Always a process. . .

August 23, 2013

A week ago, or so, got an email from my lender, Shitty Porridge, asking for a cash contribution from me, in order to proceed with the deed-in-lieu of foreclosure on my Stillwater home. A DIL is a voluntary "agreement" between borrower and lender, to give a home back to the lender, free and clear, without having to pay the difference between what is owed and what the house eventually sells for, without having to pay taxes on the "profits" of the difference, and other eyeball-glazing details. Rumor has it, it's better for one's credit score and faster than than an out-right foreclosure, but I'm not entirely convinced of that, as this "faster process" has been over five months in the making now. And not just anyone can request a DIL, mind you. Many conditions must be met: one first try to prove a hardship through piles of submitted documents, then be denied a refinance, then denied qualifying for any of the mythical "hardship programs" offered by the government, and then fail to sell the house via a short sale, all of which take many, many months in and of themselves, in spite of proven hardship. Then, hardships must be proven, again, via more pathetic "hardship letters," followed by endless hoops that must be jumped through, piles of documents must be submitted and resubmitted many times over because they get "lost" or have "expired," or were not the "correct" documents, or perhaps were simply shredded by the maniacally laughing Head Shredder in the Shredding Department at Shitty. Oh yes, and the "Grantor" (that's me) must also contribute, along the way, lavish amounts of: blood, sweat, tears, hair, sleep, weight and sanity. In spite of all of this, there is no guarantee the DIL will be accepted, because ultimately, the lender is the deciding party in this "agreement," and I would venture to guess that the decision process is at the whim of the mood of the Powers That Be, who make the decision. Or a dart board.  

The email I received last week made no mention that my cash contribution was a guarantee that my DIL would be accepted, btw, simply a request for $$ on my behalf, to keep this process "moving forward." Thus far, my lender has done nothing to make me believe this long, dragged out process is going to end any time soon, or in my "favor." (Ending in my favor would have been the short sale that I had tried to do, for over a year prior to embarking on the the DIL. That route didn't work out for various and sundry reasons, main one being Shitty Porridge turned down a full-price offer on my house, because the buyers—who still loved the house, and I don't blame them, as it is an adorable home tucked into the hillside of a beautiful, restful country setting—discovered via inspection, that the septic system on the property wasn't up to code and needed to be replaced, to the tune of $20,000. Still in love with the house, the buyers adjusted their offer to reflect the septic issue, Shitty refused to negotiate, I raised my hands skyward in despair, hence the DIL route.)

Holding yet another clump of my own hair in my fist, I pounded out an e-mail response to Shitty Porridge, told them I'm done playing trained monkey in their game, they are getting nothing more from me because finally, four years into this insane, nonsensical process, I've figured out it's in my best interest to do what I have to do to protect what little assets I have left. The cash contribution they're asking from me would put groceries in my cupboards for months. It would pay half of my annual health insurance premium, or several more months of therapy, which I will need, after this week's events. Or buy me a stylish wardrobe of wigs. For sure, a few palates of spray-on hair. "From here on out," I pounded the words on the keyboard, "you people can figure out what to do with my empty house, because I am out, I am spent, I am not giving anything more." Especially not any more hair.

Two days after the extortion email (<----- okay, maybe that part is a tad hyperbole), I got a letter from Shitty, telling me my DIL request was refused, based on the financial information I had provided them (specifically because my mortgage is less than 30% of my income, which is $0. You do the math, I'm bad with numbers, especially numbers that don't add up), that my mortgage terms remain the same, that outright foreclosure may now be my only option (though the letter ends with, "However, you may be eligible for other short sale or deed-in-lieu options available from Shitty!"). Which means this letter was already en route to me, when I had received the request for the cash contribution. This resulted in the loss of another handful of hair, making me wonder what the hell would have happened to the money they requested of me, had I, in desperation, broken down and sent it to them? The very next day after I received the letter of refusal (I am not kidding, they are dated August 12 and August 13, respectively)—I receive another letter thanking me for submitting all my documentation, and my DIL request has been passed on to a negotiator for review. Still following me? Don't blame you if you're not, as I'm even following this mess any more . . .

Instead of pounding out another angry e-mail, I decided to volunteer at a Habitat for Humanity building site the other day--something I've wanted to do for a long time, have had many excuses not to. With all my own house drama dragging on, I though it might be a good thing to "step out of" my own shit for a day, and lend my services to someone who could use a little help. I can swing a hammer. I can operate power tools. I can follow directions like a trained monkey.

I literally sweated my ass off this past 90 degree'ed Monday afternoon, and I don't mean that figuratively. I stood up at one point to pull my hammer and a handful of nails out of my apron, noticed I was so drenched, it appeared as though I'd wet myself. Pretty as a picture. Felt good, though, to pound nails, drive holes into concrete with big drills that made my teeth rattle in my head, run power tools I've never used before (and maybe shouldn't have been allowed to use, given my mental state), even to get scorched a bit by the sun, in spite of multiple layers of SPF 50. My anger at Shitty Porridge and the big mess I've been dealing with for four years melted away in the heat of the sun.

But the irony of the day was not lost on me. Here I am, facing foreclosure, want nothing more to do with homeownership ever again—I never, ever want to be so helplessly, hopelessly tied to an inanimate object like that, with no way out—and there I was, eight hours in the scorching sun, helping build a house for a family who so desperately wants to own a home, who could probably do it no other way. I also thought a lot about the big ugly Myth that is the American Dream of Homeownership, but that's another post for another time. Or not.

This morning, as I'm packing for a weekend sabbatical from the insanity, I get phone call from the negotiator, saying my DIL has been approved. What. The. Fuck?! (I'm sorry, Mom, but heck just didn't have the most effective impact here.) I didn't know whether to cry or jump for joy, so as soon as I got off the phone, I did a bit of both. The ironic juxtaposition of finally waking from this nightmare, coupled with the sobering, aching realization that if this does go through, I will finally be severing the most tangible connection to my life with my husband is, right now, beyond what I can describe.

I need longer than just a long weekend get-away from this nightmare-covered nightmare sundae, topped with a nightmare cherry. . . maybe need to run away to Bali, live in a simple little thatched house, teach Pilates on the beach. hmmm. . . on second thought, maybe not. I keep forgetting I have translucent skin. . . even though I'm more than a bit suspicious that it's not quite over, this is tentative good news with which to begin my trip. Process, process, process...