Crawling into my bed, I look around for Herman, the black cat that wandered into the complex last year. Ron hates cats. I had to beg him to let me keep this cat. He said, “Only if it’s an outside cat.” I explained that our “outside” is a tiny little patio off the living room and the rest would be dangerous, with cars all the time. Ron assured me that cats can see cars as well as we can and that Herman could come in when the weather was bad, but I had to keep the litter box in the spare room, also known as my home office. Ron said Herman was a dumb name. And Shanza? Who has a dumb name now? Tonight, though, I let Herman in. Damn Ron and his “no cats in the house” rule. I hop out of bed and look around for the cat. I call him. Finally he comes. He’s cautious, looking around, wondering why he gets to be inside when it’s not even raining. I get him a bowl of water and remind him where the litter box is. He seems to understand. I put him on my bed, and he looks at me like maybe I’ve gone a little crazy. I tell him it’s OK, it’s his bed too now. He jumps off.
I toss and turn for hours. How can I sleep? My boyfriend has left me for a younger, prettier, thinner woman; my biggest deal fell through, and I have nothing new to wear. Even my cat won’t sleep with me. I give in to insomnia and fumble around for the remote. Ha! I am finally in charge of it. I can keep it on my side of the bed now. Maybe being abandoned by the man I thought would someday propose has its perks. I flip through the channels, and nothing is on. How can there be 738 channels and nothing to watch? I flip it to an infomercial. Is that Tony Robbins guy still trying to change lives? Doesn’t he have enough money now that he can just relax and enjoy his own life?
Tony is telling me that I do have something to believe in. What? I ask him. He tells me if I am willing to “invest” in my own life, I can turn it all around. Lose weight, get rich, have my boyfriend come crawling back to me on his slithering belly. Well, Tony didn’t actually mention the boyfriend thing, but I’m sure that’s what he meant. I decide that’s my new goal. I will turn my life around. There will be a brand-new Melissa Murphy coming to town! I will lose weight, sell more houses, and win my man back so I can tell him to piss off. All that for only $89.99 plus shipping and handling.
I wake up forgetting I’ve been dumped, but the smell of cat pee on my comforter soon reminds me. I get up and find Herman sleeping in my office, next to the litter box. Apparently he got confused about which place to pee and which place to sleep. Should I stay home or go into the office? Then I remember the New and Improved Melissa Murphy can handle this. I check the mailbox. No CDs from Tony Robbins yet, but then, it’s only been four hours. I figure I’ll go to work and get it over with.
In the office Becky’s kind eyes greet me. She’s all smiley and supportive. I decide I won’t tell anyone about Ron leaving me. Why should I?
“Ron moved out,” I say, betrayed by my own mouth.
“What!” Becky says, jerking her whole body around, prepared to take notes if necessary.
“It’s fine, really. It wasn’t going anywhere.”
“I’m so sorry, Mel. You’ve really had a rough week.”
Like I need reminding.
“I told him I thought he should move out,” I lie.
Becky eyes me suspiciously. I am praying that she doesn’t call my bluff because I am sure if she does, I will break down right there in the front of the office reverting to my Old Melissa Murphy Mode and sob like a baby.
“Last week you were looking at wedding dresses,” she challenges cautiously.
“Yes, well, I’ve decided he’s just wasting my time, you know.”
She goes for it. Or at least she lets me think she does.
“Yeah, well, that’s too bad things didn’t work out.”
Real friends let you lie to their face and then pretend they believe you.
“What’s too bad?” Tac’s timing is epic.
Becky looks at me for guidance.
“Nothing much. Boyfriend and I split,” I say, as if maybe I broke a finger-nail.
Tac pretends to care, with his sad green eyes. “Oh Melissa, I’m sorry to hear that.”
Yeah right.
“It’s fine, really. My idea.” Becky looks away.
Great. Five minutes in the office and I’ve already lied my head off. I wonder if the Tony Robbins CDs will address this. I shake off the guilt remembering that in just a matter of weeks I will be thin, rich, and embarrassed by all the compliments I’ll get when Ron starts sending me roses every day. Fool.
