More Secrets of a Spiritual Guru: Love & More Lies

by Tamara Dorris

  Tac is the best kisser ever.

  This sounds worse than it is. First off, let me just say that Tac is a surprisingly nice host. His house is as clean as his desk, and I walk in wondering if he’s gay or just has a very good decorator. I mean, who has pillows that match the candles that have clearly never been lit? His house smells nice just like he does, and tonight he looks especially presentable. Handsome for someone so easy to hate. I try to put my prejudices aside and graciously accept the glass of champagne that appears to be waiting for me. A lot of tiny bubbles. I know from my vast experience in all things elegant that tiny bubbles mean expensive champagne.

  “You have a lovely home,” I say, wondering what the square footage is.

  “Thank you. I like it.”

  I survey the room and decide that he must not spend too much time in the living room. No dents in the seats and everything is so clean. Too clean. I decide further investigation is required.

  “May I use the lady’s room?” I ask, having no clue why I called it that.

  “Sure, right down that hall to the left,” he says as if he says it all the time. I knew it. A top producing playboy. I will certainly put toilet paper on the seat. But oh, look, the toilet paper is folded into a perfect little triangle. He has to be gay or have a housekeeper, but at this point I’m feeling the champagne a little too much to care. I check myself in the mirror and have to admit I’m a bit nervous and wondering why I’m even here.

  Next thing I know, I’m taking a sip of the tiny bubbles to wash down the most amazing asparagus I’ve ever tasted in my whole life, when suddenly Tac makes his move. I did not expect Tac to even have a move, at least not on me. But there it was; his big soft lips extremely close to mine. His breath, well, let’s just say my yoga instructors would have been very proud. I’m impressed at his agility to go from putting my plate into the sink to swinging around and planting his mouth on mine. Right there in the kitchen! I feel my knees get a bit shaky and then before I know it, I am pretty convinced that Tac is anything but gay. Holy Vodka, help me.

  Back at home now, because no way was I going to let that kiss carry me away. I decided I’d better not have any more champagne and that we should watch a movie or something instead. Anything that didn’t require us to be up close physical or have too much eye contact. I needed to reason through this whole kissing business. So Tac puts in Back to the Future, which I’m seriously hoping wasn’t an underlying age joke. I try to make sense out of a kiss that makes absolutely no sense at all. I didn’t get very far, with the logic I mean.

  After the movie, I tell Tac I had to get home and check on my cat. He walks me to the door, and ever so softly touches the back of my head and kisses me on my left cheek. He smells good, like after-shave, champagne and vanilla candles. I can barely find my voice to tell him thank you for the lovely meal and great company, but he seems to understand what I am trying to say. I drive home, slamming my palms into the steering wheel the entire way.

  So here I sit, checking my email, trying to pretend that Top Producing Tac did not just kiss me on my mouth after making me a very delicious dinner in his super clean house. Since I am most curious about everything, I open up my MLS program, punch in my user ID and password and click on the property tax icon. Typing in Tac’s address, not feeling the slightest bit guilty that I do not feel the slightest bit guilty using my work software to spy on Tac. I’m sure other professionals use their work resources to find out important information about interesting clients or personal friends, right? First off, I discover that Tac’s house is 1,852 square feet. I would have guessed less, but then, that’s why we agents have access to this kind of confidential information.

  Next, I see from the mortgage history—and now I am starting to feel the teeniest bit nosy—that he bought the house four years ago. Wow, industrious young fellow. I also see that he put down a whopping twenty-percent! I wonder if he inherited it or just saved up for it. Who saves that much money? It’s not like I can ask him or anything. “Hey Tac, I was accidentally looking up your house on MLS and saw that you put twenty-percent down on your pad. Where’d that come from?” Maybe Becky knows. Becky seems to know these very kinds of things. I resist the urge to text her. After all, if I ask about Tac’s house, she’ll instantly want to know if I’ve been there. She’s nosy like that.

