Me and A. Hole

This blog is a complete clusterfuck.  I swore it would be chronological but then I have used it as a platform to bitch about the consolidation of banking and the government's role in the housing crisis.  I have determined the format to be FUBAR and thus, I have decided today I will blog about what I feel like.  After all, this is my blog.

It is common knowledge that A.Hole and I were not friends at first sight.  The Barbie Doll's return prompted us to be friends because fear and uncertainty are powerful motivators.  I promised a month ago to blog about the infamous "Sitdown" that entrenched us as allies, but I didn't.  Check out The Bitch is Back if you don't know the back story.  I guess my check back tomorrow really meant, "Wander back in a month or so, I might or might not actually tell you what happened."

The Mortgage Devil called a meeting with his boss, a guy so salesman slick that every single time I saw him I was reminded of the scene in The Outlaw Josey Wales with the dude on the ferry who changed his tune depending on which side was on the raft.   The meeting is going to be with me, A. Hole, the Douchebag from Josey Wales, Barbie, and the Mortgage Devil.  For weeks the Mortgage Devil had been prepping us on all we should be upset about and vent to our superiors and he told us all the concerns he would raise at the meeting.  Let me be clear, when the Mortgage Devil called a meeting, I usually didn't attend.  On the rare occasions I did, I would stroll in late and look annoyed and spend the majority of the meeting fantasizing about being a pirate or being drunk at Happy Hour.    This meeting however, was important for my career.  Or at least that was the bullshit story I was fed.

I rolled in early and eight months pregnant, wearing a strapless dress as a skirt.  I was wearing a shirt, I swear.  The Barbie introduces herself and asks, "Wow, do you always look this great pregnant?"  I respond, "It is hard to say, this is only my second time."  She doesn't seem to be the dragon slayer I was expecting; in fact, she seems awfully nice and wanting to impress.  I find it hard to hate her during our small talk and now, I am confused.

Before the meeting the Mortgage Devil goes over the things he is concerned for us for and encourages A. Hole and I to tell the slick seersucker suit wearing asshole from Josey Wales everything he has said.  We walk into the most awkward meeting of all time.  The Barbie and The Devil haven't been in the same room for months.  There are rumors all around that the demise of their partnership was a sordid affair which led to her rapid departure and this fact is not lost on me or A.Hole as we sit down to face our future.

The meeting starts and the Mortgage Devil tells seersucker suit guy that his best loan officers have concerns.  A. Hole and I elucidate the concerns we have been fed by the Mortgage Devil and then wait for him to back us up, and we wait.  He gives his boss, Seersucker Carpetbagger, a glance that looks to be saying, "Look at these whiny bitches, you deal with it."  Here is where it goes awry.  Seersucker Carpet Bagger tells us in not so polite terms that we are in fact, whiny bitches, and we need to get on board.  He regales us with stories of loan officers who prosper in competitive markets and wonders why we suffer from such low self esteem that we would be threatened by Barbie's return.  The Barbie Doll seems hurt and defensive and reassures us that she wants life to be good for us and has no idea why would be worried about her hurting our business or happiness.  A. Hole and I are so floored we say nothing, which is an absolute oddity and a freaking miracle.  We endure a twenty minute lecture where our boss, the Mortgage Devil, nods his head at every critical thing the Seersucker Carpet Bagger tells us.  We have been thrown under the bus.  The Mortgage Devil set us up to look like whiny bitches and get shit off his chest and then turned coat on us and played Polly fucking Anna.  Surprising?  Nope.  Disappointing?  Hell Yes.

I get in my Volvo, the official car of libertarian loan officers, and immediately call A.Hole on his cell phone.  We are both furious and ranting and raving. A. Hole and I both realized we were completely set up and our higher ups now were laboring under the impression that we were scared little fear mongers with no competitive spirit.  The Mortgage Devil had slipped one by us and nothing is more painful than that.

I was so upset by the tongue lashing of the Seersucker Carpetbagger that I called my Operations Manager, the Enabler, and threatened to quit.  She reassured me that everything would be fine and that the Mortgage Devil was just trying to make things right by me and A. Hole.  Extremely pregnant, I realize I won't be fighting  this battle at the moment and so I stew.  I spend the last month of my pregnancy marketing and closing loans and on a Friday, send out a bunch of cold call letters to realtors touting my awesome abilities to get loans done at the Bank of Hell.