I check my personal e-mail. My work e-maiI is my name and my company, but my personal e-mail, one of those free accounts, is [email protected]. I know, it’s not fun or flashy, but I was younger when I got it and really never used e-mail much. Plus, it’s pretty easy to remember my initials and how many pounds I’ll weigh if I don’t stop eating cheeseburgers and milkshakes.
Heat floods my face when I see I’ve gotten an e-mail from Shanza. What? Is this woman stalking me? It’s not enough she seduces my man with her sexy yoga poses, but now she’s e-mailing me at work? When will this madness end? Then I realize that she’s not really stalking me, but responding to my e-mail. I also realize that I was the one stalking her. Damn Internet.
“Hello there! Thank you so much for your interest in our guest blogger opening. It’s very impressive that you’ve studied yoga in India and that you are a vegetarian. I think you would be perfect for the job! I would be honored to have you start right away. Also, even though the position is not currently a paid one, you are more than welcome to join us at the studio as often as you like. By the way, I don’t even know your name Look forward to chatting with you more. Please confirm that you are still open for this position. Namaste, Shanza.”
Crap.
I busy myself at my desk, straightening up the purple sticky notes that suddenly look lopsided and wiping off my computer screen that gets a little layer of dust every so often. I glance over at Tac, who is talking on the phone in a low voice. Probably to some bimbo. I secretly think he’s gay. Anyone who dresses so nicely and spends that much time on his hair has got to be gay. Becky says no, but maybe this is one time she couldn’t verify her facts. I look back at the e-mail. I’m not sure what to do. My morning has already been filled with lies, and something tells me it’s not too late to redeem myself when I get my Tony Robbins CDs. On the other hand, what harm would it do to couple my new and improved life with getting enlightened? Yes! That’s it! I will go to yoga and be a vegan and stop drinking! That will speed up the New Improved and enlightened Melissa Murphy. Why didn’t I think of it sooner?
I straighten my posture. This is perfect! Ron has done me a favor. Once he sees how fit and rich and flexible I am, there is no doubt that before football season ends he and his flat-screen will be back in my arms forever. But oh, I’ll say, “I do yoga now. PLUS, if you think you’re moving back in here, you’ll have to put a ring on my finger, you lousy cheating pool cleaner.” Ha! Feeling rather smug, I adjust my keyboard.
“Dear Shanza, Thank you for your e-mail. I would be delighted to accept your offer. It will be a joy to share my wisdom with your readership. Please let me know the first topic you would like me to write about and when it is due. By the way, my name is Nala. Namaste.”
I hit the send button and suddenly wonder why the best yoga name I can come up with is the Lion King’s girlfriend. Crap. Now to look up what “Namaste” means. According to Wikipedia:
“Namaste is a common spoken valediction or salutation originating from the Indian subcontinent. It is a customary greeting when individuals meet, and a valediction upon their parting. A non-contact form of salutation is traditionally preferred in India, and Namaste is the most common form of such a salutation.”
So it means hello?
Chapter Six
I am desperately hoping Shanza does not ask me what part of India I studied in because I can’t pronounce a single town. Hopefully yoga will not be all that complicated. I do a Google search for yoga in Fair Oaks. I mean, clearly I cannot do yoga at Shanza’s studio. That would
be crazy stupid. Besides, even if Yoga Barbie didn’t recognize me (or know I even exist?) Ron certainly would. And besides, I don’t want him to see me until I’m new and improved. The only option is to find another yoga studio that I can go to. My search tells me there’s a studio seven minutes from my condo. Who knew?
My phone rings. It actually surprises me, and I instantly look up to see if Tac noticed. He seems to be gone. I just can’t get a break.
“This is Melissa.”
“Hi, Melissa. It’s Kim.”
Oh good. Neurotic Kim, one of my two current clients.
“Hi, Kim, how was the trip?” Where did she go again?
“Oh, it was fine. It was nice to see my mom.” That’s right, Ohio.
“Well, that’s great. How you feeling?” I ask, not sure what else to say.
“I’m OK. Any word from the bank?”
“I just called them,” I lie, grabbing her file, with very good intentions.
“And?”
“And, they told me to call back tomorrow.”
“Jeez, they’re such jerks.”
