Wednesday, May 30, 2012

Death of a Salesgirl


Based on my need for an income and a knack for perfect timing, I decided to get into the real estate game.  ME!  A new divorcee with a  real estate license, wearing beige Micheal Kors suits, Tori Burch heels, and carrying a black leather Chanel bag with my many important files.  I envision myself driving rich couples around to waterfront mansions, and magnificent Florida estates on famous golf courses.  Of course, they will be  taking me out to exquisite lunches of raw oysters and Sauvignon Blanc, while we write up their offer on a million dollar plus home.  I love this life!

Now picture me driving around with my REAL client, the grandson of a friend of friend of a friend of the lady who takes my order at Subway.  I am driving he and his parents, (who have recently arrived from Panama,)  to various 55+ communities.  Our goal is to get mama moved in and settled before the hip replacement surgery.  I have explained to Juarez that 55 plus means that he cannot live there with them, as he is probably only around 38.  He says he is not planning to live there but watching  mama buckle him in, I have a feeling he is lying.

Papa is in the front seat next to me.  He eyes me warily from across the console.  "This complex is wonderful and has a convenient bus service to all the local medical facilities," I explain.
"Where es your oosbahnd?" Papa demands.
I look at Juarez from the rear view mirror.
"Papa, she has no husband," he says.
"Eh?" mama wants to be filled in.
Papa fills her in with a rapid fire of unrecognizable words, but which I think translates into "LOOZAAH."

We arrive and  take the elevator up to the unit we will be viewing. I have total clearance from the owner's daughter to go right on in, but still, I begin to sweat as I unlock the door.  Ever since I got my license I have nightmares of entering a domain, and finding the people inside, either engaged in sex or taking a shower.  Since this is a community of seniors, I can only imagine the horror of either of those two scenarios.

"Hellooooo!" "Hellooo!" I holler loudly as we enter.  I glance around, all seems in order.  The pink velour recliners are empty, as is the harvest gold kitchenette.  "Come right in," I tell my entourage.  "Take your time and look around. I'll be right here in the kitchen if you have any questions."  But please don't I am thinking, because as this is my first property showing, EVER,  I am kind of winging it, sooo..... I can venture a guess, but really that's about it.

I set down my purse and have a seat at the tiny kitchen table.  I am staring at the big scuff on my right shoe, when I hear Juarez cry out, "Miss Amy, there is someone here!"  OMG. No. Why?  What did I do to deserve this hell?  I stole ONE mood ring from Sears in 1975 and will pay for it the rest of my life.

I enter the bedroom and I see they are correct, there is definitely someone here.  Grandma is sitting upright in a rocker, (fully clothed thank the lord) and is in a condition, that I believe medical professionals describe as... fucking dead.  I am fighting to maintain calm even though I am so totally creeped out.  Ew.  A dead person.  Seriously?

We haul ass out of there like the Scooby Doo gang, (I was sure I saw a big green apparition chasing us.)
With no invite for sauvignon blanc, oysters or even another appointment forthcoming, I drop the Panamanian contingency off at their car.  As the day shouldn't be a total loss, I decide to head to my favorite sandwich shop for a number 5 with extra hot peppers.  My mouth is watering as I pull up and I grab my purse even as I am still parking.  But wait, no I don't.  My purse is not here.  Where could I have left an entire Michael Kors purse?  Then it hits me...it is on the table in grandma's kitchenette.  Probably being ripped apart by zombies as we speak.

On the ride back to retrieve my purse from the apartment of a dead woman, I do some thinking.  It's possible I may not be on the right career path.  I was really hoping to find a job with people are who are funny, engaging and preferably still breathing. Either that or a very rich oohsband who isn't.


Ex-Wife New Life: living life newly single at 50 while overcoming the pain of divorce and moving on. Visit us @ http://facebook.com/ex.wife.new.life OR participate @ http://forum.exwifenewlife.com

Tuesday, May 15, 2012

Staying Focused

         
                                                 Living the dream....




Ex-Wife New Life: living life newly single at 50 while overcoming the pain of divorce and moving on. Visit us @ http://facebook.com/ex.wife.new.life OR participate @ http://forum.exwifenewlife.com

Friday, May 11, 2012

The Art of Negotiation

This blog is dedicated to the Art Gallery Hiring Lady, whom I had the immense pleasure of interviewing with last week.  If I'm not mistaking, and I'm not, you were going to call me back last Friday, with a time and date for my second interview.    Strangely, I have been to Sprint twice in the last 48 hours, and it appears that my phone is working properly. On a side note, I also found out that I am not due for an upgrade until January as I gave my first iphone upgrade to my daughter H, who had her new iphone all of two days before dropping it on the floor.  There is a huge scratch across the front now, rendering it virtually unusable, while my 1989 crackberry continues to function, though it sounds like you are speaking to me while gargling mud.  The point is, the reason I have not heard from you cannot be blamed on faulty equipment.

I have replayed the interview over and over in my head and frankly, I cannot see why you didn't hire me on the spot.  You asked me what I thought my qualifications were for this job and I told you: 1.  I took an art history class once in college,   2.  I wrote a paper on Mary Cassatt in high school and 3.  I don't have to be home to cook dinner anymore so I can work late occasionally. And yes, I know I said occasionally, but really, do you want me to burn out so quickly that I no longer love standing on my feet all day, offering clients my advice and expertise, only to be told they are just looking as they meander through with a nonfat iced latte?   I mean seriously, a person needs some down time.