That Sunday, I give birth to my daughter.  But not before my operations manager holds a baby shower for me at the Bank of Hell where everyone hates me, or at least does a shitty job of pretending to be my friend.  A. Hole is not invited or he doesn't show up.  Wait a minute, why didn't you show up Fucker?  I digress....at said baby shower, the Mortgage Devil entertains us with stories of how he has missed almost all of his kid's firsts and great moments due to his commitment to the mortgage industry.  He goes on to tell stories of when he has mortified his kids in public because he is such an asshole.  I was miserable at my baby shower because the Mortgage Devil used it as a platform to talk all about him, as usual.

A.Hole and I became friends because of the Barbie and the extreme foulness of the Mortgage Devil, but when I returned from so called, "Maternity Leave", they put us in the cave together.  Big mistake, morons.  Big Mistake.  That is when the shit hit the fan.  Stay tuned, I may get around to that story tomorrow....or not.

Return to the Scene of the Crime

I haven't blogged in awhile, not because I am uninspired but rather, I have been busy turning parts of this blog into a book.  Well that and I took a vacation back to the land where all the debauchery described here occurred. 

Returning to the place where I worked as a loan officer for three years and lived for twice that time brought mixed emotions.  My hope was to avoid running into any of my previous costumers or real estate contacts, unless of course by choice.  That mission was accomplished.  I didn't want to see old customers because I was in fear of getting physically or verbally assaulted because of the loans I had done for them. and frankly, I feel sorry for a lot of people who are trapped in the sandbox where I made a ton of money for awhile and then fled.

I was struck immediately by the impacts of the housing crisis on the entire region and while it should have come as no surprise, I still was shocked to see predictions I had made long before coming to pass.  My friend and co-blogger, A.Hole, and I met my friend and real estate agent, Judy Moody, for happy hour.  Of course, we drank a lot and as to be expected, talked about real estate and gossiped about former colleagues we still didn't like.  I heard stories of homes purchased for $800,000 in 2006 selling at short sale for $350,000.  One of these homes was purchased by a gentleman that only earned $50,000 a year.  Obviously, he was the beneficiary of a liar's loan but he was just one of thousands who purchased a home he couldn't afford in a highly speculative market.

Economics 101 as it applies to housing is that housing demand is driven by employment.  In theory, people need income to buy a home.  The housing boom took this fundamental tenet of economics and spit on it.  In the area where I lent money, we had very little employment and most of it was tied to tourism.  A great number of people in the sandbox are reliant upon unemployment in the winter as their jobs are seasonal but, the vast majority of people were self employed or directly employed by industries associated with housing.  This includes a plethora of self employed individuals, real estate agents, and construction contractors.  Our housing boom was driven by people on the other side of the bridge purchasing second homes and investment properties and our local speculators, who behaved like they were players in the gold rush.  People who had no business owning one home found themselves temporarily exercising domain over small, crappy housing empires.  It couldn't last.

A number of things conspired to cause the decimation of the housing market in the sandbox.  Fannie Mae, the Federal Reserve, and government policies were the catalyst but, the local developers and real estate players pushed the market over the edge. 

Much like the Tragedy of the Commons, where everyone acting in their self interest brings about a negative outcome for themselves and the greater good, real estate developers went nuts.  With no consideration to the sustainable supply of certain types of housing in the region, condo developers saturated the market with units that demand could not possibly keep up with.  Planned urban developments went up everywhere, even where they shouldn't.  Development in a protected wetland was possible if you knew the right people; no one thought about whether they should do it, they just doled out favors and protected the fat cats of the region.  The spoils of the boom went to the early developers and investors who amassed wealth at an unprecedented rate.  Seeing the gains to these early entrepreneurs, every Tom, Dick, and Harry wanted in on the splendor.  The last to get in are suffering the most as profits were driven out and then the market collapsed completely, much like the species crash of an unsustainable animal population.  The housing market is very Darwinian, but the fittest in this case were those who got in first and then had the good sense to the get the hell out while the gettin was good and those who had political ties to avoid silly things like zoning laws and environmental regulations that the unconnected were subject to.