I tell her I agree and suddenly feel outraged at this bank I didn’t really call.
Let me explain short sales.
Since I started selling houses at the worst time in American history, this is the only market I have ever known, but we have a lot of old-timers in our office. Napping Stan, for example, remembers when agents had to put their own “for sale” signs in the yard. He tells me he carried a shovel and a hammer in his trunk. That crazy Stan. Also, Stan told me when I got my first short-sale listing—which happens to be the only thing I’ve closed in the past three months—that back in the day, they were done much differently.
The process now is ridiculous but basic. A whole bunch of people bought houses for way more than they could afford when homes were priced way too high; then the market crashed and hardly anyone had any equity in said houses. Some people can’t afford to make the payments on those over-inflated mortgages, and that’s where I come in. Well, OK, that’s where I’ve come in once and now I’m working on number two. A real estate agent lists the property, gets an offer, and does a million pieces of paperwork, waiting and praying that hopefully the bank approves the sale. So by definition, a short sale is when the lender of the house accepts a short amount due.
I am not an expert in short sales. Heck, I’m not even an expert in long sales; just look at what happened with Luke Tucker. However, I find that I like short sales so far because they’re mostly about e-mailing documents and experiencing phone trauma with the banks. These lenders, I’m convinced, have all installed the most challenging phone tree systems known to man (or woman). It is ridiculously complicated to call and check on the status of your short sale because each call is a very time-consuming ordeal, practically requiring therapy afterwards. My calendar says to call Kim’s bank yesterday, so I know I have to do it now. Hopefully my lie will be forgiven, but I didn’t feel like telling Kim that my enormous record-breaking commission just went down the toilet, my longtime live-in boyfriend left me for his yoga teacher, and I just got hired to write a blog about my experiences in India. Kim is not understanding like that.
I dial the bank and fish around in my desk drawer for an emery board, which I can never seem to find unless I am looking for something else. I notice Tac is back at his desk, but only long enough to put his suit jacket on, smooth back his hair, and grab his keys. He turns around unexpectedly and catches me gawking at him. I jerk my eyes to my computer screen as quickly as I can and act like I am super busy. On the phone and reading e-mails. So much work. I think I see him smirk or grin from the corner of my eye, but I’m not about to look. Like that guy needs his ego inflated any more.
The bank’s phone system has me pushing seventeen different options. The phone trees are like diving into some deep, dark rabbit hole. It’s not like you can call a bank, get a human being, and then ask to speak to whoever is handling the file. That would be way too easy. No, instead, you are guided along a winding path, and you better bring bread crumbs, lest you never find your way out and end up perishing in Phone Tree Hell.
“Push one if you speak English. Push four if you know your loan number. Push six if you wish your boyfriend had never left you. Push three if you are calling on behalf of the borrower. Push two if he left you for a yoga instructor. Push the last four digits of the borrower’s social security number. Now hold on long enough, and your call will be disconnected.” Are you serious? I just went through all that, and I got hung up on. This is such a gimmick. I imagine these banks have one person who never actually speaks to any agents or borrowers, but rather, sits in a fancy office, laughing all day, watching some big switchboard in the sky, and then when callers get to a certain place on the bunny trail, a button gets pushed, and the call ends. Bastards.
I take a deep breath and try again. Kim is counting on me, and I need to eat next month. I have no idea how much wheatgrass and yoga cost, but I’m obviously going to need some cute yoga clothes to complete the package. This time, I get through to a customer service person. She says her name is Chris, and she sounds exactly twelve. Chris reads off the disclaimer that they have to read each time, letting me know that this is a debt collection, yada, yada, yada. I want to ask Chris if she does yoga.
“How can I help you today, Miss Murphy?”
I cringe that I will never hear “Mrs. Murphy.”
“Just checking the status on this file.”
This, after the phone tree fun included me punching in the name of the borrower, the property address, the loan number, the borrower’s social security number, and the current price of gold. OK, maybe not the last one.
“Can I have the borrower’s name, please?”
I sigh. “Kim Stern.”
“Property address?”
I clench my teeth and tell her what she wants to hear. Having callers punch in all the same information when they call must just be a stall tactic. Probably can’t afford elevator music.
