“What’d you think?” I say, because this is what agents are supposed to say to other agents who look at their listings.
“He seems nice,” is all he says.
I call the bank I hate to call, play the phone tree game, and finally get someone who pretends to not speak English.
“Yes, Ma’am, I can look this property up for you if you please provide some information.”
“I pushed all the information in. Why do you make us do that if we have to say it all over again? Seems kind of pointless.”
“I’m sorry, Ma’am, I do not make the rules. Now if you will kindly verify the information, we can proceed.”
I give this guy all the information again, trying hard not to intensify my oceanic breath right into the mouthpiece. I am placed on hold for about a year, and then he comes back on the line.
“Yes Ma’am, thank you for holding. I have located that file. Your short sale offer has been rejected.”
Brilliant.
“Yes, I know that, that is why I’m calling. Can you tell me why it was rejected?”
“I’m sorry, Ma’am, you will have to talk to the negotiator for that information.”
I sigh and consider a job at McDonalds.
Later that night, I text Becky and ask what’s up with Broker Bert. She tells me that he went on some kind of spiritual retreat to help him get a grasp on life. I know Becky is expecting me to care about her feelings and ask if she can tolerate working there, but secretly all I am thinking is, they have spiritual retreats?
I figure her problems, as exciting as they are, are way less than mine. I mean, so what? Your boss is in love with you. Big deal, you kissed him. It’s not like he’s a stalker like Odd Todd, and it’s certainly not like having a fling with someone you sit behind at the office and can’t tell anyone. She’s worried about hurting Broker Bert’s feelings, and I’m worried about my cat collection.
A few hours later, I finally get an email from the negotiator on my short sale, and get this. The reason the short sale was rejected? Two pages out of 789 were missing my seller’s initials. I read this and am filled with both joy (because once I fix it, the sale will be approved) and frustration (because this bank should not be allowed to breathe, let alone affect my mood today).
I feel sure I need to have my aura read. This third book I’m on that I thought was about the law of attraction (that Amazon.com can be so persuasive), is actually on something called ‘energy healing.’ Now, I do not know what that means, but if there is a way to heal my energy that doesn’t involve lengthy procedures or anesthetics, I’m at least willing to listen.
According to this book, some people can actually see other people’s auras. I remember Dawn talking about auras in class, so I know this is a spiritual topic. Because after all, Dawn is all about enlightenment. I immediately curse my mother for not being psychic so I could have been born with aura-reading skills. That would be so cool and quite useful when you think about it.
I have to do my open house today, which I’m actually not dreading as much as usual. For one thing, I got an offer accepted for Tina, Tac is either jealous or trying to sabotage me, my new skin cream seems to be working, and Tony and I are moving right along in our goal-setting sessions. Overall, it’s been a fairly productive week.
I realize I need to pack up my open-house signs, but am distracted by staring at the cats. Herman has no aura that I can detect, but when I set the little fuzzy white one on the table, I seem to see something above him. Of course, he is white and the wall behind him is white so I can’t be sure what it is. Since I’m still not trusting Herman alone with Sam Elliott, Sam goes in the hallway bathroom. Herman licks his paws as I walk by, and I’m secretly hoping he’s not the anti-Christ; black cat and no aura gives me reason to wonder. I will be careful to not walk under any ladders.
I feel kind of bad that I didn’t do more for this open house. However, it’s not a huge deal, not like my million-dollar listing in Granite Bay anyway. Brad Ryan is nice and wants to sell his place and I am happy to help him. I put a sign out on Winding Way and Dewy, one on San Juan and Dewy, one on his street, Leavitt Way, and one with a big arrow right in front of his house. Anyone in the greater Fair Oaks area would be hard-pressed to miss the fact that I am holding an open-house today. I forgot to ask a lender to come, or even make flyers, for which I feel extremely horrible. I just can’t seem to get it together lately and there’s no reason Cowboy Brad should suffer.
