Secrets of a Spiritual Guru: Real Estate, Yoga & Lies

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Tamara Lee Dorris has been a life-long fan of personal and spiritual development, and has written several books that fall under the category of "self-help." She wrote Guru as a way of poking fun at how easy it is to become an online expert. Tamara has gone crazy selling houses, loves yoga, drinks wine and is still as addicted as ever to personal development. She lives in Northern California with a bunch of annoying animals and her husband. She has four kids that she likes a lot and a mother that drives her nuts. Learn more at www.tamaradorris.com.

Transcript of Secrets of a Spiritual Guru: Real Estate, Yoga & Lies

Page 1: Secrets of a Spiritual Guru: Real Estate, Yoga & Lies
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Secrets of a Spiritual Guru:

Real Estate, Yoga & Lies  

Tamara  Lee  Dorris    

Chapter  Excerpt  

  On  the  way  to  the  office,  I  stop  to  put  gas  in  my  stupid  car.  When  this  deal  closes,  I  am  

seriously  considering  a  new  car.  Ron  says  my  car  is  fine,  but  that  I  just  don’t  take  proper  care  of  

it.  To  hear  him,  you’d  think  I  put  sugar  in  the  gas  tank.  How  important  are  oil  changes  anyway?  I  

mean  really,  how  dirty  does  oil  get?  Well,  it  turns  out,  plenty.  

  Ron  said  to  me,  “You  know,  Melissa,  cars  aren’t  like  clothes.  You  can’t  just  get  a  new  

one  because  you  don’t  feel  like  hanging  up  the  old  one.”  

  I  scowl  at  him.  I  always  hang  up  my  clothes.  But  in  an  effort  to  humor  him,  I  take  my  car  

into  one  of  those  almost  drive-­‐thru  oil  change  places,  and  naturally,  they  try  to  tell  me  that  my  

car  needs  a  million  dollars  worth  of  repairs.  Wise  to  their  tactics,  I  scoff  and  tell  them  just  to  

change  the  oil  please,  a  new  filter  will  not  be  necessary,  thank  you.  I  pay  for  the  oil  change,  

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outraged  that  a  couple  of  cans  of  oil  cost  so  much.  It  can’t  possibly  be  that  difficult  to  pour  

them  in,  especially  with  the  little  funnel  and  everything.  The  young  girl  at  the  register  checks  

my  ID  and  then  smiles  up  at  me.  

  “You’ve  got  a  birthday  coming  up.”  And  here  it  looked  like  she  couldn’t  read.  

  “Couple  months,”  I  say,  looking  at  my  phone  like  I  am  expecting  a  call  from  the  

president  or  something.  

  “Well,  happy  early  birthday,”  she  says.  I  know  she  is  really  thinking  how  glad  she  is  that  

she’s  not  anywhere  near  my  age.  Little  bitch.  I  thank  her  and  head  toward  my  oil-­‐fed  car,  

wondering  how  hard  it  would  be  to  change  my  driver’s  license  and  update  the  third  number  of  

the  year  I  was  born.  It’s  easy  to  lie  online.  In  fact,  any  time  I  sign  up  for  anything  that  asks  for  a  

year  of  birth  and  has  a  drop-­‐down  selection,  I  just  pick  the  decade  after  mine.  I  figure,  if  it’s  

ever  on  a  legal  matter  or  anything,  I  can  just  lie  and  say  it  was  a  mistake.  Damn  mouse  slipped  

or  something.  

  At  work,  Becky  is  in  Bert’s  office.  Bert  is  my  Sean  Connery  look-­‐alike  broker.  I  think  he  

has  a  crush  on  Becky,  but  he’s  old  enough  to  be  her  grandfather  and  smart  enough  to  know  

sexual  harassment  laws  in  California.  I  slip  into  my  cubicle,  trying  not  to  seem  too  cocky  about  

my  upcoming  big  commission  check  that  I  want  to  rub  in  Tac’s  face  as  soon  as  I  get  it.  I  open  my  

e-­‐mail  and  see  one  from  Luke  Tucker.  It  has  the  little  red  exclamation  mark  next  to  it,  so  I  hold  

my  breath  and  double  click.  Uh-­‐oh.  

