Wednesday, May 9, 2007

It Wasn't a Cold Afterall...

It was pneumonia. When my "cold" didn't get any better in the usual 5 to 7 days, I saw the doctor. I have been taking my meds and swigging cough syrup for two days so that I can actually sleep instead of cough so hard my lungs spew... well, never mind. Obviously, I haven't run or walked or done anything physical. Just cough and sleep.

I feel better physically already, but I still feel a little weak. I am anxious to get back to my run/walk routine. Doc says wait through the weekend to run, but I can start walking on the weekend as much as I feel able. I think I will pretty much have to start over. I hope that's not the case, but it's okay, if it is. I just want to start again.

And, how was real estate school, you ask?? Good and Bad. First of all, I was sick both days, but I wasn't about to try to do this again in June or July. So, Tom and I registered Saturday morning and we each received our binders that contained chapter outlines and details..."All you ever wanted to know about real estate, but were afraid to ask." We weren't looking forward to the long class days... 8:30 a.m. to 6:00 p.m., but we got plenty of breaks both days and were dismissed early as well. Saturday was good, even though I coughed my way through it. I learned a lot. Grasped real estate terms and concepts. The teacher, Keith, who is also the owner of the school, was sort of funny in an Arkansas-kind-of-way, trying hard to interject stupid jokes into his lectures (I am born and raised in California... our humor is really different). But he is also very knowledgeable, having spent a number of years in real estate as well as having his law degree, and was able to communicate extremely well and kept us focused and interested.

Sunday Keith didn't show, but we were blessed with Tera's presence! She is all her name implies. Oh...My...God. The woman looked part Goth, part winter, part Southern big haired gal, part grown-ass-woman-trying-to-be-hip-young-hottie and was a complete Air Head! She swooshed (really, she swooshed) in late. "Welcome to real estate, y'all" was her apology. Knee high black boots in 80 degree weather. She wore more make-up than Boy George and Kiss together. Dark blue eyeshadow. Not a little. A lot. A whole lot. Black eyeliner. Not a little. A lot. Dark red, almost black, lipstick. Her blush was more of a dark shading. Black, wispy hair. Then she opened her mouth. I could barely tolerate her voice -- Paula Deen accent meets fingernails on a chalkboard-- and she couldn't stay on a single subject if she tried. It was like her brain was on ice, slipping with every step, never knowing where she would land. She was all over the place, but no where for any length of time. By noon, I wanted to get up on the podium with her... (me) okay, see this chapter?? This is called an "o u t l i n e". You are supposed to follow it. (her) Oh, okay, and when I was divorced from my ex-husband, I call him my tumor... (me) God, I swear I want to smack her!... How many times did we hear about Tumor? Probably a hundred, maybe more. When we got home that evening, I just went to bed.

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