Real Life on the Rocks … with a Twist!: A Collection of Stories … and Thoughts

By Terry Mooney

Real life is a series of ups and downs; for some the downs seem far more frequent and ominous than the ups. The key to a peaceful, contented life is to find a balance between accepting reality as it is and creating our own reality as we dream it. It takes determination and work, but real life is what it is, a combination of good and bad, happy and sad. What is smooth sailing one day may end up stranded on the rocks the next. But whatever happens, always seek to add your own personal twist to make it your life and no one elses.
Real Life, On the Rocks With a Twist! is an eclectic collection of real-life experiences told in a style reminiscent of Erma Bombeck. Read about a bear attempting to open a dumpster while standing on the lid, something we all tend to do in our own lives. Transcend generations as you read about a young girl boldy making a stand against a neighborhood bully. Warmth and humor guide the reader through the struggles and challenges of family, friendship, career, and personal loss for a young woman making her way through life on her own. Issues of love and self-esteem are presented with refreshingly subtle irony. Written with keen insight and lighthearted wit, Real Life, On the Rocks With a Twist! is a toast to humanity and a celebration of the human spirit.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Sep 20, 2013
• ISBN: 9781491816509

Book preview

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 in other professions. It goes like this. I am sitting behind a mahogany desk with a backdrop of the Manhattan skyline, sporting a Chanel suit and Jimmy Choo shoes, when the phone rings and a cash buyer is on the line, seriously interested in the commercial building for sale right next door (I don’t even have to get into my BMW to make the deal) and wants to make a full price offer—right now!

I said fantasy. Actually, I was sitting behind a Formica desk wearing Ann Taylor Loft clam-diggers and marshmallow sandals, casual elegance because this is the Poconos, with a backdrop of the Donut Connection. I’d only been in the real estate business a year and a half, so I still got nervous when I had a customer. The most expensive house I’d sold was $310,000 in a market where many vacation homes were selling for about $150,000. A man, his wife, and his son walked in, and it was my turn. I was first up. They preferred something on the water; their price range was about $500,000 to $600,000, and my heart was pounding out of my body. I showed them five properties, one of which they all really liked. As they left to go back to the city, the husband promised to call me in a day or so after he spoke with his bank. They were seriously pursuing a second home and felt this could be the one. I walked them to their car, said good-bye, and wished them a safe journey home. I went back inside feeling as if I’d done a good job and that I actually might have made a great sale.

While I was chatting about the houses I’d shown, the secretary informed me that Mr. Waterfront Buyer was on the phone asking for me. I shrieked, He’s gonna make an offer! and I bolted down the hall to my desk, ripping an Offer to Purchase form out of the drawer and opening the pen. Yes, Mr. Buyer? I said in a calm, sophisticated voice. He replied, Oh yes, Terry. I just wanted to let you know that my son used the upstairs bathroom and the water was turned off. You may want to take care of it.

Well, I thanked him for calling. It wasn’t the call I had hoped for, but if he hadn’t advised me, the seller would have had a rather unpleasant 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 began a litany of comments such as "Well, you’ll just have to rectify the situation! Another asked, Isn’t this the second time you’ve been dumped on this week?" We were laughing so hard we couldn’t say any more. When we finally caught our breath, one of the more seasoned agents suggested I go to the local market, buy two half-gallon jugs of water, 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 was shining, and the air was cool. I brought my water jugs to the house and climbed the stairs up to the offending toilet. I opened the lid and emptied one jug. Nothing happened. Good thing I bought two jugs, I thought. So I completely emptied the second one in what I thought was a vigorous manner, thinking that my vigor would push it down. It didn’t. What now? Well, I thought, this is waterfront. So I searched for a bucket. I was just about to give up when I found one outside under the deck. I sighed with relief and made the long descent to the 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 be the top one and Remind me to quit smoking. Of course, I should have thought to wear sneakers, but I wore little sandals that made navigating the wooden steps treacherous. After three trips, I decided that the job was done. It wasn’t until about three years later that I found out that you’re supposed to put the water in the tank, not the toilet!

2

Just Do It!

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

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

I got up early for my first ride. When Sean at the store fastened the 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 all twisted around. Eventually I had what seemed to be a secure rack and attached the bike. I was concerned about meeting the group on time so it would have to do. I took off.

A few minutes on the Interstate, I noticed something moving in my rear view. It was the bike! My heart leaped—the bike was swaying back and forth and shaking violently. I could imagine it flying off at rocket speed and crashing into the windshield of the car behind, sending me to jail for negligence. I pulled into the right lane and slowed down, as if tiptoeing so as not to create additional momentum. Granny Clampett came to mind, chugging along with Jed looking for road kill. Cars were passing and beeping, giving me the look. By the time I got to our meeting place to begin the ride, I was ready to ditch the bike and go back to bed.

The group of experienced cyclists I would ride with that morning was very gracious; they made me feel so welcome. They helped me figure out some of the features on the bike, properly attached the bike rack, and gave me advice about how to handle the hills. We all took off at the same time, but soon I found myself alone. I couldn’t go as fast as they did, and I didn’t want to hold them back. I breathed in the fresh, clean air and just took my time. The birds sang and I felt as though I’d finally arrived at the life I’d always craved. Looking out onto a budding cornfield, I didn’t see a gaping pothole open its jaws to swallow my front tire. I sailed off into the grass, the bike still attached to my shoes. The group was on its way back just in time to dislodge me from a tangled mess and help collect my water bottles that were rolling down the road. They secured my helmet, which was now hanging off because it hadn’t been properly attached. Defeats the purpose, you know. I guess I have issues with straps. After all that, I vowed to do it again!

Since then, I’ve ridden many times with my friends around New Jersey, New York, and even Connecticut. We did the forty-three mile tour of the five boroughs of New York City with Ed D., our expert spin instructor and good friend. (We fondly call him special Ed!) The tour began in Manhattan, went through the Bronx, back down the East River, across the Manhattan Bridge into Brooklyn, over the Verrazano Bridge into Staten Island, and then to the ferry for the ride back to Manhattan—all that in nonstop torrential rain. I was