At a particularly drunken happy hour at a bar by the Bank of Hell ruled by the Mortgage Devil, I got in an argument with people who had invested in a condo development on what they call a river.  Growing up on the Mississippi, I felt the need to point out that their so called river looked like a polluted ditch and bore no resemblance to a real river.  They argued with me and then realizing I wouldn't change my stance that not all waterfront property is created equal, they changed their tactic to arguing that the new condo development would appeal to young professionals.  I responded, "To attract young professionals you must have jobs and this town doesn't so I think there is a pretty major flaw in your understanding of the demand for these units."  No amount of Ketel One keeps me from making sound economic sense but these people were having none of it.  They told me I didn't understand real estate and they would prove me wrong.  Yeah, right.  I went by the project and one whole building is sitting sheathed without Tyvek, unfinished and blighted.  The other condo building they actually finished has a vacancy rate that appears to be 90%.  As I predicted, young professionals go where the jobs are and are not swayed to deviate from their economic self interest by a creek filled with litter and surrounded by crime. 

The entire region looked sad to me despite the flood of tourists from Pennsyltucky, New Jersey, Washington D.C., Baltimore, and surrounding cities.  The housing market in the sandbox looks to be at least a year away from even the seeds of recovery and with the economy still struggling, financial distress for people underwater in their homes or turning their second homes into rental properties is nowhere near over.  A glance at the rental listings for the area show how the flood of housing units for rent has depressed rental prices.  Great for renters?  Perhaps, if they could find a job. 

Buying at the beach became the American Dream with the help of incentives from the Federal Government yet, our government is accepting no responsibility for its contributions to the crisis.  Even those people in the sandbox who have encountered economic ruin due to their belief that the housing market was a never ending path to wealth blame the "Greedy Bastards on Wall Street."  Ummm, people want to make more money, duh.  That is only a problem when the government provides incentives to do so at the expense of common sense, economic sustainability, and future economic growth.

If the government gives your kids free reign in a candy store for a decade, you will get a bunch of fat kids with cavities.  What happens when you give adults these same incentives but trade the candy store for the housing market, oh yeah, an incredible bust and recession. 

On a positive note, if you are independently wealthy and require no employment, I can guide you to some tremendous values in a resort community.  If however you want to live at the beach but need income to support the habit, I got nothing.

The Bitch is Back

My initial hatred of A. Hole began to dissipate. Having moved into his subdivision we became neighbors, and seeing him as a human being helped to soften my stance but, what finally made us allies was a crazy turn of events we never saw coming. The Mortgage Devil’s old partner, the Barbie Doll, was returning to the Bank of Hell and this news caused chaos.

For months, A. Hole and I had been coexisting in the beach branch of the Bank of Hell. We tolerated each other, made obligatory small talk, and were content to not know much about each other. In the beginning, as I previously blogged, I was wildly turned off by his eating habits and his fandom of the Washington Redskins well that, and the fact that he was a loan officer and worked at the Bank of Hell. It was the like the super trifecta of things I abhor.

So, the crack head receptionist left one day and never came back but the Bank of Hell replaced her with another temp, we will call him The Edsell. He was a gentle retired librarian, newspaper man, and historian who reminded me a little of the grandfather in the Werther’s commercials. He was also, amusingly and sadly, in the twilight of his memory and ability to function in a professional environment. He was pleasant to both A. Hole and me, but since he and A. Hole were both Redskins fans, I endured countless discussions about the Skins chances to make the playoffs that year. The Bears were already a lock and I was wildly over confident in my team and figured there was no way the Skins were going to make it. As they chatted in the lobby about the prospects I fought the urge to yell out, “The pope will have to get laid for your team to get in. Shut Up!”

Turns out the Skins made the playoffs without any copulation on the part of The Pope and since I am rarely wrong, this prompted me to talk to A. Hole about it. Slowly, our relationship turned a corner. It was encouraged by The Edsell, who was so kind and grandfatherly that it was like having your conscience sitting ten feet from you; it brought out the best in us.

The charming thing about The Edsell was that he was the worst receptionist in the history of mankind, sweet and completely incompetent. A. Hole and I would get phone messages with 5 digit phone numbers and names of people that were inaccurate or unintelligible. Here is a typical exchange:

Turdy: “Hey The Edsell, I see you took a message from someone named Douchey Bagsley who called about a loan. I don’t know a Douchey Bagsley but I did talk to someone named Darcy Bailey about a loan, does that sound familiar?”


