June 19, 2009

4:03 p.m.

Been There, Answered That, Turned It Off

Yargh!*

(*Pirate's cry of frustration.)

Here it is just past four, and I've spent the entire day running around chasing down paper for the bloody, pesky underwriters. Yesterday was another day from Hell, where suddenly the lending institution wanted to know some more stuff (which, frankly, they should have been nudging me about over the last few WEEKS, not the eleventh hour before closing and AFTER they'd already approved the mortgage), and I was in a panic to produce lots of scans of documents -- not all of which I even had -- and I did it all last night after stopping by Rose's and having a teary breakdown and then going to the bank to deposit yet some more money so that we'll be able to close. Rose gave me a Xanax and INSISTED I take it when I got home. I forgot about it until after I'd finished doing all the paperwork -- thank goodness, because I'd never taken one before and it knocked me out so much I was good for precisely nothing afterwards. This morning we had a laugh when she explained to me that Xanax is a short-term drug -- charges in, then charges right back out four hours later. I said, "So this exhaustion I feel this morning-- that's just me?" Yes, she assured me, that was just my natural exhaustion, not the drug. This was a HELL of a week. I haven't been under this much stress since I was living with my deceased, bipolar ex-boyfriend from thirteen years ago. (Note: He wasn't deceased until later.)

So today, I got up fairly early and had a couple of email responses to the files I sent last night. I wrote back, had breakfast, and by 10 I was so zonked I went back to bed for an hour.

When I got up, of course, everyone in the world had called and left messages, or paged me with their phone numbers, wanting more, wanting to know, wanting to hear, wanting to tell. I got back on all that and then went to Rose's, because Angela my realtor was there to have lunch.

Meanwhile I had to send Dar on a couple of chases to his bank to ask them to dig up check copies and bank statements that Dar didn't have, and then fax them to my attorney. Back and forth we all went; making copies and faxing at the library, my phone ringing every fifteen minutes, realtor talking to attorney, attorney calling mortgage company, lender asking more pesky questions... I am by now expecting them to ask me for documentation of how often I've taken a crap in the last month. Can I prove it? No. They'll have to take my word for it.

The lenders are paranoid because of so many defaulted mortgages, of course. They want to make SURE nobody has loaned me any money they don't know about, which I'll have to pay back, which would interfere with my paying back THEIR money. I understand this in theory but it's so strict now that the whole team is running ragged trying to please the lender, and they want documentation down to every grand.

I THINK that everything now is in order -- at least, as in order as I can get it. I am so grateful I'm not the one on the front lines with the underwriters.

It looks as though they'll need at least another business day to clarify all this and get the closing package from the seller's agent. (Oooh, "closing package." Sounds like a gift. Will there be candy inside? Party favors? A hat?) That means it's likely we'll close a smidge later than Monday. I DO NOT CARE. I just want them to stop asking me for things and double checking to make sure I haven't done anything wrong, for which they are ready to smack my hands with a ruler. Even if I haven't done anything wrong, if someone acts suspiciously towards me I feel like they're onto me for something and I'm in trouble. Leftover fear of teachers, probably, from some dreadful school years in my youth.

Anyway -- now I'm back home, mustering up a little energy to pack the office. Must... pack... office. It won't take that long, really. Just do it. Then watch Netflix. And stop answering the phone.