“I know just how you feel kid, c’mon.”
I leave the folder, take the cat, and wonder how in the heck I get myself into these kinds of messes.
“Oh kitty!” Becky is thrilled and I momentarily consider telling her the cat is for her.
“I got it for you!” I tell her. However, she’s not buying it.
“You know Brian is allergic. We talked about this.”
I did not know and we did not talk.
“My seller got it for me.”
Now Becky’s eyes get all wide, like maybe there’s some kind of great rumor she’s about to hear.
“Your seller got you a kitten for your birthday? That’s SO sweet!” She’s oozing now.
Tac just happens to be coming back to his desk from the kitchen area cannot possibly pretend to not see us standing there, and he does not disappoint.
“Your birthday’s today? Happy Birthday, Melissa!” He says it like he means it, but I have my doubts.
“Thank you, Tac.” I say, squeezing my toes and setting the cage on Becky’s counter.
“Did I hear that your seller got you this cute little kitten for your birthday?”
I want to explain, no, that my seller doesn’t even know it’s my birthday. But how can I? How can I tell Tac that when my seller saw me crying because he was being a lousy liar, I told him my cat died, my seller felt bad, and gave me this cat. Trust me; no one is more surprised than me that Brad Ryan got me a kitten.
“Yes, I guess.”
“You guess your seller got you a kitten?”
By now, Becky is taking the little fuzzy thing out of the cage and holding it up to her face, talking to it likes it’s an infant. Which, technically I guess it is.
“Well, yes, yes, he did. It was a surprise.”
Tac smirks and then goes to his desk.
I open my email while Becky cat-sits and I see I have one from the bank of my Catholic clients. It says, “Your short sale offer has been rejected.” I sigh. The law of attraction has been working so well with real estate and so badly with romance, so I’m wondering what I’ve done wrong. I do not want to call my clients on my birthday and tell them the offer was rejected. The thing about short sales is that they can be quite dramatic and make absolutely no sense. Here I brought the bank a very good offer and they rejected it. So now, my job is to find out why. This will not be an easy task and certainly not one I feel like doing on my birthday. I am convinced that all banks are born under the sign of Leo. I decide the right thing to do is pretend I did not read this email yet. After all, I can come in tomorrow and act like I’m seeing it for the first time. That makes sense to me, because who really works on their birthday anyway?
I check some other emails and wonder if Becky wants to go to lunch. She must be a mind reader, because she sends me a text that says,
“I’m sorry I have a doctor appt. today but let me take you to lunch tomorrow?”
I’m a little disappointed, but tell her that is just fine because I need to go get some kitten food and take care of this little guy. She sends me back a smiley face.
I say good-bye to Tac and Napping Stan who just walked in and wished me a happy birthday. Stan says it again, and Tac only says,
“Yeah, have a great day.”
However, I am hardly done seat-belting New Cat in when my text goes off. I get into the front seat, start my car, and look down at my text.
“Didn’t you read the rule you’re not supposed to sleep with your clients?”
Now I’m back to hating Tac.
I get home, put the cage on the kitchen table, and it takes Herman all of .005 seconds to leap up and start sniffing New Cat. New Cat arches its little spine up in the cutest cat-pose ever and attempts to hiss. He looks like a mad cotton ball. I tell Herman to give the new kid a break and try my best to explain that his baby brother was not planned.
“Accidents happen,” I tell him, unloading the kitty chow and tiny cans of wet food from the bag.
Now, I’m not exactly sure what to do next. I mean, I know to feed him, but what about the bathroom? Is he big enough to climb into the litter box? I size him up and decide we should do a trial run. Herman follows closely along. Sure enough, the little guy climbs right into the box and starts digging around like he’s been peeing here his whole life. It’s actually kind of cute.
“I know you’re not thrilled, Herman, but look at it this way. You’ll have someone to keep you company while I’m out being a top producer.”
Herman glares at me.
