….then pony up and prove it.
Last Tuesday I looked at the 4th house in the neighborhood in which I would like to live. It was so much insanely cuter and more wonderful and more perfect for me than the other 3 houses. Even when my sister and I had peeked in the windows (vacant house, not Peeping Toms) she said, “This is your house.” I really, really, really wanted this house. When I met the owner Tuesday night, I think my exact quote was, “What do you need from me right now to keep you from renting this house to anybody else?” I probably would have stopped short of a kidney, but not by much.
Then, I had to do this credit check thing online. Without going into details, my marriage was not a financial boon for me. I did not pass the test. I called the owner the next morning and asked what that meant as far as going forward. I felt that I had made a fairly good impression on her when we met, but I did not know how “strict” she would be about said credit test. I was prepared to be disappointed to no end, but she said all was fine. I met with her Friday to sign the lease and give her the deposit, etc. I wrote the check confidently, knowing that it was payday and that I was flush with the dollars. Except that I figured out late last night that payday is actually NEXT Friday, and the dollars….not so flush. I freaked out. My dad said just to call her and tell her what happened. I didn’t feel good about that. After all, I had dodged one financial bullet with the credit thing–would she forgive an idiotic thing like, “Oh yeah, that first check I wrote you is gonna bounce, so could you hold it for a few days?” I didn’t want to chance it.
Thankfully, I have the best sister in the world. She went out of her warm office at lunchtime into the frozen tundra (well, 30’s is frozen tundra in Georgia) and got me some cash. The bank I use does not have “branches” to walk into and make a deposit. However, I had spoken to a very helpful woman early this morning who told me how to send it Western Union by 5:15 and that it would be credited today so the check would not bounce.
I left work with work unfinished–dashed off to the office of the sis. She gave me the dough, and off I ran to WU. I got the correct form and filled it out. One problem. The form did not have spaces for all the information that my bank person said I needed to provide. I called Customer Service (which thus far has been very good). Today, not so hot. Gentleman asked me multiple times if I had the blue form that said “blah, blahty, blah” at the top. I assured him that I did have the form. He insisted that there was a section that included my name called “bullshit section that does not exist.” Actually, he called it something else, my form said “your information.” I told him it had room for my “last name, first name, email address, phone number–and nothing fucking else.” However, instead of saying the f-word, I kept repeating the same thing and saying “sir” as if I actually respected him. He asked me if I had spoken to the WU people about it. I said, “No, I have not. I am trying to meet YOUR requirements, not theirs. However, if you think there is pertinent information they can provide, I will be happy to ask them, SIR.” He hemmed and hawed, and admitted they probably could not help me.
He finally told me where to put the number without an assigned space, and told me it would “probably” work.
I said, “SIR, as I have repeated many times during this conversation, I am trying to make a deposit to my account that must be credited today. I have gone to great effort to follow the instructions given to me this morning to make this happen. PROBABLY just isn’t going to work for me.” He hemmed and hawed a bit more and told me it “would” work. I wrote what he asked me to write in the spaces he asked me to write in. Then I asked him if he could make a note in my account of the conversation in case it didn’t work. He said he did not plan to make a note. I then asked him for his name. Sam was the answer. I asked for a last name and got Wheeler. I mentioned that neither name was particularly unique, and asked for an ID number or reference number just in case I had any difficulties. This pissed him off. However, he could not have been even close to as pissed off as I was the 5th time he asked me if I had the right fucking blue form. He gave me a number (probably just what he was going to play the lotto with tonight). It appears that the deposit will happen before the check is processed. Probably. If it doesn’t, I hope none of you are named Sam, because a pissed off redhead who doesn’t get her perfecthouse with the red door because you don’t give a shit will be coming after you.
(Note to self: Move that spread sheet with paydays and bills and budget shit up higher on the list of things to do.)