The Edsell: “Yeah, yeah, that sounds right.”


Turdy: “One other question, after her name you have the numbers 55534, is that supposed to represent something?”


The Edsell: “Yeah, that is the phone number she left. You are supposed to call her as soon as possible.”


Turdy: “I would love to do that Edsell, but unfortunately, I think I need seven numbers to reach her. It would appear two are missing. Do you know what those might be?”


The Edsell pages through the message pad, opens drawers searching for the missing digits, and then pauses.


The Edsell: “Those other numbers must be around here somewhere, I’ll get back to you.”

Neither A. Hole or I had the heart to say anything to The Edsell or management about our hard of hearing, elderly, and sweet receptionist. We spent a lot of time reconstructing phone numbers and randomly plugging in digits until we reached someone on the phone who had actually called. Often, we would call people and insult them by calling them the wrong name. We once got a message that someone named Johnny Weinerberger called, it wasn’t even close to their actual name, but it was a damn funny name. The Edsell helped bring us together as colleagues but it was the Barbie Doll’s return that made us allies.

So ironically, it was The Edsell who helped to let me know that the Barbie Doll was returning. The Mortgage Devil had been blowing up my cell phone and since he never answered my calls when I needed him, I was avoiding him. I am on my office phone when Edsell yells out, “Turdy, the Mortgage Devil is on the phone and he says it’s urgent.” After telling Edsell to take a message and returning to my phone call, Edsell comes in my office and looking sheepish, tells me the Mortgage Devil insists on speaking to me immediately. I mumble, “For shits sake.” Then I tell Edsell to put the Mortgage Devil’s call through. I am wary of this call because taking a phone call from the Mortgage Devil when he is in manic mode is a surefire way to guarantee you will not be able to resume the rest of your daily activities when you get off the phone, instead, you find yourself on your way to happy hour regardless of the time of day.

I say hello to the Mortgage Devil and right away I can tell there is something different. He is talking to me like he needs me, like I am an equal, and he sounds desperate and shaken. I am trying to process what he is telling me but what registers is that the Barbie Doll is returning to the Bank of Hell and moving into my sanctuary and the Mortgage Devil is indignant and worried about me and A. Hole. He is rambling about how he doesn’t understand how the Bank of Hell could take her back after what she did to him and how he will have our backs. He also calls A. Hole and gives a similar speech.

For the next two weeks, A. Hole and I talk a lot about what the Barbie Doll’s return will mean for us. She is bringing her own staff, she is a big producer, and she will be running our branch which scared us because the Mortgage Devil basically told us she would run us off and eat our young. We knew it meant saying goodbye to Edsell and potentially losing our offices. To add to the anxiety that comes with uncertain work conditions, the Mortgage Devil was suddenly best friends with me and A. Hole and was describing all the horrible things the Barbie Doll had done and riling us up with ugly scenarios of what our jobs would be like upon her return. This was incredibly stressful for me since I was 7 months pregnant and her triumphant return would be in my last month of pregnancy. After experiencing the Mortgage Devil’s theft of my commissions, I was petrified of what the Barbie Doll would do to me and my business.

During that month, I spoke to the Mortgage Devil and A. Hole more than I had in the previous eight months cumulatively. The staff in the Mortgage Devil’s branch which I despised and tortured whenever I could, did an about face and began being nice to me and treating me like one of their own. I would still describe their behavior as shitty but it was far more cordial and less hostile than our previous encounters. The most common phrase from the Mortgage Devil’s minions during the Barbie saga was, “I can’t believe that bitch is coming back, she thinks she can get away with this after what she has done to the poor Mortgage Devil?” The situation was ironic and intriguing, the Mortgage Devil was playing victim and as far I as can discern, he is only a victim of a hideous sense of humor and his narcissism.

I was baffled by the Mortgage Devil and his Minions sudden interest in communication and cooperation. It wouldn’t take long to find out what their true motives were. Tomorrow, I will tell you about the great “Sit Down”, the all time greatest example of getting thrown under the bus.