Oh  no!  

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  Melissa,  I’ve  decided  that  I’m  not  going  to  go  through  with  this  deal.  I’ve  filed  

bankruptcy  with  the  federal  court  this  morning.  Thank  you  for  all  your  hard  work,  but  hopefully  

you  will  understand  that  I  am  being  treated  unfairly.  Luke  

  I  gasp  for  air.  I  can’t  find  any.    Who  took  the  damn  air?  

   I  must  have  made  a  dying  sound  because  before  I  know  it,  Becky  is  standing  next  to  my  

desk,  and  Stan,  an  older  agent,  has  spun  his  chair  in  my  direction.  

  “What  is  it?”  Becky  asks  in  her  animated  way.  

  “Luke…not  selling…”  I  try  and  stutter  out  the  words,  but  they  are  stuck  in  my  throat.  

  “Whaaaat!”  Becky  yells,  bending  over  my  shoulder  to  verify  facts,  like  she  does.  

  “Oh  my  God.  I  am  so  sorry!”  She  puts  a  hand  on  my  shoulder,  and  I  realize  it’s  been  at  

least  five  minutes  since  I  breathed.  Maybe  ten.  Suddenly  I  notice  that  Tac  is  not  at  his  desk.  

Thank  God.  That  is  the  one  reason  I  finally  decide  to  inhale.  

***  

  My  broker,  Bert,  explains  that  I  am  fully  entitled  to  my  commission,  but  that  if  Luke,  the  

bad  client,  filed  bankruptcy,  it  would  be  hard  if  not  impossible  to  collect.  He  adds  that  it  would  

also  likely  cost  me  ten  thousand  dollars  in  attorney  fees.  I  tell  Bert  I  do  not  have  ten  thousand  

dollars  for  attorney  fees.  Bert  says  he  understands.  He  does  not  tell  me  he  will  give  it  to  me.  I  

bet  he  would  if  I  were  Becky.  

  At  home  I  try  to  pry  Ron  away  from  the  computer.  

  “Bad  news,”  I  say,  grabbing  a  bottle  of  wine  and  looking  through  the  sliding  glass  door  at  

Herman,  the  stray  black  cat  that  needs  to  be  fed.  

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  “I  thought  you  weren’t  drinking  wine  on  weeknights,”  he  tells  me,  his  face  buried  in  his  

laptop.  

  “Listen,  I’ve  had  a  really  bad  day.”  

  “It’s  fattening,”  he  says,  as  if  I  do  not  know  the  routine.  Yes,  alcohol  is  fattening.  

Especially  for  me  because  once  I  have  a  couple  drinks,  I  suddenly  think  my  metabolism  is  so  

drunk  it  will  forget  that  I’ve  decided  to  bake  cookies  at  9:00  p.m.  and  eat  half  of  them  while  

watching  the  Food  Cooking  Network.  Ron,  knowing  that  I  am  less  than  thrilled  about  my  

upcoming  birthday,  my  weight,  and  those  little  lines  that  my  face  has  started  collecting,  

suggested  I  join  a  gym.  Like  him.  He  reminded  me  that  since  I’ve  changed  jobs  I’m  not  running  

around  and  on  my  feet  all  day.  That,  and  my  age.  He  actually  said  that!  Called  me  old.  He  said,  

“Well,  we  get  to  a  point  when  our  metabolisms  slow  down.”  I  cried  and  wouldn’t  talk  to  him  for  

two  days.  He  totally  denied  that  he  called  me  old,  but  I  know  that’s  what  he  was  thinking.  And  

now  he’s  calling  me  fat.  

  “If  you  think  I’m  so  fat,  why  don’t  you  pay  for  liposuction?  And  Botox  too?”  

  “You’re  being  ridiculous.”  He  closes  the  lid  to  his  laptop  and  comes  into  the  kitchen,  

where  I  am  struggling  with  a  corkscrew.  

  “I’m  not  being  ridiculous.  They  have  a  new  laser  liposuction  that  can  make  me  skinny  

again.”  

