We just today went to see a house we both like, a house I think will move us to make an offer, a house I could see myself living in.
So we’re in the process, as they say, and to move things along we got pre-approved for a mortgage. It’s been a while since I’ve done this and it’s been a while since I saw my credit report, but I’m sitting here with 11 pages in my lap of former loans, loans retired, loans still open, credit cards cut up in frustration, and loans for cars that have long since taken their last gasp on the junk heap. It is my financial history, by the numbers.
My credit score won’t keep me from buying a house, but as I thumb through the pages, I am reminded that this is basically all crap. It doesn’t begin to cover the pain and anguish of these loans. It is strictly a (flawed) indication to future loan officers whether they will ever see a dime from me.
And it’s an inaccurate picture, as well. I can remember being on the phone multiple times with then-Bank of Boston, soon to be BankBoston, soon to be Fleet Bank, soon to be Bank of America, which was my bank until I showed myself to be a psychic about eight years ago, and took Arianna Huffington’s advice before she even offered it, and moved my money to a smaller, regional bank where the tellers know my name.
Meanwhile, at Bank of Boston, a woman on the other end of my multiple phone calls kept confusing me with That Other DJ, the one who couldn’t pay her mortgage on time. Our names were the same (Ms. DJ) but I can’t imagine our social security numbers were, yet there I’d be, every month, getting a late notice weeks after I’d sent my mortgage check in, on time. I kept getting Kathy (with a K, I know because I asked) who had that special mix of condescension with a frisson of superiority that flips my switch every time. Bless her heart.
Until the last move, I kept a file (under “Annoyances”) of the letters that went back and forth until her bank was finally sold. We moved on to BankBoston (if pressed I bet I can almost remember the logo for that short-lived venture) where a nice man offered to wipe the slate clean — which he evidently did, from the pages before me now.
And now that I have become attractive to lending institutions (good paycheck, good credit, and my hair is perfect), I don’t like them and I feel icky that they like me. I suppose it would be counter-productive to flip ‘em the bird (I need a loan in order to buy a house because I had the bad luck of being switched at the hospital and given to a hillbilly family rather than the fabulously wealthy family I’m pretty sure I actually belong to). But I very much want to. I don’t think I’ve seen a document lately that has annoyed me more.
Yeah, I don’t think any of the officers at my credit union are going to quit because of federal guidelines about pay-caps. I do have a big-bank credit card (and I suspect that one from the credit union is probably through a big bank too?), but it’s nice to have been involved with this institution for 30 years. They don’t know my face so much now, I don’t have to go in to their office much, but when I was working and did go in every couple of weeks, they recognized me and that felt right.
I like it when people know your pets’ names, too. That just feels right.