CHAPTER 1

Fantasy Life Can Be Rich;but Reality Is Even Richer!

The fantasy life of a real estate agent is not unlike that of people inother professions. It goes like this. I am sitting behind a mahoganydesk with a backdrop of the Manhattan skyline, sporting a Chanelsuit and Jimmy Choo shoes, when the phone rings and a cash buyeris on the line, seriously interested in the commercial building for saleright next door (I don't even have to get into my BMW to make thedeal) and wants to make a full price offer—right now!

I said fantasy. Actually, I was sitting behind a Formica deskwearing Ann Taylor Loft clam-diggers and marshmallow sandals,casual elegance because this is the Poconos, with a backdrop of theDonut Connection. I'd only been in the real estate business a yearand a half, so I still got nervous when I had a customer. The mostexpensive house I'd sold was $310,000 in a market where manyvacation homes were selling for about $150,000. A man, his wife, andhis son walked in, and it was my turn. I was first up. They preferredsomething on the water; their price range was about $500,000 to$600,000, and my heart was pounding out of my body. I showedthem five properties, one of which they all really liked. As they leftto go back to the city, the husband promised to call me in a day or soafter he spoke with his bank. They were seriously pursuing a secondhome and felt this could be the one. I walked them to their car, saidgood-bye, and wished them a safe journey home. I went back insidefeeling as if I'd done a good job and that I actually might have made agreat sale.

While I was chatting about the houses I'd shown, the secretaryinformed me that Mr. Waterfront Buyer was on the phone asking forme. I shrieked, "He's gonna make an offer!" and I bolted down thehall to my desk, ripping an Offer to Purchase form out of the drawerand opening the pen. "Yes, Mr. Buyer?" I said in a calm, sophisticatedvoice. He replied, "Oh yes, Terry. I just wanted to let you know thatmy son used the upstairs bathroom and the water was turned off. Youmay want to take care of it."

Well, I thanked him for calling. It wasn't the call I had hopedfor, but if he hadn't advised me, the seller would have had a ratherunpleasant surprise. Suddenly, panic set in. How do I take care of it?I wondered. The water was turned off, so flushing wouldn't work.I mentioned it to a few of the other agents in the office who begana litany of comments such as "Well, you'll just have to rectify thesituation!" Another asked, "Isn't this the second time you've beendumped on this week?" We were laughing so hard we couldn't say anymore. When we finally caught our breath, one of the more seasonedagents suggested I go to the local market, buy two half-gallon jugs ofwater, and pour them down. And that's what I set out to do.

The next morning was very quiet. It was a Sunday, the sun wasshining, and the air was cool. I brought my water jugs to the houseand climbed the stairs up to the offending toilet. I opened the lid andemptied one jug. Nothing happened. Good thing I bought two jugs,I thought. So I completely emptied the second one in what I thoughtwas a vigorous manner, thinking that my vigor would push it down.It didn't. What now? Well, I thought, this is waterfront. So I searchedfor a bucket. I was just about to give up when I found one outsideunder the deck. I sighed with relief and made the long descent tothe pond, filled the bucket, and made the long ascent back up,mumbling, "He couldn't use the one on the first floor; it had to bethe top one" and "Remind me to quit smoking." Of course, I shouldhave thought to wear sneakers, but I wore little sandals that madenavigating the wooden steps treacherous. After three trips, I decidedthat the job was done. It wasn't until about three years later that Ifound out that you're supposed to put the water in the tank, not thetoilet!

CHAPTER 2

Just Do It!

Spinning at the gym soon after I'd moved to the Poconos, ourinstructor told us to close our eyes and imagine that we were on abeautiful country road. When I lived in the city, it made sense topretend to be in the country, imagining a cute little house with flowerboxes and trees all around. I ended every yoga class with that in mymind's eye. Creative visualization, you know. Eventually, it came true.So it seemed ludicrous to still fantasize about something that hadbecome reality. Why was I still pretending?

A group of cyclists had invited me to join them, and so I decidedto leave the stationary bike behind and went on a mission. Thelocal outdoors shop had a great selection of bikes, and I settled ona Specialized hybrid that works on both smooth and rough road.Five hundred dollars later, I also needed a helmet for safety, paddedgloves to prevent hand pain, and an emergency pack attached undermy seat that included a replacement inner tube and the cutest littlehand pump in case of a flat. Then I bought special biking shoeswith clips on the bottom, which then required that I replace thepedals to accommodate those clips. Later on, I replaced the handlesfor a flatter, wider version because my hands kept going numb fromgripping them. Oh, and a rack to carry the bike was a must. Now Iwas ready for my adventure!

I got up early for my first ride. When Sean at the store fastenedthe rack to my trunk, it looked effortless. When I tried it that crisp,cool morning, I began to sweat. Does this strap go over or under?What does this attach to? Straps over, under, or sideways—I was alltwisted around. Eventually I had what seemed to be a secure rack andattached the bike. I was concerned about meeting the group on timeso it would have to do. I took off.