For now, I want to sign off with a shout out to The Edsell. He was the best thing about working at the Bank of Hell because he was genuine and kind; his complete ignorance of what was going on in the offices around him was enviable. I am hoping he is still on this earth, but given his advanced age and condition, I wouldn’t be surprised if he wasn’t. Either way, his phone messages are Mortgage Whore legend.

There is a Turd in the Punch Bowl

On occasion I have been known to watch “South Park”. I love the way they take a current event and then “cross the line” with it. It can be a beautiful thing when the creators are on their game. One episode reminded me of when I first met my co-writer.

The overall theme of the episode revolved around someone not going along with an “agenda”. When this happened the phrase “There is a Turd in the Punch Bowl” was uttered and the person was removed. It was code for we have a “free thinker” and someone who isn’t drinking the “Punch” (or kool-aid if you like). The beauty of this is that my co-writer chose the name Turd Furgeson. Ohh, the cosmic irony.

By now you should know that Turd Furgeson didn’t go along with the Mortgage Devil’s agenda at all. She hadn’t been drinking his Punch in quite awhile. It became a source of displeasure for him and his cohort…who I would like to introduce now. This woman shall be called Cruella Deville from this point forward. She is a middle aged woman who has the most fake laugh…bordering on cackle…that I have ever heard. Her husband is a successful Doctor in the area..so she doesn't need the money. Why does she work in the mortgage industry?....because she is Cruella and she needs to steal puppies to make fur coats?...or to take advantage of mortgage customers to finance her wool sweater and wool skirt habit? I am not sure. She chain smoked cigarettes all day and ran around the office between smoke breaks totally freaking out yelling “I am so SCREWED”…all…day…long. She never met a loan that wasn’t a total crisis. She created more drama than a Broadway production on a daily basis. She would run around screaming, cursing, throwing her hands up…. and then suddenly…the phone would ring. At a quick snap she would transform the rage into a sugary sweet demeanor. It was sickening to watch. It was better not to have eaten any greasy food that could easily come up when you were in her presence. The probability that I would vomit after watching this show was very high.

I recall one evening I am talking to one of the Mortgage Devil’s Minion’s…one that I actually like a little….and here comes Cruella. She is in full on freak out mode:

Cruella: “A. Hole…darling…have you heard that Turd Furgeson is down at the Beach office stealing loans from all of us”.

Me: “uhhh…what?”

Cruella: “Oh yeah, she is down there picking up all of the phones call that could be for any of us…and she is taking the loan applications all for herself”.

Me: “hmmm…Really?”

Cruella: “Yes, the Mortgage Devil is pissed. He said that he explained to her she had to find out who the Loan Officer was that handled the loan and then pass it to them. But she isn’t doing that. He said that wasn’t the deal.”

Me: “Well, I planned to make some stops at the Beach at the end of the week and stop in that office. I guess I will get to meet her.”

Cruella: “Well you need to sit and there and listen to what she is doing and tell the Mortgage Devil. He needs proof. Better yet, tell me and I will tell the Mortgage Devil”.

Me: “Why would I do that? I am not her boss.”

Cruella: “Jesus Christ, don’t you see that she is ripping all us off??!!”

Me: “ I will give you a full report. Happy?”

Apparently, Turd wasn’t going along with the Mortgage Devil’s and Cruella Deville’s plan. So, there was a Turd in the Punch Bowl and I was supposed to help flush it? Not my style. I had no intention of being a spy or tattle-tailing. I just needed a break from Gilligan’s Island and Cruella Deville’s stupid daily shit. I knew none of my clients were being stolen by Turd because I didn’t give out the number to that office to ANYONE. I don’t think I even knew the number for that office. I didn’t even want people calling ANY office for fear the call would be directed elsewhere by the Ever-clear Pickled Bitchy Receptionist. Everyone had my cell phone number and that is how everyone reached me.

I was there for some peace and quiet and to relax a little without the constant stream of people “buzzing” my Island like Crop Dusters. I pull into the parking lot and see what I believe is the Turd’s mode of transportation. A Volvo Station Wagon. That is odd? The Mortgage Devil had a Volvo Station Wagon (and 10 other cars) too. I guess I didn’t get the Corporate Memo about Loan Officers driving Volvo Station Wagons. Oh, well. Boring Car…hopefully she is not as boring as her mode of transportation. When I walk past it I notice a Chicago Bears magnet attached to it. I figured it must be her husbands and he must be from the Mid-West. I roll in and the greeting was less than warm. Great, who pissed in her Cheerios? No worries, I have some chicken and it is quiet…except she talks very loud on the phone. Hopefully, she can stop talking for a few seconds while I check out some Washington Redskins news and plan for my next tailgate. I am at this office for some rest and relaxation not hear her blabber all day with lunatic customers. So, I notice this little window between the offices. Weird? What the hell is that for…passing joints…passing a flask of whiskey back in forth? Who knew?