“At any rate, we need to name him. At least I think it’s a boy.”
I name him Sam Elliott Junior. Maybe Sam for short...Sam and Herman. The loves of my life.
I am most impressed with my birthday dinner. My mother sent me a text and asked if I would like them to pick me up so that I can enjoy some wine with my meal. I instantly think this is a wonderful idea. So, Mom and the foot doctor swing by to get me. I am holding Sam Elliott Junior.
“Where did he come from?” My astute mother wants to know.
“And by that, you mean, happy birthday?”
My mom smiles, and leans in to plant a kiss, which I neatly divert to my left cheek.
“One of my sellers.”
“Is he handsome?” she asks.
I want to explain that it’s not like that, but who am I to ruin my mother’s fantasies that a handsome man gave me a cat?
“He looks like Sam Elliott,” I tell her, actually meaning it.
“Wow! I want to hear all about it, but my honey’s waiting in the car, so let’s talk on the way.”
Her honey?
I decide to lock Sam Elliott in the hallway bathroom because I just can’t be sure Herman won’t eat him, maybe thinking he’s a hairball that got away or something.
We drive downtown, somewhere I rarely if ever go, and I realize I have to talk to the guy my mom has been playing post office with. I decide having wine with dinner is the only way this will be tolerable. I sure hope they spare me any details.
The dinner is lovely, the wine superb, and then my mother ruins it all by saying, “Well, honey, I was going to get you a membership to a dating site I found, but if you’ve met someone...” Her voice trails off like she’s waiting for me to give her directions. I think Dr. Bill feels my frustration, because he looks down at his prime rib and kind of pokes at it.
“Mom, I do not need a dating site. Do I look like I do?” I ask the good doctor.
“Um, no, actually, Vivian, it doesn’t seem like she’s interested.”
I notice Bill has very warm brown eyes and it actually seems like he’s wishing my mom would be quiet. I kind of like this guy. Next thing I know, he produces a little gift bag and sets it in front of my plate. Now I know I like him. I hope his gift has nothing to do with feet, but then, I am way overdue for a pedicure.
“That is so sweet, Bill,” I say, really meaning it.
“Happy Birthday, Melissa. I had your mother help me pick it out.”
I reach inside and am instantly impressed with the brand new tissue paper. Feeling a box, I lift it out and am so thrilled and surprised to see my favorite (expensive) perfume. You know, the one I have to count my squirts and coordinate them with my dates.
“Oh Bill, you really shouldn’t have, but I’m so glad you did!”
“Of course! Your mother said you like this scent.” Dr. Bill smiles as he reaches over and pats my mother’s hand. She seems to be glowing.
“Well, honey, if you don’t want the dating thing, I understand, but I want to do something special for this big birthday, and thought that would be good. I was going to get you a whole year membership.”
Now, the fact that my mom thinks I need to be hooked up online is one thing, and that she thinks it would take an entire year of bad dates? That’s just depressing. But the fact that she reminded me I’m single on my big birthday is unforgivable.
“I’m sorry, Viv,” says the foot doctor to my mom. “But I just don’t understand why you
keep referring to being thirty-five as her ‘big birthday’.”
I really am liking this guy more and more.
Actually, I can’t wait to hear how my mother responds. In truth, any birthday that ends in a zero or a five without me producing offspring is what she refers to as my “big birthday.” Well, except for when I turned ten and fifteen. She wasn’t really pushing me so much back then.
“Well, you know what they say,” she starts, but then never finishes.
Dr. Bill, being the nice guy that he is, decides not to throw my mom completely under the bus, so he just smiles and gives her hand a little squeeze. I personally like a diplomatic foot doctor.
Back at home after my birthday dinner, I change clothes and pour a glass of wine. The wine at the restaurant was much better, but I don’t want to waste what’s left in this cheap bottle of Pinot I started the other night. I decide to send Brad Ryan an email, thanking him again for the cat and making sure he got the disclosures. Then I remember the cat. I get the little critter out of the bathroom and hold it in one hand, my wine glass in the other, with Herman trailing close behind.