  “You  don’t  need  that.  You  just  need  to  work  out  a  few  times  a  week  and  eat  more  

healthy.”  

  I  don’t  know  who  this  man  is.  I’ve  seen  him  survive  an  entire  football  season  on  beer,  

Doritos,  and  Oreos.  His  idea  of  exercising  was  helping  me  carry  groceries  in,  and  even  that  had  

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to  be  at  commercials.  He  might  be  going  through  some  kind  of  menopause.  I  remind  him  that  

he  is  older  than  I  am.  

  “I’m  not  that  much  older  than  you,  Melissa,”  he  says,  taking  the  wine  bottle  and  

inserting  the  corkscrew.  He  is  very  good  at  opening  wine  bottles.  

  “I  know.  But,  you  are  nine  months  and  seven  days  older.”  

  “Thanks  for  clarifying  that.”  The  bottle  makes  a  popping  sound  like  the  one  I  made  when  

I  read  that  dreaded  e-­‐mail.  Luke  Tucker.  The  Devil.  

  “I  think  my  deal  is  dead.”  

  “What?”  Suddenly  I  have  Ron’s  attention.  Maybe  he  was  planning  on  me  taking  him  to  

Tahiti  with  that  nice  commission  check?  

  “Luke,  the  seller,  he  filed  bankruptcy.”  

  “Can  he  do  that?”    

  “Apparently  so.”  

  “Can  you  sue  him?”  

  “I  can,  but  it  would  cost  money,  and  there’s  no  guarantee  I’d  ever  see  a  penny.”  

Ron  reaches  over  and  puts  his  hand  on  mine.  

  “I’m  really  sorry,  hon,”  he  tells  me,  and  I  start  to  sob.  I  tell  him  I’m  fat  and  old  and  a  

rotten  real  estate  agent.  He  pours  me  some  wine  and  lets  me  cry.  

  “I  have  to  feed  Herman,“  I  tell  him.  

***  

  Ron  owns  a  pool  company.  In  fact,  that’s  how  I  met  him.  His  company  has  the  contract  

with  the  condo  association  where  we  live.  He  was  training  a  new  pool  cleaner  guy,  and  I  was  in  

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a  two-­‐piece  holding  my  stomach  in  (which  happened  to  be  about  two  inches  flatter  back  then).  

We  hit  it  off  right  away.  My  mother  was  thrilled,  naturally,  that  I  was  dating,  and  I  soon  started  

planning  our  wedding.  In  my  imagination.  Because,  well,  he  hasn’t  asked  me  yet.  I’ve  hinted,  

left  pictures  of  wedding  cakes  around  the  house,  sighed  heavily  about  always  being  a  

bridesmaid,  never  a  bride.  

  “You  haven’t  been  a  bridesmaid  since  I  met  you,”  he  said.  

  “Well,  I  was  three  times  before  I  met  you.”  

  “Listen,  marriage  is  a  big  thing.  What  we  have  is  great,  right?”  He  points  around  the  

living  room  (mine)  at  the  flat-­‐screen  television  (his),  the  off-­‐white  sectional  (mine),  and  the  

shelf  full  of  videos  (shelf,  mine;  videos,  his).  

  “I  know,  but  I’d  like  to  get  married  before  I  need  a  wheelchair  to  get  down  the  aisle,”  I  

tell  him.  He  reminds  me  that  a  few  years  ago  when  we  decided  to  live  together  he  made  it  

perfectly  clear  he  had  no  intention  of  getting  married  and  did  not  want  children.  These  are  facts  

I  never  shared  with  my  mother  but  that  haunt  me  daily.  

 

 

Tamara Lee Dorris has been a life-long fan of personal and spiritual development, and has written several books that fall under the category of "self-help." She wrote Guru as a way of

poking fun at how easy it is to become an online expert. Tamara has gone crazy selling houses, loves yoga, drinks wine and is still as addicted as ever to personal development. She lives in

Northern California with a bunch of annoying animals and her husband. She has four kids that she likes a lot and a mother that drives her nuts.

Learn more at http://www.tamaradorris.com.