  Suddenly, I hear the little notification that there’s a new email. Imagine my surprise when I see it’s from Tony Robbins! I’ve been waiting for Tony to personally respond to my numerous notes for well over a month now. It seems that Tony will be having a seminar here in Sacramento and wants me to come! I am almost breathless at the thought of meeting Tony in real life. I listen to him in the mornings on the Cd’s I bought from his infomercial and I’ve graduated to others that I listen to almost daily. Or at least try to. He even has cool little videos where he talks to me and seems to know exactly what I need to hear. Between him and my daily horoscope, I’ve managed to reduce my costs of calling my best friend Crystal Visions at the psychic hot line site by fifty-percent! And now here, in my own email box, he’s inviting me to come hear him speak! For only $1,805.00!

  I think I’ll go. I mean, it’s not like I can’t afford it after closing my big almost-million dollar deal. Which, by the way, I attribute some of that success to Tony himself. Of course, I can’t deny credit where credit is due. Listening to my Kelly Dean Abundance meditations every night, feng shui-ing my condo and being a spiritual blogger have all contributed greatly to my recent success. Then there’s yoga. While I still have quite a ways to go to be able to balance myself on one elbow and one knee, I am showing promise. Besides, we now have another instructor who I am sure will either kill me or have me doing the splits in no time. She’s this little Chinese firecracker who is part drill Sergeant and part Buddha. It’s a good combination. It’s like, let’s get spiritual, but why not tone our thighs while we’re at it? Her name is Win Sing. Is that not the coolest of all guru names ever?

  Anyway, I’m taking Win Sing’s class tomorrow so I can sweat a lot in case I end up needing to fit into any cute outfits tomorrow night. You know, if I have a date or anything. I do not know if I will see Tac again this weekend. I’m trying to imagine how this will work. It’s not like we talked about the monumental kiss. So say he doesn’t contact me at all this weekend. Do I just show up at work Monday like he never kissed me? This is so weird. I absolutely refuse to let anyone know we kissed. How could I forget to tell him not to tell anyone? Well, it’s not like Tac is going to walk up to me at Becky’s desk and give me a big wet one, right? Can you imagine? Becky would die! Wait, I would die too, so scratch that idea.

  I fall asleep petting Herman behind his ears, reminding myself to change the sheets this month. I’m also wondering how many square feet my condo is.

  The new yoga instructor, Win Sing, is pushing her luck. Today she made us get into a horse-stance, and apparently my horse is not quite low enough for her liking. She decides to help me, but I stand my ground. My legs are bent as much as anybody’s ought to be, and yet she pushes me down further. My thighs are burning and I am sure I will neigh at her any moment. Then Win Sing says something unusual. She says, “Release your root chakra into the Earth.”

  I have a Root Chakra?

  I have no idea what she means, but suddenly I am trying to release my root chakra with all my might. Should I push it out? I make a mental note to Google and Wikipedia this new important concept as I’m bending deeper one more time, certain my thighs will collapse at any moment. After Singing Win has had her way with me, and with sweat pouring from my most embarrassing crevices, she transforms into this little Chinese fairy, all fluffy and kind and esoteric. She’s having us hold hands in a big circle, close our eyes and chant something that sounds an awful lot like “Onward Christian Soldiers.” I find myself humming and ever so carefully, lifting one eye-lid, just enough to see who else is spying. I see that one girl who always makes the most annoying noises when she does her poses staring at me. She w
ould be a stalker, watching us all when we’re trying to chant. Jeez.

  I have decided two things today. First, I do kind of want to kiss Tac again. Not in an OMG if I don’t get to do it I will die kind of way, but in an I wouldn’t mind it and have maybe thought about it seventeen times since the last stop light kind of way. My second discovery, as I am driving, is about Tony Robbins. I notice that he wants me to pull over and write things down. Now don’t get me wrong, I do understand the importance of being fully committed. Especially with all the money I’ve invested in his programs. I super respect the fact that he recognizes that a lot of people who are listening to his throaty demands could possibly be driving. But really, if every time Tony tells me to pull over and write something down and I did, I would never get to where I am going.