I send an email that says how thoughtful it was of him to get me a cat and that it just happens to be my birthday so it was an extra nice surprise. I also ask if he would like me to hold an open house next weekend because after all, he got me a cat.
It appears that the law of attraction is largely controlled by our feelings. Apparently, at least according to two of these books I’ve been reading, our thoughts cause feelings and those feelings of ours are made out of some sort of magic energy juice or something. I’m no scientist, but some of this stuff sounds like it might be pretty scientifically-sound. For example, this second book I’m reading explains how it’s perfectly normal that if you start your day, say, bumping your head on the corner of the kitchen cabinet, then you tend to get mad and carry that mad feeling around with you for a while, until it attracts some other bad thing that will make you mad (hopefully, no more kitchen cabinets). Before you know it, you’re all swallowed up and surrounded by more and more things that keep making you madder and madder. Sounds like a vicious cycle I may have fallen into when it comes to my love life.
I decide that this landmark birthday can be a new start when it comes to the thought department. I mean sure, I Feng Shui-ed my closet last weekend, listen to Tony nearly every day, and keep saying I’m going to meditate a lot. But what if I really put effort into my thoughts? Would that make a difference? This book talks an awful lot about the power of the mind and the importance of visualization. It even goes so far as to say whatever we see in our mind’s eye repeatedly and with strong emotion (and I have no shortage of that) we can create it. Imagine that! It’s like having some great big giant Fairy Godmother in the sky, all ready and poised with her magic wand, waiting to grant me a lot of houses sold and a really nice husband.
The book suggests I picture my heart’s truest desires and write them down. Even Tony thinks writing our goals down is important. Then I read something about a vision board.
A vision board?
I immediately like the sound of it and decide I must have one at once. Apparently, a vision board is all the pictures that represent my goals, pasted as some kind of collage. I spot the perfect place on my wall, right next to my computer, where I will put my new vision board. Interestingly, I find I’m not exactly sure what I want. A house in the hills? A live-in butler? I know I want that white car to show up. Maybe the Universe misunderstood me and brought the white cat instead? I look down at the little pile of white fuzz that is now all curled up on my lap. I hate to wake it up, but we have work to do. Creating vision boards requires plenty of time and forethought. I take my new cat, my notepad and my empty wine glass into the kitchen so we can make our list. Herman chooses not to follow.
I decide to go to yoga. I figure by now, Win Sing is thinking I went AWOL or something. I walk into the warm room and instantly regret having missed the past few days. My thighs are already screaming at me, and I’m pretty sure my spine has gone back to sleep.
Win Sing has us do a low airplane. Now, if you’ve never done a low airplane, then you don’t know what pain is. A low airplane is not even worthy of explanation, except to say that after fourteen different bent-leg warrior poses, one might be most inclined to fly their low airplane right off of a high cliff. My thighs ache and I’m considering turning Win Sing in for yoga abuse. Then she yells, “Why are you judging?” At first, I think that Win Sing has gone all psychic on me, but then I realize she is not speaking to me specifically, but the class as a whole. Or maybe society as a whole. She just has that look about her.
“When we judge others, we are judging ourselves!” she shouts, holding her tiny toned arm straight up into the air.
I am relatively sure my airplane will crash at any moment, when she softens her voice and tells us to breathe into the feeling. She says it only hurts because we have placed judgment on the discomfort. I am pretty sure she is wrong, and that it hurts quite a bit. Finally, she tells us to relax, and about half the class lets out a huge sigh. Okay, it might have been just me, but it was so loud, it’s hard to believe it wasn’t a group effort.
As we lie in our final spinal position, Win Sing continues with what I have come to call her “lesson of the day.”
