I sit here, like a 50s teenager on Saturday night, waiting for the phone to ring. Only I’m waiting for my banker to call, not Biff the Football Hero.
See, a few weeks ago I was approved for a home loan. Much cheering and merry skipping ensued. I went house-hunting, found The Perfect House, made an offer, made a counter-offer, slaughtered a chicken and offered the entrails, and finally the sellers and I came to an agreement. I joyfully called my banker to tell her the good news.
“We’re having a little problem with your loan…” she said.
People on the other side of the planet wondered what that “thud” was as my heart dropped clean to the floor. Apparently there are some “items” on my husband’s and my credit report, and she needs more paperwork to show that we’re actually paying our bills and not hiding from our creditors under assumed names or something.
I wondered (but didn’t ask) how long she’d known about this, and if she was planning on telling me about it before I called. Whatever. I made some phone calls, husband made some phone calls, we begged and pleaded and groveled and debased our own humanity, and finally on Saturday there appeared in our mailbox the Paperwork we needed to Secure our Home Loan.
Yesterday morning I charged into the bank, established a bulkhead, put the banker into a chokehold, and stapled the mighty Paperwork to her forehead. Not really. I walked into her office and waited politely while she looked over it.
“This should be everything we need,” she said, smiling. Like a shark. “I’ll show it to my underwriter and call you back this afternoon.”
Anyone who has existed in this world for more than 20 minutes knows where I’m going with this. Of course I didn’t get a call yesterday afternoon! Of course I tried to call her back! Of course she had already left for the day! Of course she wasn’t in yet this morning when I called again! Of course I left a message! Of course she hasn’t called yet!
I’m giving her another half an hour and then I’m hiring a bounty hunter.