I notice the garage door is open and so I decide to go in that way. I mean, is that okay? I knock tentatively, and he hollers, “C’mon in.” Like maybe he’s having a barbecue or something. But when I push the door open, I see him coming down the hallway, walking fast, with a stern look on his face. I have no idea why this guy intimidates me so.
“The garage door was open...” I say.
“You said four, right?”
“Yes, I can lock up.”
“Good luck,” he says, and keeps walking until I hear the car door. I’m relatively sure that within that whole conversation his legs never stopped moving. He closes the garage door behind him and backs out in a shiny black sedan without even looking at me, standing at the garage door, wondering where cowboys go on Saturday afternoons.
I am dead bored the first thirty minutes. I notice the monster dog has not barked at the sliding glass door. I decide to venture out and see where the mangy mutt is hiding, which is hopefully in his dog run. Sure enough, the minute I set foot on the patio, the dog-alarm goes off. Great. Is this what will happen every time a visitor wants to see the nice swimming pool and patio? I glare at him, and he, back at me. We clearly have our differences. I notice his tail is wagging, but his bark is ear-shattering. I threaten him. I tell him I will sing loudly if he doesn’t stop. He barks anyway and I launch into my best rendition of “Raise Your Glass.” Just then, as I am raising my imaginary glass in a most menacing way, I turn around and see a nice woman looking at me, a bit horrified. I guess the front door was unlocked, and I am raising my glass at the dumb dog.
“Hello,” I say, composing myself and hoping I wasn’t terribly off key.
“Hello, dear. Were you singing to Max?”
“Who?”
“Max,” she says, pointing an arthritic finger at the damned dog I hate.
“Oh, yes, Max. I was singing to Max.” I know I do not convince her at all.
The woman shakes her head and I step back inside, offering the still-barking dog a look that says, “I’ll be back.”
“So do you live around here?” I ask.
“Right next door,” she reports.
Nosy neighbors are the worst, and trust me they show up at almost every open-house. They want to see what their neighbor’s house looks like inside. Finally, a chance to spy without spying. Actually, open houses are the best thing ever for that. This woman, however, doesn’t seem like she’s interested in spying.
“Are you looking to sell?” I ask, like the stupidest person ever.
“Oh, no. We are sure going to miss Bradley though. He’s such a fine man.”
Bradley?
“Well, I don’t know him that well,” I tell her, following her into the living room and spotting a young girl’s photos on the fireplace mantle.
“He’s private. Can’t say we know him all that well either, but he sure is there to help us when we need it. Why just last year, he built that entire fence on his own.”
“That was nice,” I tell her.
“Nice? He wouldn’t take a dime, and you know it was half our responsibility.”
I am wondering what kind of cowboy work pays that well, and also wondering about the girl in the photos.
“It was a nasty divorce,” the woman says. “But at least he sees Sasha on weekends.”
“So, Sasha must be his daughter?” I ask, trying to piece this all together.
“Oh yes, sweetest thing ever.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?” I hold out my hand to shake hers and sh
e coyly accepts.
“I’m Margaret. Sometimes we watch Max when Bradley has an out of town case.”
I assume he’s some kind of tree trimmer, so I smile and nod. I am wishing more people would show up so I can meet potential buyers, or at the very least go back out and harass that dog. He really does need to mind his manners.
My next visitor is a family of three who seem to be super-glued together. The man takes one step, then the wife follows, then the small person who I assume is their son is two inches behind. It really is comical. I smile and tell them to feel free to look around. Actually, I just want to watch them walk down the hallway together. I can’t figure out how they can stay so close without tripping over one another. Then I am alone for a while longer. I wonder how the little kitty is doing, and what I should write my new post on. I actually brought a notepad in my bag and I think about sitting at the kitchen table and writing some things down, but instead, I decide to spy on Bradley Ryan’s office.