“Remember, that next time you judge someone, you are judging yourself. You only notice something in others for a reason.”
She leaves us with that complicated thought. Of course, once your legs are Jell-O, like mine are right now, just about any thought strikes you as complicated. Even when she says, “close your eyes,” I have to think twice about what I’m supposed to do.
It occurs to me that the very act of me thinking she’s bossy is a judgment in itself. It reminds me of when my mom used to talk all the time about her friend, Susan. She would always say that Susan was such a gossip, and then she would go on to tell my father and I exactly what the gossip was. Isn’t calling someone a gossip kind of the same as being one? I think my mom needs yoga.
Just when I think my week can’t get any worse, I get this text from Odd Todd:
“Would you like to have a drink?”
Ew.
It occurs to me that Brad Ryan was actually a referral from Todd, so I decide when I see Tina I will ask her for more information about this Southern-talking Sam Elliott look-alike. I pull up at the house where I’m supposed to meet her, seriously wanting to tell her that her not-even-ex-husband is kind of a player. But then I remember we have at least another week until escrow closes, and it will be a good paycheck. Oh, plus the gossip thing.
“So how are you?” I ask her, almost cautiously.
“I’m good. The picture of the inside of this one looked really cute,” she says, all but ignoring my cautiousness and walking right to the front door.
We look inside and I can tell she likes the place. It’s actually pretty nice, considering she’s taking a step down from her bigger house.
“So are you and Todd getting along better?” I ask, running my hands over the brick fireplace like maybe I’m checking it for something.
“Well, I’m going to go ahead and buy a house without him. I may give him another shot, but I need some time.”
I am dying to ask her what the issue is, and dying even more to tell her about his unsolicited texts. However, I cannot. Instead I say, “Well, Todd sent me that very nice referral.”
She asks who and I remind her about Brad Ryan, telling her I guess Todd works with him.
She laughs.
“They don’t work together?”
“If you count Todd pruning his trees working together.”
I’m so glad she left Odd Todd, but even more, wonder why tall Sam Elliott can’t prune his own trees.
Back at the office, I notice that Broker Bert is in his office. Becky rolls her eyes at me and I am dying to know what’s going on. Anyone’s drama is better than my own. Hers is probably juicier anyway. Tac is sitting at his desk, not looking
at me as I walk to my own. Honestly, I just let it go. After all, if he’s judging me then he’s just as bad. I wish I could call him a hypocrite in front of the whole office, but being more spiritually enlightened than that, I sit at my desk and pretend to work.
I open up my email and then remember the short sale rejection. Ugh. I do not want to call the bank and beg in front of Tac, so I decide to put that task on hold until he leaves. He always leaves, eventually. Besides, Tina wants to write an offer on the house we saw today. I check my emails and see one from Brad Ryan. It says this:
“Glad you liked the cat. Someone from your office came to “preview” the house, whatever that means. Guy named Tac. Open house Saturday is fine. See you at noon, BR.”
What?
I pull my gaze away from my computer screen and plant it on the back of Tac’s big head. What in the heck is he going to my listing for? Is he trying to steal it from under my nose? It would be one thing if he brought a client with him, but to have the audacity to go to one of my listings without even having a buyer? That takes some nerve, almost like he’s...spying on me! Is Tac spying on me? Although I try to play the Cool Hand Luke card, I fail miserably.
“So Tac,” I say, kind of cocky, kind of irritated.
“What’s up?” He doesn’t even turn around, which infuriates me. Can’t even make eye contact.
“I heard you visited my listing.”
“Oh, yeah, got buyers in that price range.”
Hmmm.
It’s actually not that low of a price-range. Usually, he’s pretty high-end stuff, but this is in a good area. This is my nice self talking. Then, my evil self speaks up and says that Tac has never previewed a property in his life. His MO is bait and switch or catch and release and I really see no in-between with this guy.
More Secrets of a Spiritual Guru: Love & More Lies Page 10
