Step Away From the Keyboard! Do Not Make Me Shoot!
Someone needs to tell me that they want me to keep on telling stories. Or I can just write in my volumes-upon-volumes of private journals.
I promised, promised, promised myself (and you? Do you want to hear from me?) I would not blog. I am not blogging. I am simply writing. I need to get it off my chest, off my plate, out of my head, give it to the universe. I may post, I may not. We will see.
This weekend is the one-year anniversary of my (first annual?!) moving sale. Facebook told me so (thanks FB so much for the reminder!), not that I wasn’t already acutely aware, especially since I’m wondering when the second (annual?!) one will take place.
November 22 was the one-year anniversary of the day I met Scott. More on that later.
December 23 is the one-year anniversary of the day I faxed my paperwork to my mortgage company in the hopes of working out a deed-in-lieu-of-foreclosure (DIL). On that very same day, I put my house up for sale.
December 30 is the one-year anniversary of the day Michael, the Detroit asshole, rocked my world by calling off our “arrangement.” The only thing about that which matters is the fact that it motivated me to take the necessary and difficult steps to make myself mobile once my house would sell(!).
So…exactly one year after meeting Scott, who came to my rescue after a-hole Michael rocked me to my timbers (but, thank you anyway, jerk-face), I found out that Scott was sabotaging my plans to leave. Besides several other infractions of trust, he stole my cell phone, deleted my contacts, and lied about all of it while I was in the midst of having a nervous breakdown, wondering if I had lost my mind along with my phone. It cost me $100 and I am still somewhat convinced that he was the perp who put the sugar in my gas tank ($125), though he will not admit it because he knows that then I would have to kill him.
But what-the-f-ever. Really. I am done with men. Unless that man happens to be an OTR truck driver with a farm-full of animals that I will take care of while he is on the road. He will be allowed to come home one weekend per month (perhaps for a week with good behavior); I will feed him and love on him, go horseback riding with him and let him make repairs to the house and the fences. Then I will take his paycheck and send him back on the road. Does that sound harsh? Do I care? Can I care?
Anyway……………back to the present, which is where I really am trying to stay. For the sake of my sanity. The past sucks. The future seems impossible. The present is barely manageable, but at least the word “manageable” exists in that sentence.
This past Monday, I had the sixteenth (at the very least) phone “meeting” with my mortgage company (over the past year) to ascertain the status of my DIL application. I could go on and on and on and on and on and on and on. The bottom line makes my head swim in numbers. After a freaking year of these useless phone calls, they are now telling me that in order to even initiate the DIL process, I am REQUIRED TO DEFAULT ON MY LOAN. The situation is additionally complicated by the fact that I am a recipient of the HAMP (Home Affordable Mortgage Program – part of Obama’s response to the mortgage crisis, which I did, indeed, greatly benefit from financially in a long-term-picture sort of way, and which puts me in a much better situation as a seller, but it doesn’t help the fact that property values where I live are still in the tank).
So…….....….in order to initiate the DIL application (they’ve known this for 11.5 months and are just now telling me), I need to be 60 days late on my mortgage payments. BUT, in order not to screw myself out of the HAMP requirements/benefits, which are ongoing for another year (maybe two, depending on which “agent [!]” I talk to), I cannot be more than 90 days late on my payments. On top of that (!), if I go 120 days late, my property goes into foreclosure.
And that’s all still assuming they deem my property “valuable” for their efforts. They’re in Florida (that’s what their phone number tells me. Their accents tell another story. Whatever.) Think they’ll get an assessment done in 39 days? Doubt it. Think they will deem my property valuable enough? Guaranteed not. So, go ahead, you do the math.
I should trust them to do their job, with a 29-day window? I don’t think so. I’m done. No options with my mortgage company (which is, by-the-by, not an actual bank, but “investors”; I am not racist at all, but they all have Middle-Eastern accents, which makes a really difficult transaction all the more frustrating when you factor in the language/accent barrier.)
Meanwhile………………...I am barely hanging on to my job. And Gary C. (my house-buying angel-cowboy) is nowhere in sight (it’s the holidays, after all. Really? I hadn’t noticed.) My soul, my heart, and my will are shriveling.
I went to see a shrink. I told my story for two hours and then her husband called and then she said we were out of time. That’s when I started to cry. Kind of an open-ended…what?
Then I met Mark. He has land. And animals (!) including horses and donkeys. And at least one – maybe two – college degrees. In art! And psychology! And he’s a musician! Oh, and he lives five miles away and he thinks I’m pretty!
I really need a word with God. Or – which I would prefer – God will have a word with me.