So, I am doing my usual method of getting to know someone...it involves me sitting and observing…not saying much. What have I observed? She talks loud and is constantly on the phone…and she doesn’t like me. Ok, this is going to be challenge to figure out who she really is…so, I make it my personal mission.

The next several times I stop by the office…she started an annoying habit of running out the back door to talk on her cell phone as soon as I walked through the door. But due to the volume she speaks on the phone…and the thin walls in this office…I could figure out she was inviting her friends to the office. So, her friends would stop by…one that talked as much as her and the other seemed drunk or high or both all the time. After this scenario unfolded the same way several times…I figured this was intentional because she needed a buffer between us. She hated me. Why? Because she thought I was one of Devil’s Minion. She had no idea I was smiling and nodding to the Mortgage Devil while I was planning on how I could take him down. We had the same goal but were stuck in an ultra-competitive environment (created and encouraged by the Mortgage Devil), so we didn’t realize that we should be allies not foes.

I don’t recall the exact conversation, but I think we were talking about our children and she suddenly started not hating me so much. Then we got to know each other a little better and we realized we both had a deep hatred for the Mortgage Devil in common. Then things got really interesting…stay tuned folks.

The Mortgage Devil Does A Loan For Me, Sorta

A few months into my tenure at the Bank of Hell, I put my house on the market. It was my first home and it was a major project, ironically, I had bought it after it went to foreclosure. It was an 80 year old colonial that was in such bad shape that when I stepped foot into it for the first time it had kelly green carpet with dried up dog shit on it. I remember commenting to the realtor, "Perhaps they thought the green carpet would make the dog think it was grass." I was pretty sure they ran some kind of phone sex operation there and made meth in the carriage house but, it was love at first sight for me. The house had great bones. You had to be a visionary to see it through the dog shit, plaster falling off the walls, landscaping growing through the windows, and the hideousness that was carpet over original pine flooring. I saw it for what it was intended: a majestic home in a poor town. It was the mayor's house of Hillbilly Ville and it was perfect for me.



The home was 15 minutes from the ocean and 15 minutes from the nearest city where people actually lived and shopped. I purchased the house for $80,000 in 2002 and got my mortgage through Countrywide, with 10% down. At the time, it never crossed my mind that I would be a loan officer; I was working as a mate on an offshore fishing boat and "writing my dissertation.". When I wasn't fishing for tuna, marlin, and big tips in a leopard print bikin, I was renovating the house and learning things most women never do...and for good reason. I tore up carpet, drywalled, painted, tore up landscaping, and learned to disguise flaws in a home to the naked eye. My husband started calling me, "Contractor Jane". I went to auctions, rummaged dumpsters, and turned old barn doors into charming dining room tables to capture the essence of the home. I was in my element.


I had a few minutes of buyers remorse, not because of the constant work and money that the home needed but, instead it came when I went to the local tavern and met people that scared the crap out of me. There were people using the "N" word and not at all in an ironic fashion. There were huge Nascar fans with less teeth than an infant, no view out of their window, and to make matters worse, they looked at me like I was a city girl. Fortunately, I can adapt to most situations, but I left the bar the night we moved in a little bit drunk and pretty sure I was going to get robbed and raped. At first my friends made fun of the purchase, I had purchased a home in a town where non-residents don't even like to stop for gas. I got the last laugh.


After a few years in the home and countless trips to Home Depot, my mommy mechanism kicked in. I had a boy about to turn three and was thinking that perhaps, we should move somewhere with more people like me. I realize now that there is no neighborhood on earth with people like me, but at the time, I really held out hope that the suburbs and a culdesac would give me moms who cussed like sailors, drank wine, and were worldly when it came to politics and economics. Naive, much?


