Thursday, June 30, 2011

Countdown: Tomorrow

Yesterday things were going okay until they weren’t.  I couldn’t figure out how to create an account with the waste management people because their automated menu seems to have no options for people who don’t already have a house.*  They can’t bill me if they don’t know I exist, and then how will I pay them?  And if I don’t pay them won't my house turn into a trash-littered turd because they won’t pick up my garbage?  The last thing I want is for the outside of the house to look like the inside of this apartment.  And then the neighbors won’t come to say hello laden with plates of warm, welcoming cookies.  (People still do that, right?)

Then, the bank calls to tell me I have to sign some papers immediately, or else the blar-de-blah paperwork won’t be approved and completed by the time we go to closing, and if it isn’t then we can’t close.  WTF.  No one mentions this until two days before closing?  So I ask to take off work an hour and a half early with no prior notice on our busiest day of the month.  (the boss is a compassionate man)  I ask the bank if its ok if my husband doesn’t attend this particular signing (because of the Dower Rights in Ohio the spouse needs to be involved in practically everything from mortgage applications to my bowel movements.  Or so it seems to me).  And she lets me know that she doesn’t want to know that I’m married, because all of the paperwork from the loan to the other papers all indicate that I’m single. 

Wait, what? 

They’ve had two months to re-do the paperwork and TWO DAYS before closing I find out they didn’t bother to do it.  And if its no big deal then explain to me why she needs plausible deniability?  This leads to a strained internal dialogue (with myself and my other self), because I just don’t know whether signing those papers with knowledge that they are not correct is fraud, or just contributing to fraud, which is so much better.  Obviously.  How do you pose that question delicately?  Can one tactfully say, Sooo, are you one of those predatory lenders whose shoddy practices will eventually lead to me losing my house?”  I think I succeeded in being honest without being blunt or catty.  She said she’d figure out for me exactly what the difference in paperwork effected.  (taxes?  Rights of survivorship?) 

Meanwhile I’ve gotten in my car.  I was resolved to go and look at the (fraudulent) papers so that I could maybe see whether it was a simple case of the (fraudulent) paperwork having an un-marked “Married” checkbox or what.  So I call the (fraudulent) bank back and the lady has since orchestrated a re-processing of all the paperwork to indicate my correct marital status and by the way I no longer need to be there today to sign it because it turns out that the blar-de-blah papers can be signed on the closing day after all, meaning that I left work for no good reason in the middle of our monthly fiscal close of books.  I continued to drive home with an expression of sheer dumbness on my face, not understanding what all of this has meant and halfway convinced that they have no idea what they’re doing and I’m going to show up to closing and find out that the bank has me buying the brooklyn bridge or something.

So  yes, I had some giddy nervousness before.  Golly, commitment!  woooo! 
Well now I’m downright worried that:
a) My bank is peopled with idiots.
b) My bank will muck up the paperwork (again)
c) My bank will screw things up in some as of yet unforseen way
Oh and now our agent can’t find the check for our earnest money.  She can find the copies that they made of the check, but not the check itself.  
But it seems I have a threshold for worrying about things flying out of my control and now  that I’ve hit that threshold, my brain has stomped its boot (brain boots.  yes, obviously.) and unequivocally declared, “right, well nothing else is allowed to go wrong.”  Now on the defensive, having exhausted self with doomsaying, my brain is refusing to proactively entertain scenarios to cope with foreseeable problems.  Things can go wrong, and they can get worse, but I can't seem to picture it.  My booted-brain can’t even play the what-if game. Nah, it probably can, but it doesn't want to.  It's taken its boots and gone home.  I can only seem to visualize a little-girl-version of me claiming stubbornly in a sing-song voice “Easy peasy tra-lalaaaa  while I’m skipping through a garden in a pink pinafore.  If I try to tell her about anything that could go wrong she'll just put her hands over her ears and "TRA-LA-LAAAAA" louder.

Whereas yesterday I was leery of having a humongous cashier’s check in my care for too long, (because the man at the next teller window had been there far too long; he must have overheard that I was carrying a giant cashier's check, and would somehow be waiting outside to mug me on my way to the car like a parking lot ninja, making off with the better part of my life savings. [I mean the part of my life savings that wasn't blown on the wedding]) and after I successfully evaded the white, middle-aged ninja thief, I was somewhat  (needlessly) freaked out that the check would disappear under the bobbing waves of the sea of crap boxes in our apartment although that may yet happen, but) now I kinda feel "meh" about all that.   Maybe the cats found it while rooting through things in our absence, and Yuuki has talked Max into going to Vegas.  Meh. 

Anyway, Here we are, Countdown: Tomorrow.

Today after work we do the final walkthrough.  It will be empty for the first time, and we get to see the rooms au naturale, bare of furnishings or embellishments.  Our house will be all nekkid. 

Speaking of Nekkid,  D just sent me this link:  "Sunday in the Park with Boobs"  
No, I am not curious to try.  Sorry D. 

*D figured it out, said all it required was patience.  psh. 

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