After twenty minutes of this ordeal, I learn that “the file is lost.” I want to reach through the phone and yank twelve-year-old Chris by the hair. Just wait, someday you’ll have cellulite in places you didn’t think was possible, young Chris.
“Is there anything else I can help you with today, Miss Murphy?”
As if she’s been any help in the first place.
“No, I’ll call back next week. Oh, and it’s Mrs. Murphy,” I tell her.
Chapter Seven
What does one wear to yoga? I contemplate this over a nice glass of pinot while doing an Internet search on yoga clothes. I mean, it’s not like I can show up, the new kid on the block, with all this belly fat, and not at least be fashionable. I laugh in my wine glass when I see what some of these yoga divas are wearing. There is no way I’m wearing those stretch pants or tiny tops. I would look like a pregnant seal. Then I see long black cotton yoga pants that are not skintight. Nice. Only sixty-nine dollars? For exercise pants? This has got to be some kind of mistake. I will go to the local sports equipment store where Ron bought his dumbbells (that I should have hit him in the head with). Fortunately, I haven’t finished my first glass of wine, so I put it back on the kitchen counter and head off to find some yoga pants. I do not drive and drink, because I am not that kind of person.
A young man who I am sure is addicted to some kind of illegal steroids strides up beside me.
“Can I help you, ma’am?” he asks.
Why does everyone think I’m so old?
“Can you tell me where the yoga clothes are?” I say, all smug and enlightened.
Arnold Junior gives a yeah-right nod and then points halfway down the store and to the left. I thank him but don’t really mean it. Soon I am surrounded by stretchy pants and tops with little sports logos on them. It’s amazing that they make so many different things to wear for working out. I used to go for walks in old ugly gray sweat pants and a baggy T-shirt, but this is crazy. And the prices! Who would pay $29.99 for a
top that would be too small for my cat Herman? My thoughts are interrupted when I hear a voice.
“Can I help you?” It is Twiggy, come to help see what I can possibly fit into. Her ponytail swings from side to side, and I want to yank it. She is wearing black stretch pants, and there is no sign of thigh fat.
“Hi. Yes, I’m looking for yoga clothes,” I tell her, staring right into her eyes, daring her to smirk.
“Great!” she says, smiling, leading me to a rack with black pants.
“Not tight ones,” I say, trying not to look at how cute hers are.
“Sure, how about these?” She holds out a pair of black cotton pants. Kind of like the ones I saw online.
“I like these,” I say.
“What are you, about an eight?” she asks.
Oh, she’s good.
“Well, that’s my normal size,” I tell her, suddenly finding her a delightful conversationalist, “but just to be safe, I’d better go a couple sizes bigger…I like things baggy.”
Twiggy smiles as if she totally understands, which is physically impossible, based on the size of her butt.
She hands me a pair that are bigger than—and not nearly as cute as—the size eights. I tell her I need a shirt too, but, again, nothing too tight. She finds me a stretchy tank top in soft blue. I like it so much I decide to get one in red too. I never wear red, so I figure, what the heck.
Only ninety-two dollars later, I’m back at home, sipping the rest of my pinot. Now it’s time to find out how to sign up for a yoga class. I am excited. I think I’m going to like this New and Improved enlightened Melissa. I feel thinner already. In fact, I did not stop for a burger on the way home. I’m not going to say I didn’t think about it, but these things take time.
There’s a yoga class at the studio near my house the next day at 4:00 p.m. I am so excited that I’m skipping dinner tonight, just to make sure I look nice in my new yoga pants.
It is 9:00 p.m., and Herman is watching me put a new blanket on the bed. I ask him to please not pee on it. My stomach growls. I haven’t eaten all day, and that just can’t be good for me, especially after three glasses of wine. I make my way to the kitchen for something healthy to eat. There is nothing. However, there are some Oreo cookies that the cheating, lying pool cleaner left behind. I bet Yoga Barbie has a “no Oreos” rule at her house. That will make him miserable. I smirk the whole time I am polishing off the rest of the package. I am so glad I am starting yoga tomorrow. Maybe my CDs will be in the mail too.
Secrets of a Spiritual Guru (Guru 1) Page 3