A few minutes on the Interstate, I noticed something movingin my rear view. It was the bike! My heart leaped—the bike wasswaying back and forth and shaking violently. I could imagine itflying off at rocket speed and crashing into the windshield of thecar behind, sending me to jail for negligence. I pulled into the rightlane and slowed down, as if tiptoeing so as not to create additionalmomentum. Granny Clampett came to mind, chugging along withJed looking for road kill. Cars were passing and beeping, giving methe look. By the time I got to our meeting place to begin the ride, Iwas ready to ditch the bike and go back to bed.

The group of experienced cyclists I would ride with that morningwas very gracious; they made me feel so welcome. They helped mefigure out some of the features on the bike, properly attached the bikerack, and gave me advice about how to handle the hills. We all tookoff at the same time, but soon I found myself alone. I couldn't goas fast as they did, and I didn't want to hold them back. I breathedin the fresh, clean air and just took my time. The birds sang and Ifelt as though I'd finally arrived at the life I'd always craved. Lookingout onto a budding cornfield, I didn't see a gaping pothole open itsjaws to swallow my front tire. I sailed off into the grass, the bike stillattached to my shoes. The group was on its way back just in time todislodge me from a tangled mess and help collect my water bottlesthat were rolling down the road. They secured my helmet, which wasnow hanging off because it hadn't been properly attached. Defeats thepurpose, you know. I guess I have issues with straps. After all that, Ivowed to do it again!

Since then, I've ridden many times with my friends around NewJersey, New York, and even Connecticut. We did the forty-three miletour of the five boroughs of New York City with Ed D., our expertspin instructor and good friend. (We fondly call him "special Ed!")The tour began in Manhattan, went through the Bronx, back downthe East River, across the Manhattan Bridge into Brooklyn, over theVerrazano Bridge into Staten Island, and then to the ferry for theride back to Manhattan—all that in nonstop torrential rain. I was sowet and miserable I couldn't tell if I was crying. It felt so good to gethome and into a hot shower. But we did it! That truly was a challengeand a unique way to see the city in which I'd lived my entire life.

One of the tours I took with my friend Tisha led throughConnecticut. The homes we passed were magnificent, and oneparticular horse farm took my breath away. When I came to mysenses, I was all alone again. Where is everyone? I began to panic a littleafter a few miles of desolation, having just entered the ConnecticutState Forest. I called the phone number for emergencies, and the guyasked me where I was. Well, if I knew that, I wouldn't have called.

I decided to head back the way I came. Eventually, I came acrossa nice man with a pickup. "Need a ride back?" he asked. Out ofoptions, I accepted. If he were a serial killer, I'd just have to stomp hisinsteps with my shoe clips until he surrendered. Once in the truck hesaid, "If you don't mind a slight detour (uh-oh), I'm looking for a ladywho's lost." Phew! That would be me. Tisha was sitting at a picnic tablefinishing lunch as I jumped off the back of the truck and grabbed mybike. "Did you just love the forest?" I asked. "What forest?" she cried.

Cyclists are purists. We love the outdoors, the quiet, and thestopping for a family of turkeys crossing the road. There's always astraggler that reminds me of myself. Distracted and wandering, itlooks up and realizes everyone else is on the other side. The little onestarts running to catch up, and we just wait and laugh. Then a flockof bikers without mufflers appear, smoking cigarettes and revvingtheir engines. The spell is broken and we're thrust back into thereality we've worked so hard to escape. We pull over and let them passby, holding our breath against the pollution. To each his own. Bikershave their place, too—the Interstate. I'm just saying.

CHAPTER 3

Hell on Wheels

As our economy began to seriously circle the bowl, it was 2008 andI was in a panic. Selling real estate was my sole source of income,and in case you don't know, Realtors don't get a salary or an expenseaccount. We pay many fees, and mileage, gas, and time are on us aswell. We only get paid if we make a sale.

I had to begin thinking about how to supplement my dwindlingincome until things turned around. Since I love my garden, I decided tolook into a part-time, seasonal position at a large garden center that shallremain nameless. After all, they gave me a job and I truly was grateful.

It was an hourly position, and I was given a salary range. Ofcourse, I just assumed I'd get the higher number since I clearlywas over-qualified. It wasn't rocket science. But I was told that thehigher pay-rate would come as a result of experience. I laughed outloud, which was an uncontrollable, knee-jerk response and the firstindication of my unconscious arrogance. Who do I think I am?Well, actually, I know who I am, but that and a token gets me on thesubway. In this economy, nobody is anybody. And in the end, as itturned out, they couldn't pay me enough.

