As many of you know (because I have been whining and
complaining for days), I have been asked by my husband to contribute to the
family real estate development business by obtaining my realtor license. Under great duress, I agreed to undertake the
120 hours of classes plus exam prep and completion so that I can become A Real Estate Professional. Because I am part of an equitable
relationship, I fully expect that when I finally begin my novel, Blake will merrily agree to take 120 hours of grammar and spelling
classes to support the publishing/editing effort.
This is the worst thing he has ever asked me to do (OK at
least in the top five things) since our relationship began in 1987. It ranks up there with helping him complete
his senior college thesis on the Economy of China, or doing that sprint
triathlon where I nearly drowned, or when I climbed Mount Washington with a 40
pound pack. With these other events, I
never detected any remorse about putting me in uncomfortable situations. However, this latest experience has induced
some unfamiliar behavior. I think he realizes that he may have over-extended the call of duties implied in the marriage contract (vs. an express contract
which I now know are two different things) and that, just possibly, he feels a
little bit guilty. Case in point – while I was taking some of these classes
online, he actually made me lunch and brought it to my desk
(granted it was two turkey/cheese roll-ups and a jar of yogurt – not exactly
what Barefoot Contessa makes for her employees, but it is a start). Not at anytime during college, courting, grad
school, breast-feeding, NEVER has he made me lunch or brought it to me. So I
know he feels badly and I plan to capitalize on these new found emotions.
When I attended grad school, I identified two things that I
never, ever wanted to be when I grew up: an attorney, and an accountant. Well, guess what friends, as part of the
family business, I now possess a healthy understanding of Quick Books and can
define eminent domain as well as the best lawyer. (I am not intimating that Realtors are
anything as complicated as lawyers – but even the legalese involved in realtor
training is more than I ever wanted to know).
I feel as though I’m trying to learn a new language while in the throws
of early Alzheimer’s. I can’t even
remember why I walked into a room, no less the definition of abrogation. I have been using the alpha
part of my brain for too long. The beta
version is atrophied. I recommend that all of my friends take a class immediately, before it is too late.
I completed 18% of my 120 hours online, at home, in my office. Sometimes slumbering, other times
scribbling away at math problems that remind me of the SAT (which of these four
things is NOT part of The Bundle of Rights). I tried to
toil in the evening before bed, but the same screen repeated itself in my head
all night and I ended up having to take a two-hour nap the next day because I
didn’t sleep a wink. (I think this is
when Blake’s guilt started to kick in)
Today, I adopted a can-do attitude and decided to take some
of the classes live. I reason that if I
can take two full days of classes (16 hours), my completion rate will jet up to
30%. The physical classes take place in
a newer building in a strip mall in Murray – a rather industrial part of Salt
Lake City. I have to admit, my first
four hours of class were rather pleasant; I had a great teacher who entertained
us with real world examples of real estate in action. There is a big difference between learning
something versus memorization - especially when you have Alzheimer’s. It was refreshing to sit in a classroom after
the banality of the online experience (although I missed the Pavlovian clapping sound I receive when I answer a question correctly online). Anyway,
the teacher was the plus in this equation.
The minus is that within the first hour of my 8-hour real estate
journey, I consumed one bag of Swedish fish, two Reece's peanut butter cups, 2
large peppermint candies, and a bite size Butter finger. I created the following word problem in my
head, “If Kristie eats 400 calories per hour and does no exercise and continues
this for the next 7 hours, how much fat will be on her muffin tops when she is
done? How much after 120 hours?”
For the next 3 hours, I managed to refrain from the candy
offerings in the classroom. Thankfully I
had a short break before my remaining four hours of instruction began. I decided to explore the strip mall with greater
scrutiny. When I first pulled in, I
noticed a sign that said ESPRESSO in front of the mall. No brand names or
colorful logos, just ESPRESSO in red caps.
No messing around here, this must be the real deal! – I thought to
myself. I walked maddeningly around the
mall in search of perks (pun intended).
Nothing. I did, however, take note
of the following retail gems at my disposal:
- Two insurance companies
- Tio’s Mexican Restaurant
- Papa Murphy’s Pizza
- Golden Isle Chinese Restaurant (At least all of the ethic food groups are represented)
- Smokes 4 U (I got a lot of good xmas shopping done here)
- The Best Hair Salon (ironically, I saw no clients)
- A similarly titled A+ Nails (also without patrons)
- Shoe Repair (obviously decided there were too many false superlatives in the mall already and just went with the basics)
- And the true golden nugget of the strip mall – Smith’s market
Fearing certain gastric distress for the next 4 hours if I
chose the ethnic options, and hoping to repent for my earlier poor nutrition,
I opted for a ready-made spinach salad from the Smith’s produce section and ate
it on the stairs in front of Tio’s.
I’ve always wondered where the STRIP acronym originated and
after some assessment, I’ve come up with a couple of options:
Shopping That Really Is Pathetic
Stores That Require Improvement Pronto!
Shitty Tasteless Retail Is Painful
Worried that I might be gang-raped by some of the clientele
burning rubber through the parking lot as they frequent the Smokes 4 U, I
retreated to the safety of my vehicle.
(Hmm, if they see my JHilburn car magnet and are interested in high-end
Italian clothing, should I risk my life for the sale?) As I looked out my window from the annals of
this hellhole of a mall, I see my salvation shining in the sunlight– right
across the street (of course) is a Mormon church. (Now I know why the ESPRESSO store was no
longer in business but there were at least 10 vending machines advertising
coke). I contemplate going to pray for
Blake to take the realtor classes instead of me, but realize I am too far in
atheist debt to request anything of God at this point. Appropriately, I trudge back in for my final
class of the day, Settlement Procedures.
I need to stop whining, sleeping, consuming sugar, complaining, and settle
in for the next 100 hours.
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