Could I be any crankier right now? I am typing this on Monday night, because I plan to overdose on decaf green tea tonight and sleep in tomorrow. I KNOW how to relax and have a good time when I'm stressed.
As you may know, if you salivate over my every move, and why don't you, I am putting this house in my own name. Now, why you can't call the mortgage company and say, "Hi! This is June's house now!" and be done with it is beyond me. I have to BUY it all over again, because interest rates are lower or the tide is rising or I'm wearing highwaters or the tide is high but I'm holding on. I DON'T KNOW. For some reason I have to go through the same paperwork hell I had to go through in April of 2008 when I bought this house in the FIRST place.
Two months ago I met with this real estate woman with unkempt hair, and I know I'm one to talk, but you have never seen hair this ludicrous.
Dude. I KNOW.
And why do Realtors think they need to show us their picture, anyway? Is this gonna make us trust them more? Because once I got a load of old whirlwind hair, there, I was not so sure.
Honestly, WHAT was going on with my hair in that last photo? Did someone squeeze me like a pecan?
So I met with old unseen-wind hair, and I filled out 83848593945923.3 forms on the first day, and I swear to you I have filled out 87,000 more in the weeks that have passed. I ALREADY BOUGHT THIS HOUSE. How much paperwork could there BE?
Today I got a huge packet in the mail from the bank, and then this woman called me and went over the FIFTY PAGES I needed to sign and return to her. Also, I had to write a letter explaining why I was laid off (Dear Bank, The economy sucks. You started it. Love, June), and the VARIATIONS IN MY NAME.
They want to know why I have a maiden name, a married name, and why I sometimes use my middle initial. I am not making that up. Woooo! With the aliases!
So after work, I sat here and wrote my letters and explained that wild middle inital use…
…then I tried to fax all the pages to New York.
Oh, for the love of all that is holy.
Have you ever tried to fax 50 different-sized pages from your 1902 fax machine? I have to tie the power cord to a dinosaur, who dances a sugaring-off dance playing on a Victrola to get it started. Oh, I tried 87 times.
Finally, even though I was wearing my work pants, my Burbank Tshirt and my silver Dr. Scholl sandals that some odd person keeps writing and asking me for more photos of (Dear Foot Fetish Reader, No. Love, June), I went to Office Depot, where I was so annoyed I did not even LOOK for my kitties.
And do you know they wanted to charge me (sit down) FIFTY DOLLARS to fax those effing pages? It's a ONE EIGHT HUNDRED number! Oh, I was mad! Fifty dollars! Like it really cost them that much to send. Peckerfuckerheads.
I am sorry. That was my favorite swear in junior high. It still works.
So I gathered my fine outfit and went back home. I STOOD HERE, OVER THE FAX MACHINE, and fed each page in one at a time.
In the meantime? Everybody in the world tried to call me. My neighbor Peg came over on Saturday, as I was just getting home and had both kittens in a carrier and groceries in my other hand, to tell me she was having a deck party on the 30th. "Okay!" I said, as I headed in the house. I mean, I had a lot going on, there.
She called the next night when I was out to say the party started at 6:30 and to call her back. Now, this is something that irks me. Why do people want you to call back when you have gotten all the pertinent info? What more could there be to say? The party is NEXT DOOR. In my BACK YARD. I'll SEE it when it's happening. I won't be ABLE to forget it.
So tonight? In the middle of all this hell? RING! RING!
"Hi, June, it's Peg! Did you get my message about the party?!"
No. No, I did not. I cannot figure out this newfangled contraption called the tellyfowne, and why does it beep at me when I pick it up? What do it mean? I got a PERSON in there who will give me MESSAGES? Well, I'll be!
"Yes, Peg," I said briskly, "but I'm in the middle of buying-my-house papework right now. Can I talk to you later?"
"Wait," she said. Peg is a dear friend and a lovely neighbor and I am glad she lives next door, but she is lucky I did not have a fire bomb at that moment, and also that I really don't technically know what a fire bomb is.
"My friend wants your blog address! What is it, again?"
Peg has looked at my blog 82942949 times, and of course if she reads THIS post she will hate me. Hi, Peg!
"Byebyepie," I shot out crankily.
"Bye!?" she asked.
"And then pie, like p-i-e?"
And that is why I am writing you from Folsom Prison. I shot a neighbor in Greensboro, just to watch her die.
Anyway, all those effing effing effing DING effing DANG pages have been sent, and now guess who is looking at me with his underbite, wondering where his walk is? Dogs are so %#$#%&*# SELFISH.
This had better be the nicest house I've ever moved into, is all I can say.