Housing Booshit

So…about that alleged house we found.  Turns out its all a ruse.  These people were apparently all about toying with my emotions.  I suppose Rocco’s emotions were also toyed with but if we could just continue to focus on me and my needs, I know I’d feel much better about the whole scenario.

Last night, as I learned about all the trickery and skulduggery that our sellers have employed in selling their stinky-ass property, I literally began foaming at the mouth.  I’m not sure I’ve ever been more angry.  If I’d only had a teenager to unleash my angst upon, I could be a Baldwin on TMZ.  In all seriousness, you would have had to really focus to tell the difference between my brooding face and someone who’d been chewing on Alka-Seltzer just for sport.  Really – that angry – I’m not sure there’s ever been a pay-per-view event involving more profanity than I unleashed upon my poor talented realtor.

As I tend to say in all housing entries: Fuckers.

Rat-bastard fuckers.  I feel this isn’t the time to sugar coat.  Despite all our demands, they’d stalled us out, solicited multiple offers, and demanded more in a buyers market than I’ve ever seen in even a seller’s market.  The shit my agent had to stomach still bowls me over.  The seller’s agent said such horrible things to the single most beautiful person I’ve ever met, I really considered homicide.  This see you next Tuesday was a monster.  She literally tormented my poor agent and mocked all her abilities.  She clearly assumed my gal couldn’t find her way out of a turtleneck.  I assure you, less than three minutes into a conversation with my agent, you can tell she’s intelligent enough to tie her very own shoes….and at the very least – if she can’t tie her own shoes, she’s smart enough to wear slip-ons to disguise the truth.  This other agent assumed my agent was being coached on how to breathe.  What a fucking bitch.  There’s really just no two ways about it.  Fortunately, karma is a bitch and this Chiquita has a whole lot o’ payback in escrow.

So, back to the actual story…late last night the seller’s attorney (after ignoring all our correspondence for the last 48 plus hours) demands to know if we’re OK to move ahead with their asinine revisions.  Not only were they completely fucking us – there wasn’t even any lube involved.  There was nothing friendly nor courteous about their approach to this sale.  Kevin Federline has more social acumen than this group of fucking heathens.

While discussing their latest sodomy tactics and determining how early in 2010 I’d be ok with finally occupying my potential new home, my friend/realtor learned of a sheriff’s auction for Essex county.  Turns out, a house I’d totally had a complete boner for a few months ago (despite the minor issue of a mildly toxic oil-tank leak) was going to be auctioned off the very next day.  Woo-mother-fuckin-hoo!

Really, Elly?  A foreclosure auction sounds mildly terrifying.  How does all that work?  What exactly are you responsible for if you win the auction?  Do you have to have the full purchase price ready at the moment you bid?  Who else is bidding?  Is there some sort of forgiving time period when you can evaluate what you’ve done?  If you buy in bulk, do you get some kind of discount?  Are all those cool flipping people from HGTV and Bravo in the room with you?

As a general rule – the answers to all these question is “um – no.”  I got my cashier’s check together – which was no minor feet – and headed to the courthouse.  Trying to get a cashier’s check when your credit union is based in Texas is kinda like trying to get pregnant while your spouse is overseas.  Technically it’s possible – but none of the scenarios leave you feeling April fresh.

I ended up having to open a WaMu checking account with the help of an adorable guy with perfectly manicured nails named Christian.  Bless his soul but he was so into the entire process, he actually danced a little jig when my wire transfer came through.  He had me call up my bank and have them on hold till he lined up everything on my end.  All the wiring account and routing numbers were assigned, but he was terrified to have my bank push the “send” button till all ducks were in a row.  I kept waiting for Gene Hackman or Harrison Ford to appear with two sets of matching keys that we would simultaneously place into a war console somewhere and turn in the same direction, at the exact same moment, in order to release my funds.  Without any type of launch codes, I somehow ended up with my fundage in the account.   A mere twenty minutes later, I had my cashier’s check in hand and I was ready to buy some foreclosed properties!

Poor Rococo was foaming at the mouth at the prospect of my buying a foreclosed home with known leaking oil tanks.  Me, I was just excited about the gamble – nothing ventured, nothing gained, right?  I never.  ever.  do anything the easy way.  That’s cheating.  I always do it the hard way while my reflexes are dulled my alcohol.  I can’t let my family down.  It’s a gift, really.  For my next performance…

So with my fat cashier’s check in hand, I drove my ass to the Essex County Sheriff’s auction to buy my dream (or at least dream-for-now) home.   Turns out I was less than clueless.  This shit is complicated!  They throw numbers at you like dart’s at a carnies wall o’ balloons – but less prizes.  It took me a good solid twenty minutes to have the slightest idea what was happening.  Countless authority figures paraded themselves to the front of the room, rambled on for five to seven minutes about a specific property always ending with “On behalf of the plaintiff I enter a bid of $100.”  Then the court clerk guy would bellow, ” I have a bid on behalf of the plaintiff in the amount of $100 – any other bids?”  He’d repeat this question at least twice then follow with, ” Last call.”  “Sold to plaintiff for $100.”

Fortunately for my marriage, my property’s auction was delayed.  In the meantime, we bowed out of the offer on the other property I mentioned a few days ago.  Turns out I’m not OK with an open close date that could be as late as 2010.  Apparently I’m not down with rolling the dice and jumping from futon to futon until our housing situation is resolved.  So, here I am without any hope of housing, where twenty-four hours ago I was entertaining two different options – and I feel a hundred times better starting from scratch.  Now we’ll just see if my darling husband’s ulcer bleeds out overnight.