  Back to Tac. I’m sitting at home after my sweaty yoga adventure. I know I should be writing down things that Tony asked me to on my drive back from yoga, but I just don’t feel up to it. Tac has not sent me a text or called me, even after we touched lips last night. Isn’t that worth at least a measly text? I look around my condo, notice Herman watching me, and wonder what I’m going to do (cats are so damn demanding), and then I realize Sundays are a double-edged sword. Back in the days of Ron, there were a few years when Sundays meant laundry, groceries and cocktails while cooking at 2:00 p.m. Now though, in my short three month or so stint of being single, Sundays have this whole new meaning. Cocktails pretty much start the same time, regardless of anything else. I cook, never. And laundry is something I laugh at and step over.

  When Ron left me for Yoga Barbie—and let’s not forget he’s begged me back since—I didn’t realize that something had been missing from my life. I got kind of used to the space, especially with my spiritual blog and all. But now, this one lousy kiss from a slick-haired top producing agent in my office, and I suddenly feel like I should get a facial and bake gluten-free brownies. I do not even know what gluten-free brownies are. And just when I am sure I have reached a new low by checking my phone 142 times, a text comes in and I jump so high that Herman has hopped off the table and hidden beneath the hallway bench that is stacked with books and sweaters and things I haven’t seen in weeks.

  It’s from my mom. Great.

  First she gets a smart phone, then a smart boyfriend. Now she texts me daily like we’re pen pals on speed dial. Clearly my attempts at pretending I rarely text have fallen upon deaf ears. She’s more annoying than anyone I know, yet I find myself strangely falling into that vortex we call ‘family.’

  “Hi Honey!” she texts.

  “Hi.”

  Can you see I’m not being wordy with her?

  “How are u?”

  I hate it when she abbreviates.

  “I’m good. U?”

  “Great. I wanted to talk about sex.”

  So, can we just stop right here?

  My mother lost her husband, my father, years ago. She told me that he was the only man for her and thus I didn’t ever make a plan for the next, I don’t know, million years, to have to deal with my mother even thinking about sex. Seriously, the idea of her pondering it, let alone DOING it is enough to make me move up cocktail hour an entire two weeks. Ugh.

  “What about sex, Mom?”

  “Well, I’m thinking of having it.”

  Ew.

  “Mom! The foot doctor is nice, but sex is a big deal.”

  I text this to her, all the while feeling like I’ve heard the statement before. Okay, so it was a car washer in 11th grade, and she was the one saying it to me, but you get what I mean.

  “Honey, we like each other…and please call him Bill.”

  “Mom! I like the mailman but we have no immediate plans.”

  “Quit being silly. Let’s have lunch and discuss.”

  Ew.

  “Ugh mom...really?”

  “How bout thurs?”

  I swear my mother was born to bother me.

  Just as I’m washing my hands for the fifth time after texting my mom about her having sex with the foot doctor, I hear that old familiar ‘you got mail’ sound coming from my computer. I’m wondering if it’s Tac, which is stupid because he never emails me. That is, unless he emails Nala, spiritual blogger, whom he doesn’t know is me (I think). Anyway, the email is from a couple that says their friend, Kim—a past neurotic client of mine—has recommended me to sell their house. It seems they have to do a short sale, just like Kim. I am instantly amazed at both the fact that Kim recommended me and that she actually has friends. She was an odd one alright. I bask momentarily at the idea of getting a new listing to show off about, especially now that Tac and I are kissing. Then I respond to their email, telling them I would be delighted to assist them with the short sale of their home. They noted they had a lot of questions, so I also assured them that I would be happy to come by and go over the entire process with them. I end the email by asking if tomorrow, late afternoon would work and I hit send.

  I spent an hour or two checking my various horoscope sites, painting my nails and checking my phone for any possible missed texts from Tac. Nothing. So, when it hits 2:00 p.m. I open a bottle of wine. I mean, if he’s not going to ask me over and I don’t have to drive, why should I change my weekend ritual for him? Does he expect me to live my whole life waiting for him to call? Jeez, that guy has some nerve. One kiss and you’d think we’re engaged.

  I’m almost sure Herman just rolled his eyes at me.

  I get to the office early, wearing extra mascara and acting as if I wasn’t expecting to hear from Tac at all yesterday. I carry my perfect yoga posture elegantly through the glass double doors. Becky does a double-take, like maybe she thinks I’ve lost weight, but then she says, “You’re here early.”