Inside, it looks pretty neat and tidy, which is really good for a tree-trimmer when you think about it. I run my hand across all the books that seem to be part of a set. All big and blue and bound. Kind of impressive. His computer is off, not that I would go to that length to spy, I mean, unless he had stuff open anyway. I hear the monster dog bark and figure that someone else is here to see the house. Looking at my watch, I realize I’m only halfway done. I head out of the office, but right as I’m facing the door out, I see the framed diploma on the wall.
He’s an attorney?
Of course, while I’m standing there staring at this impressive degree claiming that Bradley C. Ryan is indeed an Attorney at Law, Counsel slips in the back door and steps right into his office doorway.
“Oh my!” I jump and put my hand over my heart.
What’s he doing here so early?
“Didn’t mean to scare ya,” he says, and then realizing that I was in his office and am standing here staring at his impressive degree, he adds, “See anything interesting?”
Now, I think it’s important to note that this is the first and only time I have seen Brad Ryan with what appears to be a slight twinkle in his eyes. And said twinkle catches me off guard. For pete’s sake, I hope I’m not blushing. Honestly, I don’t know if I’m more embarrassed that he caught me in his office or that he is actually making eye contact. Now that I think about it, I’m not sure he’s done that before, either. I release myself from his rather intense stare and smile curtly as I scoot past him, adding, “I was just trying to get a feel for the room sizes. Offices are so hard to gauge.” Halfway down the hall and I finally exhale. I’m so grateful I had my back to him when I told that little fib.
“Well, I just forgot some paperwork,” he says, and then asks, “Any visitors so far?”
“Your neighbor, Margaret, and a few other people.” I say this with a straight face because, after all, the other family that came had three people in it, making it count as officially a “few” people, right?
He seems to buy it, now standing at the opposite end of the hallway with a folder in his hand. He nods and tells me he probably won’t be back by the time I go, so to please lock up. I smile stupidly and assure him I will.
Why do I always get busted?
I head home, and yes I did leave early. However, in my defense, there was only one other couple that came through and quite frankly, I was bored. I am sure an extra twenty minutes would not have made that much of a difference. And, if you add in all the time it takes to pick up my open-house signs, I probably even worked overtime.
Before I start my post, I check email. First, one from Tac to Nala. I suddenly remember the response ‘we’ sent him and am curious as heck to see what he says. I do not know if he was spying on my listing or my seller, or if he really has a buyer. His message to Nala says,
“Nala, I’m afraid you’re off on this one. I haven’t even dated the past year. As I said before, I’m all work and no play :-) How about coffee sometime this week? Warmly, Tac.”
Man-whore!
It’s one thing to say he’s not in a serious relationship, because well, we really aren’t, but to say he’s not even dated? Hello? What am I, a figment of his imagination? Well, it’s more like Nala is a figment of his imagination. Ha! The laugh is on him after all. The part of me that wants to pull his hair out is telling me to answer him and say, Oh, really? Well, that’s not what Melissa told me. He would just die! And, I would have the momentary pleasure of hitting “send,” but then what? It’s not like I get to be a fly on the wall, watching the color fade from his lying face when he reads it and wonders how in the heck the older woman he thinks he has such a handle on got one up on the top producing punk. However, the other part of me, the one that really loves her undercover blogging job doesn’t want to blow her identity. Maybe even more than that, with the way things are now, Tac thinks I dumped him. At least he thinks that in his own twisted way. And in my own twisted way, I kind of feel like I am at least maintaining the slightest bit of dignity by dumping him first.
“Dear Tac, you really should date. It’s good for you to meet women and have fun. I’ll be traveling the next couple of weeks, but let’s touch base when I return. Namaste, Nala.”
My trigger finger stutters, but then I force it to hit “send.” There, done with that. I decide I will write my post on the third chakra.