I was trained by a co-worker who also knew who she was—myboss, to be exact, since she had seniority of three years. She showedme how to mirror the plants on the shelves—striping, they call it. Ifyou have rows of pansies on one shelf, you need the same on the shelfin front of it, which required me to crawl on hands and knees ongrated metal shelves to push the plants forward, but not too hard orthey keep going and land on the floor of the next aisle. I am againstplant abuse, and when I did send one flying I picked it up, brushed itoff and apologized. Remember the seventies, when we discovered thattalking to our plants made them healthier?

We had to climb ladders to reach the top of the huge carts onwhich the plants were delivered. The carts then returned to thenursery and came back another day with more plants. One personclimbs to the top and hands heavy trays of plants to the one standingbelow who then places them on the shelves. I began to notice thatI usually ended up on the receiving end, having to reach way up totake the tray as my co-worker wouldn't meet me half way, causing mymiddle-aged shoulders and neck to spasm.

When we were caught up with putting out the shipment, shelooked for projects. Picking off dead leaves wasn't too bad, exceptthe more rotten ones were slimy and stuck to my gloves. I just wasn'thappy. I kept showing up day after day, although I usually had a goodcry in my car when my shift ended. I'd wanted to learn about plants,but all I seemed to do was haul them, pick at them, or sweep them offthe floors.

One afternoon, the skies darkened and torrential rains camepouring down. We were in the Quonset hut, where it was relativelysafe. Suddenly, my co-worker yelled, "Come on!" and ran toward theparking lot. I ran with her, anticipating a rescue mission of someonewho'd fallen or worse, been mowed down. I didn't see anyone outthere but us. She yelled through the roar of the wind: "Line upthe white pots with each other and the green ones with each other.They're different prices and someone put them all together!"

I was stunned, but I did what I was told. The plants wereswinging in the wind so violently that I had to catch each one on itstrip back toward my face, which was in imminent danger of beingpulverized. The rain was so heavy that I was already drenched rightdown to my sneakers. I couldn't remember where I'd left my LivingWill in case I ended up in a coma and they had to pull the plug.

I ate lunch in my car because she always ate hers in the employeeroom and I couldn't stand the thought of her supervising my break,too. I felt like the friend of the friendless, sitting there eating mysoggy peanut butter and jelly sandwich, staring out at a sea of cars.

When delivery season began to slow, she would troll the aisles forsomething for us to do. More times than not, that entailed swappingentire aisles of plants, mostly five to ten gallon bushes or trees. We'dhave to haul the tree off the shelf and onto the floor, one by one untilthe shelf was empty to make room for the neighboring ones. Thenwe'd haul the original group onto the newly vacated shelf. We'd comein the next day only to find that everything had been put back in theoriginal location by the night crew.

The final straw was a massive heat wave. In spite of drinking largeamounts of Gatorade, I began to feel really nauseous and dizzy. If Istopped working, I knew my co-worker would run and tell my bossand I didn't want to lose the job. So I kept forging ahead because, if Iam nothing else, I am tenacious. Nothing and no one is going to beatme. But the heat was relentless and I ended up dehydrated. I went tothe restroom to throw water on my face and have a couple of minutesreprieve in the cool air-conditioning. Suddenly, she appeared. "I'vebeen looking for you."

I turned around. This woman was just half my size. The wordtyrant came to mind, and that was actually the kindest. I wasbeginning to lose grip on my resolve to keep this job. I followed herback out to the hut to muddle through another useless and mundaneactivity. Then I joined the ranks of the dearly departed from thegarden center. I'd just have to figure out something else to do.

Not long after, I was at a party and struck up a conversation with,as it happened, another casualty of the tyrannical garden center lady.He said, "Her? Oh, her mission is to get everyone to quit within aweek of being hired. This way, she's the only one the boss can counton. You know, job security. Yup, she's hell on wheels!" Quit within aweek he said? I'd hung in there for nine weeks. I win!

CHAPTER 4

They're Fake!

I was sitting at the front desk, my first job in a travel agency on 28thStreet and Broadway. The area was the armpit of the world at thetime; I saw a guy get mugged in broad daylight. Attempting to sortout the office mess, the deal was that I could learn the travel businesswhile organizing the owner's chaos. It was the only way to get my footin the door. The 1970s weren't much different from now; it was verydifficult to get a career going, and I hadn't yet been to college.

A middle-aged woman walked in. I thought she was pretty oldsince I was only twenty-one. She had to be at least forty. Ploppingdown her ample self on the couch across from me, she was ready forsome conversation.

"So you must meet a lot of men in this job!"

"Not really. I'm awfully busy."

"Well, you get to travel a lot, right?"

"Not really."

"Well, how do you get a job like this?"

You lie and pretend you already worked for an airline. "Just lucky, Iguess."

She looked crestfallen at my lack of encouragement. Suddenly, myboss's office door flew open and out sauntered a very attractive manin a suit and tie. "Hello, ladies," he commented as he headed for therest room. My lady's eyes lit up and her jaw dropped in awe. "Nicedimples!" she cried. "Thank you," he replied. "They're fake."