begin with? Otherwise, we’d call it a “possible fact” or a “maybe fact.” Anyway, my interpretation of a material fact is anything that might make the buyer change her mind about purchasing the house. Facts like leaks in the ceiling, broken septic tanks, and things that go boom in the night. In California, you must disclose if you have ghosts. Actually, the law calls it “stigmatized property.” Neat, huh? While I’ve not yet had the privilege of listing a haunted house, I’m just wondering who is crazier, the person who reports the place is haunted or the agent who must disclose it.
It’s the fine print that confuses me. For example, if Anna, the carpet-sniffing, dog-stealing buyer of mine, were buying a house that previously had tobacco rubbed all over the carpets, but the smell didn’t surface till after the close of escrow…well, wouldn’t that have been a material fact? You see my point.
Anyway, I’m going through these forms and I notice a few spots where Kim didn’t check a box, so I call her. I can’t be sending the other agent who thinks I’m trafficking weenie dogs an incomplete contract, now can I?
“Hi, Kim, got a quick minute?” I say it like that as a sort of warning so maybe she’ll get the hint that I am the one who has only one minute to talk. When it comes to blowing up my voice mail and sending me e-mails, she rivals my mother in consistency. I am sure she’s had some kind of training. Annoyance 101 with a minor in neuroses.
“Hi! Yes, I left you some messages.”
“I know, but I wasn’t really calling to talk about rentals in Orangevale. I don’t work with rentals, so I can’t really advise you on them.”
I say this nicely so she doesn’t get mad at me, but seriously, I’m wondering if she’s been inhaling redwood fibers. Poor thing. I proceed to ask her some questions.
“You didn’t indiciate what kind of stove you have.
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
“I just always get confused on that one. Can you remind me?”
I rub my temple with my trigger finger.
“Gas stoves make fire, electric ones do not.” At this point, I’m wishing I had a gas range to stick my head in.
“That’s right! OK, I have a gas range. It makes fire.”
“Good, OK,” I say, feeling that real progress is being made, “and you didn’t check whether you have a pool or not.”
“Oh, no. All the redwoods, remember?”
“Yes, I remember that you don’t have a pool, but you didn’t check that you didn’t.”
“Well, anyone can tell that I don’t have a pool. I mean, where is it? Duh. And if these buyers think they’re going to screw me into putting a pool in…”
In yoga, we are taught that patience is a true virtue. In fact, meanie teacher said (when she was being nice teacher) that the ability to show patience in times of turmoil is the only true sign of our character. That makes sense, right? Anyone can be all happy and nice when things are going smoothly, but it’s these stressful instances when a person’s real self hits the spotlight. I think of this and assume a sitting warrior two. Fortunately, no one is here to see me.
“OK, Kim, this last one asks if anyone has died on the property in the last three years.”
Kim is silent.
“Kim?”
“Yes, I’m here, I’m just thinking.”
“So, someone has died there?”
“Well, I’m not sure.”
“You’re not sure?” I ask, enforcing my bent sitting warrior pose. Strong like a fighter.
“I mean, I think a woman died here before I bought it, but that was like six years ago.”
“So, that would be a no.” I check the box and try not to cry.
Chapter Twenty-One
Anna was not all happy to hear that Sniffy was not a victim of foreclosure, but rather a weenie dog that wiggled his way out of a hole in the fence of her soon-to-be neighbor’s yard. Apparently the person saw us at the house, then realized the dang dog was missing, just in time to catch sight of Anna driving off with said pup in lap. Stealing your neighbor’s pet is not generally a good way to start off the relationship. I am mortified. Now I need to buy Anna a dog for a closing gift. I tell her that since she has such a big heart, why not go to the dog pound and pick one out. I will pay, plus take her to the pet store for food and supplies. She buys this, but I hear her sobbing. I ask if I should take the dog back, but she says she will. I am deeply relieved.
Upon further reflection, having your clients steal dogs is also not a wise way to get referrals. I send the neighbors a nice card with a picture of a puppy on it. I am hopeful they will see the humor once they understand the backstory. I have to have wine tonight.
Ron has not sent another text. Does this mean he was drunk? Ron barely drinks beer. Maybe Barbie is driving him to drinking? I consider deleting his text. Then I read it again. He did say he missed me. I guess it’s kind of sweet. I decide to text him back.
“Thanks, but I’m moving on with my life.” I hit send and wait. Wait for what? If he was drunk, he’s going to be like, what in the heck? Even if he wasn’t drunk, what if Yoga Barbie is sitting right there with him? That could be disastrous. I would hate to see her hurt after I had her forgive him and everything.
Herman and I think about karma. It’s wonderful that Wikipedia
has so many spiritual concepts. I mean, knowing the precise definition of things can really get a spiritual blogger’s brain in gear. Karma…now it seems there are a couple of different meanings.
Karma (Sanskrit: kamma) in Indian religions is the concept of “action” or “deed,” understood as that which causes the entire cycle of cause and effect (i.e., the cycle called saṃsāra) originating in ancient India and treated in the Hindu, Jain, Buddhist, and Sikh religions.
Karma means destiny (loosely speaking) in Indian religions.
I also learn that there are cities names “Karma,” music albums, and even a place to eat in Northern New Hampshire. However, I am relatively sure that Yoga Barbie wants me to write about cause and effect. Also, the idea of destiny seems palatable. And maybe they are the same thing?
Ron leaves me for someone who hires me. She forgives him for lying about me, and then he says he misses me, but I tell him I’m not interested. Is this like the best example of karma ever? I guess I could try and see it coming back at me, too. I seriously consider things that have happened. Could I have caused Luke Tucker to deal drugs? No, that wasn’t any kind of cause and effect thing there. What about Ron?
Did my putting on twenty pounds, complaining about work all the time, not being interested in things he was, and drinking every night contribute to his interest in Yoga Barbie? Naw. I’m sure he was a closet cheater all along. Or more likely, male menopause just hit him hard. It’s not like he could afford a Corvette, like most guys turning “that age.”
And what about that dang Tac? When does anything bad happen to him? Oh, I know! He did lose those buyers! I bet that was his karma for knocking signs down. Cause and effect. I’m starting to get it.
“While the word “karma” actually denotes an Indian belief in destiny, our more common thoughts revolve around cause and effect. What you do today will have an effect tomorrow. At first blush, this may seem very basic: I throw something up in the air, it comes down. Throwing it is the cause, and it coming back down, the effect. However, when we apply this idea to our own lives, the ebb and flow of our personal paths and spiritual enlightenment, we can better understand ourselves. How often do we blame others for things we ourselves may be, somehow, responsible for? I think one of the tricky things might be when we, with our mortal eyes, cannot see a direct connection. Like say, your boyfriend leaves you for a yoga teacher…. steal some apples on Tuesday and get away with it. However, on Friday, someone steals your horse. The two incidents may seem completely unrelated, but you must honestly ask yourself, are they? Chances are, yes. Perhaps the best way to view karma is to recognize that old adage, what comes around, goes around.”
Secrets of a Spiritual Guru (Guru 1) Page 8