The Bank Got Drunk and Let Me Buy A House

To : The Very Understanding Man Who Patiently Explained Mortgages To Me And Wasn’t Offended When I Abruptly Hung Up On Him. Twice

Subject : CRAP!

Mike,

Hi, I’m so sorry about all the documents. It’s not that I forgot, it’s actually that I’m a horrible person AND I forgot. But they’re here now. Or at least they will be as soon as my husband gets home and makes the scanner work.

This would be why my mortgage was set up by my Aunt Camelia; she’s the only one tenacious enough to continually hunt me down and force me to complete all the necessary bank documents. Mike, can I call you Mikey? Mikey, if it makes you feel any better, I was writing and editing a book the month I applied for a mortgage three years ago, so if you think that I’m hard to get a hold of now, you can imagine what it would have been like then. Also I was constantly drunk.

This email is making me sound very responsible. Which I am. You should totally renew my mortgage. At a low rate too, just as soon as I figure out how to send those documents you requested two months ago. Did I mention that our scanner is confusing and has a vendetta against me?

In addition to no longer being drunk all of the time or spending my life writing a book that I’m not being paid for, you should know that I no longer have a filing system involving naked backs. That tidbit should probably go in the folder that the bank keeps on me, the comment should read “Has advanced organizational system- no nudity”. That comment alone is a testament to how grown up I’ve become.

And, I should add that this is the first off the wall email you’ve received from me. If that’s not progress, I don’t know what is. Three years ago after my Aunt Camelia had left five messages on my phone requesting ridiculous items like my Notice of Assessment and other nonsense, saying things like “tomorrow” then, “Friday at the latest” and finally “Please, please Unwashed get it to me in two weeks and stop publishing posts about kicking financial institutions”, I would finally return her calls with a bizarre email about how I was channeling “Little House on the Prairie” and building a cabin in the woods so as to avoid all this mind numbing paperwork.

My aunt loves me very much.

Mikey, I realize that none of this email is those documents that you need but you have my assurance that I will send them to you post haste and won’t get side tracked by researching locally made bamboo toothbrushes or Playboy bunnies.

You’ll have it tonight, I swear. Tuesday at the latest. Maybe April, but only if I forget completely, which I won’t because I wrote myself a detailed note on the fridge “Mike, no naked backs” so as long as my husband doesn’t erase my words thinking that I’m protesting Channing Tatum movies,

channing-tatum-diet-plan

Who would protest chiseled abs? (Photo Credit : Pintrest.com)

then my mortgage renewal papers will definitely be in your inbox at some point this year.

 

Maturely yours,

Unwashed

 

 

Advertisements

I Wish This Wasn’t True

The Great Unwashed – “I kicked a bank today.”

Diana – “Then what happened?”

The Great Unwashed – “Nothing, so I punched it.”

Diana – “Then what happened?”

The Great Unwashed – “Still nothing, so I kept yelling at the top of my lungs and then a fifty year old bank manager came out and said “Closed” emphatically while making a frowny face, so I snarled at him and bared my teeth.”

Diana – “You know this story doesn’t make me worry about you less. Also you need to go to a different branch now.”

There is no explanation for my behaviour on Thursday. Well there is, it’s just not very good and doesn’t excuse me from transforming into a rabid, mental patient outside of a financial institution. In my defense, the mental patient appearance was not entirely my fault.

The end effect was like this only shorter. (Photo Credit : hji.co.uk)

My hair looked like this only shorter. (Photo Credit : hji.co.uk)

All of the pipes had clogged that morning and it was supposed to be bathin’ day. To distract from my unwashed state, I decided to put my hair up. Unfortunately my hair is currently about chin length, so the end result of pinning my curls meant that tendrils poked out from my head, making my scalp look like a mismanaged, wild garden in the spring. I was wearing utility pants which I had haphazardly sewn extra pockets into. However I hadn’t bothered to finish the pockets so the ones I sewed in were fraying about the edges. The end result was bag lady chic.

As a card carrying adult, I accept certain necessary evils in my life for example, banks and insurance companies. My life philosophy is “Most people probably want to help me and be my friend”.  The bank’s philosophy is “We don’t want to help you and we will take ALL of your money”. As a result, I do my best to avoid this institution, however purchasing a house has meant that I’ve dealt quite a bit with the bank recently. As I headed once again to the dreaded financial institution, I was aware that the interaction was going to be long, possibly unpleasant and one hundred percent certain that the fees would be astronomical. But it was ok because I was going to get my down payment for my house. I had even written down the financial terms to use in conversation with the bankers so I wouldn’t be nodding my curly head while saying “You know, the paper that you give to people, to give to the other people, to give to your mortgage company?”

But at four thirty two PM, when I arrived outside the locked doors of the bank, having run almost a half a kilometer because traffic was moving at a crawl so I was forced to park far away to have a hope of making the closing time, all of those terms flew out of my head. This bank closed at four thirty on Thursdays. Pulling with all of my might against the doors, I yelled “Mortgage! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” Yanking again with my entire five foot-ish frame, the door did not budge. “AHHHHHHH” I yelled in frustration “But, but, but HOUSE! NOOOOOOOOOO”

It was one of those times in life where you can’t believe your poor luck, when the sheepish shrugs of the employees inside are almost taunting in the face of your time-sensitive To-Do List.

Around the time I yelled “HOOOOUUse. Down payment!” the dour faced bank manager appeared. What I needed most in the world at that moment was a hug. But people don’t approach nut cases with their arms outstretched. I do expect a video of my meltdown to appear on Youtube though, seeing as all of this occurred in front of a crowded bus stop.

I booted the door. The bank manager frowned. I punched the metal frame. “Closed” he said firmly. “No? But, down payment, house! MonEEEEEEEEEEY!” I bellowed, having lost the ability to form coherent sentences half a minute before. “Closed” he repeated sternly. That was when I snarled and bared my teeth, shoving my face as close to the door as I could. Realizing what I had done, I pulled myself back. “Thank you!” I shouted turning and rushing away from the building towards my car. Then upon realizing that I had thanked someone who wasn’t remotely helpful I turned again “I mean, NOT thank you!”

In the end, I called the helpline on my bank card and explained the situation. The kind voice directed me to a branch two kilometers down the road which was open slightly later.