“The third chakra is our power center. When we are in full control of our lives, this is the energy point that is most affected. The color associated with the third chakra is yellow and it is located in our solar plexus. There are times when the creep from your office who lied to you when people cheat or lie, but in reality, it is up to each of us to find the inner power that resides in the third chakra. Of course, in life, no one really ever cheats anyone else, as karma will keep the bastard in check always deliver justice. The most important thing is that we maintain our integrity, power, and self-respect, no matter what life may throw our way...”
I take a deep breath and decide I will finish it later. For now, it is time for a little wine and my Sunday evening project: vision board! Sam Elliott, who is turning out to be quite a little mama’s boy, is trotting along down the hallway, trying to catch my foot every few steps. Herman seems annoyed with him, but comes along anyway. After all, this poster board, stack of magazines and glue must mean something exciting is going on.
I open a brand new bottle of wine. I decide that today is the first day of the rest of my enlightened life. I made some serious changes when Ron left me for Yoga Barbie, and while I got a little side tracked with Tac and his extra soft lips, the reality is that I need to stay focused on my goals. Being a top producing agent AND being a spiritual blogger who seeks enlightenment and better yoga poses. Besides, I have another mouth to feed now.
I shuffle through the luxury real estate magazine that I took from our conference room. I’m pretty sure no one reads it anyway, except for Tac, and this makes me smile. The thought of him searching for it frantically while I laugh at my desk, knowing it’s all cut up on my kitchen table pleases me.
I start ripping out pages of houses I really like. The ones that are listed for two million dollars are amazing, but I hesitate. Who am I to be a luxury agent anyway? But then, like a little motivational angel, I hear Tony Robbins whisper in my ear. He’s telling me that it’s all about my neuro-programming and how I need to change it. I cut out every two million dollar house I see. Next, I shuffle through some generic magazines that I mostly take from the salon where I have my nails done. I do think they put those in the waiting area to be taken, right? I mean, who can expect me to read an article on cellulite-reducing foods and simply stop reading it because my cute little Asian lady is ready to do my nails? That would just be mean.
I rip out a variety of pictures that I think belong on my vision board: thin thighs (3 sets as I want to make sure the Universe has plenty of options and knows how important it is), firm breasts, nice long hair, a white Mercedes and a diamond ring the size of Canada.
I decide I better think about other things too, like where I want to live and what kind of lifestyle I want to have.
Knowing this requires a great deal of thought because, after all, I’m creating my life and we can’t just jump into this vision board-making willy nilly, now can we? I take a drink of wine and decide I should make a list of things that I would like to have, knowing that the law of attraction promises me they will come true, if only I keep my thoughts and feelings in high gear...or high vibration. I can’t remember which.
The wine is delicious, and in no time I’m making a list of all the lovely things I’m going to ask my Fairy God Mother/Universe to grant me. I decide that since I can’t find all of them in my meager magazine collection, I will go online and Google the images I want. I should Google a new computer! Me and the cats are all pretty excited now, as we notice my phone go off.
A text from Tac?
I hate the part of me that gets excited when I see his name on my phone screen. I reason with myself that it’s only my ego feeling better. It’s a real third chakra rush. Inhaling deeply I see what he has to say:
“You busy? I was going to stop by.”
Is this guy for real?
I try not to smile, but then, I am reminded it’s only the wine smiling and indeed, he is a huge liar with horrible hair. Well, I’m just making that up about his hair, but definitely not the part about lying. So what if he wants to see me? I know in an instant he’d stand me up if Nala messaged him.
“Yes, going out.” I lie and do not even feel remotely guilty about it.
I wait for his response, but there is none. For just 1.5 minutes I think about what that one psychic told me, about him being the one with a life lesson. I wonder if it’s true.
At the office this morning, I am surprised that Tac is not sitting at his desk. You see, now that the proverbial ball is in my imaginary court, I look rather forward to being here. Becky catches me staring at his desk and says in a kind of girlfriend whisper,
More Secrets of a Spiritual Guru: Love & More Lies Page 11
