As some of you know I am a realtor by day, nights and weekends. Just in case any of you are thinking of getting your real estate license there is something you need to know. Those shows with the fancy realtors who travel in town cars with perfectly coifed hair and who’s shoe shines could block out the sun are almost as fake as the people in them. That is maybe 2% of Realtors and not only that, most started out with money. I know, mind blowing that the rich kids continue to be the rich kids. The rest of us have to deal with the not so pretty parts of the business. I could go off about all the negatives of Real Estate but that's a whole write up in itself. So, today we talk about the great equalizer of almost all careers - forced meetings or classes. We have continuing education and most of the time I manage to wait till the last minute and do it while drinking wine and ignoring the fireworks outside my house (New Year’s Eve). Every once in a while they get me and I have to go in. After 15 threatening emails I pack up my grumpy bitterness and head to 2 hours of torture (okay as much torture that can exist for a middle-aged white lady)

As soon as you arrive it's like being back in High school. Walk in and look for the farthest seat I can possibly find. Since I used every reason to avoid coming to this class I have missed my chance to hide in the last row. My fellow avoiders haven beaten me to it. Change of plan, now to find the most, “nobody puts baby in the corner spot”. Finding my temporary roost, I accost 5 innocent people with my ass in their face. Sorry but my hiding spot is worth the momentary lack of comfort. Settled and set with my survive with minimal action required kit, It’s time to enjoy the only perk, all the free coffee I can physically carry back with me. Once again I gift my neighbors with the view of my backside. I am sure it feels like one of those repetitive ads that keep popping up after you tell it to go away. Why must they put the damn rows so close together that your ass acts like a table duster every time you must walk by?

I head to the coffee pots and he heads toward me. When I was young my stalkers were men who desperately wanted my attention and love. Now it’s a shiny tooth Broker pretending he is my best friend. Why? How do the women who’s got resting, grumpy, judgy face the one you choose? Let’s clear this up. I know my flowy dresses, eclectic glasses, and big earrings make you think I am the “Artsy’ type so you need me to round out your boy band. I am not artistic, not in the least bit. What I am is a woman who likes bold prints and loose fabrics because I am a lazy dresser. I am sorry but if someone said you can dress up and feel like you had your pajamas on would you not jump at the chance? I will not diversify your office. I will not bring the patchouli and positive vibes. I am more of a white lady version of George Carlin. Just not as funny and with funky earrings. You don’t want this roaming around your office just speaking my mind all willy nilly? So back away from the coffee pot sir and sell your snake oil somewhere else. Look at that lady over with her curly hair and orange, BORN shoes. She is different but only a splash of different. She is your type. “Walk away creepy shiny tooth man, walk away.”

I grab my coffee and head to sit down in a now awkwardly warm room, in my no-no corner. Feeling the sweat run down my arms because I thought I could get away with hiding my “I work from home so I am a trashy person outfit” by throwing a sweater on. The best-laid plans always make me look like that weird kid in school that insisted on doing P.E. in pants. Then the instructor arrives. Luckily, instead of it being the, “I take this seriously and I have 8000 note cards to prove it” instructor we get the, “I have better things to do but because you asshats refuse to actually read the shit I send you. So, I have to stand up hear and read it aloud like your freaking pre-schoolers” Instructor. Who doesn’t love her? She is quick to the point and wants to get back to her real job too. A ray of sunshine was peeking through and then it happened.

That one person who has to be the Teachers Pet. Why Sheila? Why? Do you not see the room jam-packed with 40 something souls who just want to be liberated and see the light of day again? I get it this is what you have prepared all year for. I get it. You woke up this morning and shoved your biscuit dough feet into those too small shoes and thought, “Today I share my knowledge. They will be awed at my sage-like advice.” How have you gotten this far in life and not realized that no one likes the teachers pet. Hell by the time we are 40 even the teacher doesn’t like them anymore. How do you not notice the eyes shooting daggers at you and the not so silent moans? Why have none of us said anything? Why do we, the other 39 people let it keep happening?

When someone skips in line we let them know. Cuts us off in traffic, we got that middle finger ready to go. Yet we will let this person go on and on. Especially if they have an enabler. The question asker in the same room as the informer is the worst combo. At least it brings the rest of us together. No matter if you are the fancy one, the old-timer, the newbie, the city boy, the country girl or the artistic one - we are thinking the same thing. “Shut up, Sheila! For all that is holy put your hand down.” You over there, leave us out of it. We all just want to get that beautiful piece of paper that says we are released and head to the nearest glass of wine. So let us all agree to stand up for ourselves against the Sheilas of the world. Unite together against the Teachers Pets. We gave you hours of our childhood that we won’t get back. No more, Sheila, it stops now. Put your hand down, drink your weak coffee and be miserable like the rest of us.

Well, I did survive and spent my class writing this post. Sorry, Sheila but I can read and retain info so I just went ahead and blocked you out. No, you are not alone in those classes and meetings as long as there is a person sitting in the back corner silently moaning in pain you are not alone, they literally feel your pain.

So the recipe is Dirty Rice and it is a Cajun staple. Most of us make it the way we were taught growing up so please make it your own and play around with it. Don’t be fooled by how it looks it is delicious. Once you go dirty you never go back.