  “Oh, I have a listing appointment,” I say, just as loudly as I possibly can without alarming any third world countries. I know that Tac usually gets in about this time and does this little super-sales-meditation at his desk (which I admit is kind of cute). But me being earlier than usual has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that I obsessed over Tac not texting me at all on Sunday. I stop in my tracks when I see that Tac is not at his desk. Suddenly I realize that everything seems different. I mean, I seriously had no intention of ever kissing him, let along liking it. I get settled in at my desk, turn my computer on and look at the front door every 2.5 seconds. This is ridiculous! Am I really concerned about some guy whose face I wanted to scratch off the bus stop bench a few days ago? It really is a good picture of him, but seriously, a bus stop bench? How cheesy is that?

  I decide I better run comps for my soon-to-be new clients. A new short sale listing is enough to make anyone want to put extra mascara on, with or without being ignored by the office show off.

  Running comps is a science that cannot be taken too seriously. You see, in order to know how to price a home correctly, it is essential—and I do mean essential— that the real estate professional does a thorough and carefully researched assessment of the properties that have recently sold within a short radius of the subject property. Then said professional must take into consideration the differences between those homes that have sold and the one she is listing. It’s also not unusual for this professional to contact agents of those other homes that have sold and ask for input so that she is absolutely sure she is coming up with the most accurate price.

  I pull up four houses that have sold recently near this house and without bothering to look up details I pick a number out of the sky. Okay, I didn’t really just pick a number out of the sky, but honestly, this one was a no-brainer. Three of the houses just down the street sold for $200,000. That’s a nice round figure, don’t you think? I have no idea if the bedrooms, square footage or age of the homes are the same, but we agents tend to lean on gut instinct much of the time. My gut says $200,000 is in the right range. I ignore the house on the same street that recently sold for $120,000 because, ew, it must have been in a fire or something. After I print out my comps, put together some blank contracts (I don�
�t even know my new clients’ names because an agent just can’t remember everything), I decide to saunter by the front desk. I cannot emphasize how important it is for Becky to tell Tac—whenever he decides to show his pretty face—that I am gone on a listing appointment.

  “So, I guess I’ll head out now,” I say, trying not to notice that it’s already way later than I intended to leave.

  “Where ya going?” Becky asks, clearly not concerned about my new $200,000 listing.

  “Listing appointment,” I respond, like I say it every day.

  Becky nods, never taking her eyes of her computer screen.

  “Wonder where Tac is?” I say, kind of asking, kind of not.

  Now Becky takes her eyes off her Pintrest page to meet mine. In a lowered voice she tells me, “I kinda think he’s met someone.”

  Oh my!

  All at once, I feel my face flush. I am sure Becky can sense Tac’s lips all over my own. I maintain a graceful, yet cocky demeanor. I will not let the cat out of the bag.

  “Oh, really,” I say, “and what makes you say that?” I swear I just gazed down at my fingernails.

  “I don’t know. I mean, he dates a lot, but sometimes he goes AWOL for awhile. Like when he meets someone he really likes a lot.”

  He dates a lot?

  “Oh, well I don’t know,” I say, mainly because I have no idea what else to say. I collect my composure and my listing package and head out the door. This could be good though, right? If Tac had, say, a super special date with the woman he fixed asparagus for, then maybe he’s just— I don’t know— nervous to face me? Could that be it? Could my sweet little shy Tac be acting all savvy, when inside he’s just a quivering puddle of apprehension? I scurry to my car, blowing a long bang from my eyes. Being young and in an almost-relationship is intoxicating.

  I pull up to my (hopefully) new listing. I am instantly impressed with all the rose bushes. I feel sad because I know that this couple I am about to meet must have taken good care of their roses for them to look this nice, even this time of the year. They are all trimmed and green—the roses, not the couple. Heartbreaking, really. It’s important to remember that the reason people list their home as a short sale is because they can’t afford the monthly payments anymore. At one time, they were probably all joyous and excited, planting roses and drinking wine...and then the market bottomed out. Now they owe more on their house than it’s worth, and they can’t afford their mortgage anymore. People in these kinds of situations often painfully decide to sell. Now someone else gets the rose bushes.