Really, AGHL, I am at a loss here.  Did you or did you not tell me you loved my shoes? Did I, or did I not, listen to you blather on and on about your two boys ages 8 and 10.  Guess what, remember that part when I said boys are so much easier than girls?  I LIED!  HA, just wait until they discover Jack Daniels, and Marlboros and combine those two elements with their free period at school.  Oh yeah, you heard me.  Be prepared for the fact that there WILL be parties happening on your porch, once you are sound asleep in an ambien fog.  COUNT ON IT.  Oh and P.S?   Their blonde hair will get darker as they get older, and between you and I, you may want to think of playing down the boyscout uniform photos. In my day, wearing that uniform was just another way of saying: "Hey everybody!  Come kick my ass!"
Just saying....

Okay, I am sorry I laughed out loud when I asked about the mummies lying all over the place,  and you told me they were from an exhibit on sex slaves.  I thought you were kidding.   But honestly, how do you compare those big piles of bandages to little Asian girls with stilettos? I was perplexed.  That's all.  Sure I see it now, mummies and sex slaves.  Of course, it makes perfect sense.  I get it AGHL, I really do.  I am so totally on board with that.

I do not want to threaten AGHL, but I want you to hear this from me.  The day is going to come when I am a published author and will no longer be buying my art from the Target sale rack.  And, when the  people from Elle Decor magazine come over to film me in my beautiful home, they are going to ask me where I acquired all my valuable/breath taking art.  And it will NOT BE from the M****** M****** Gallery AGHL.  Then your boss will say to you, "Hey, didn't you have the chance to hire her?" and you will have to own up to your mistake of epic proportions.  You will be fired and your two sons will have to go back to public school, where they will definitely get their asses kicked for the bowl cuts they sport.

Let's make this easy for both of us.  My crackberry is charged up and waiting for your call.








Ex-Wife New Life: living life newly single at 50 while overcoming the pain of divorce and moving on. Visit us @ http://facebook.com/ex.wife.new.life OR participate @ http://forum.exwifenewlife.com

Wednesday, May 9, 2012

Fashion Statement




"Muu muu, moo moo, or mu mu... no matter the spelling, we have your muu muu! Our Muu muus are made in the tropics and have that cool, free, and breezy hawaiian style!"

I have my summer wardrobe.  With the right accessories it is the perfect day into night look.  It also doubles as my pjs.  Fashionable yet functional!!





Ex-Wife New Life: living life newly single at 50 while overcoming the pain of divorce and moving on. Visit us @ http://facebook.com/ex.wife.new.life OR participate @ http://forum.exwifenewlife.com

Friday, May 4, 2012

A Vicious Cycle

So I had my yearly gyno check up this week.  I always approach this day with fear and a sense of dread as do most hypochondriacs.  As usual, I enter the waiting area and go right past the shining, youthful faces, bursting with child and the ridiculous notion that their future is bright,  and take my place along the wall with the other women over 50, clutching our purses and reading Fosomax brochures.

Thirty minutes later I leave with a prescription for an antifungal, (don't ask,) and some bad news.  I have gained four pounds since last year.  Not only that, the Dr. suggested in a kind but firm manner that I may want to start a new healthy lifestyle and take better care of myself.  Which I believe means put down the salt and vinegar chips and move your jiggly butt.  Fatty.

Really Doc?   Spanx are so much easier, and there is no sweating involved...once you get them on I mean.

Yet, after some serious deliberation, I decide now is the time.  I am going to start exercising regularly and I mean real exercise this time, not my usual kind,  which includes a can of Sprite and the Wii personal trainer game.  That afternoon, I  join the Y as it is close by and I hear they sometimes give out free granola bars on Fridays.  I head home with my new ID card and a schedule of classes.  I feel healthier already!

 Now, hold on, it looks like some of the classes take place outside.  Hellooooooo YMCA people, this is Florida.  We enjoy the outdoors from inside here, and let me make this perfectly clear- I HATE to sweat.  Not gonna happen.  If I exercise it is going to be in an air conditioned facility with Coke machines nearby.  Also, I wouldn't mind a few TV monitors and ipod hook ups. As I peruse the list I see one class that looks as though it could meet all the above criteria...Cycling.  And I am in luck!  The next class is tomorrow morning.  I spend the evening, carb loading in anticipation of the grueling 45 minutes that awaits me.

In the morning I am faced with a huge dilemna, what does one wear to cycling?  I decide right then and there that I am NOT going to turn my workouts into fashion shows.  I am a serious exerciser.   This is about my health (and my growing behind) and I am taking it seriously.  Plus, I don't know anyone who goes to the Y as most of my friends still have husbands and country club memberships.  I emerge from my closet in the perfect outfit, my "MRS. PITT" t shirt and black leggings from my Flashdance era, sans the pink leg warmers.  I think this says it all.

I arrive at the Y and head to the cycling room.  I open the door to my new healthy life style and am greeted by a very bossy woman with a clipboard,  who yells: "Hurry up!  Pick a bike!  The photographer wants to get started and we are already way behind!"  I notice it looks like Broadway opening night in here.  I rush over to a bike and hoist myself up.  "What is going on?" I ask the young girl next to me who is in bike shorts and a cute pink sports bra and obviously is nowhere as serious about her exercise as I am.
"The paper is doing a story on cycling classes!  It's going to be on the front page of the Style Section next Sunday."
OMG. NO.  See?  This is why I don't exercise.

Forty five minutes later I leave with a blinding headache from the hot camera lights and the pulsating music.  The instructor screaming "NOW PUSH IT!  PUSH IT!  LET'S TAKE THIS HILL!!!"  didn't really help either.  My leggings are soaked through with sweat and I imagine I may need a double order of anti fungal cream after this.  The only thing that can make this experience even better is seeing myself on the front page of the newspaper, wincing in pain from the bike seat that is buried somewhere in my netherlands.

Maybe cycling is not for me, if I plan to keep walking upright, but good news!  I found my Jane Fonda videos!  Now, if anyone knows where I can get my hands on a VCR....