After searching for the perfect home I decided to build one in a planned urban development (PUD) full of brick homes and large lots. It was right in the middle of a culdesac and I designed it myself to be fabulous. I put our now renovated colonial on the market for $260,000 and got offers immediately. Two and a half years in the home and we got an immediate offer at more than triple what we paid. Because we did so much work on the home in what they call "sweat equity", we made out like bandits.


The new home was to be finished by Christmas, which was perfect because I had moved my parents out from the Midwest to live with us and had designed them an in-law suite attached to our new home. This was in the peak of the housing boom however, and the home was delayed. At first the builder told me it was a six week delay, then two months, and in the end it turned out to be 5 months late. I was now pregnant with my daughter, living with my elderly and often critical parents in a 3 bedroom colonial, and working as a loan officer in a pressure filled situation. I was on the verge of insanity.



The insanity and delays led me to keep upgrading things in my new home, so much so that I came in $75,000 over budget. I wanted to do my loan through the Bank of Hell and because the Mortgage Devil was all about his glory, I had to ask him to do the loan. He responds, "Of course, I do all the employee loans. But you will have to do your own application, send it through underwriting, and get all the documentation." Basically, I was to do his job for my own loan. By the way, this is totally unethical. I was under direct orders to basically be the loan officer on my own loan, of course, the Mortgage Devil didn't have time for his minions. I did as told and moved into Suburbia, earning the Devil a small commission for which he did nothing.


The craziest part of this is that after I moved into my home I started receiving his mass mailings offering to refinance me. Wonderful postcards with his picture telling me, his employee, that it was a great time to refinance. WTF? I went into his office one day and told him, "You could save some money by taking me off your marketing list, I know who you are and I don't need constant reminders." He responded with, "Well, you would be surprised how few loan officers remember to refinance their own homes." Gee, really? I watch interest rates everyday and just closed two months ago on my home and you think I need to be told its time to refinance? The only thing bigger than that man's ego is the national debt.


As though it wasn't bad enough having to deal with the asshole everyday, I now was one of his customers which entitled me to countless newsletters, magnets, and stupid bullshit reminders that he had money to sell. At one point, my now three and a half year old picked up one of the Mortgage Devil's newsletters and without missing a beat said, "Isn't this your asshole boss?" Well put, little man. Well put.


Note: I did correct my son with respect to his language, but I did take the time to compliment him on his amazing insight into people's true personalities. Now you know.

It's the Banks, stupid!

I love underdog stories, particularly sports ones but really, any underdog tale will do.  I was born with a soft spot for the underdog, the scapegoat, and the misrepresented.  This tendency makes me feel bad for mortgage brokers and sub-prime loans because big banks, the Federal Reserve, and Fannie Mae have really let them get thrown under the proverbial bus.

When I left a brokerage to go to the Bank of Hell I had no idea how uneven the playing field was.  In terms of checks and balances on loan fraud and quality, brokers were way ahead of the game.  The wholesale system has one inherent check on fraud, the underwriting of a loan took place outside of the office where the loan was originated.  This prevents a loan officer from having a personal relationship with their underwriter which goes along way in making sure loans are properly handled.  At the Bank of Hell, The Mortgage Devil's mantra was that we should sell real estate agents on the fact that we had local underwriting because it implied we could get loans done more quickly and also, it made real estate agents  feel good to know that if the loan had problems the loan officer could walk to the next office and shakedown the underwriter.  The truth is that local underwriting creates the opportunity for fraud.  Frankly, loan officers shouldn't be able to touch their loan files once they are done with the application, no good can come from it.

Obviously, there were shady brokerages and independent mortgage companies doing business during the peak and yes, a lot of these were sub-prime, but, there is a bigger story about the preferential treatment of banks over brokerages that isn't getting told.

The fundamental difference between mortgage operations was whether the company had a direct and contractual relationship with a bank or not.  The firm I started with had correspondent and wholesale relationships with investors and banks.  The firm was not owned by a bank nor directly affiliated with one but, because of our relationships I could sell the loan products of these other companies, including banks like Wells Fargo.  In contrast, the Bank of Hell owned its mortgage division while companies like Countrywide, owned a small bank.  There were tremendous advantages to having a direct relationship with a large bank and now I know that the major advantage of this was the bank's relationship with Fannie Mae and the Federal Reserve.

There are numerous examples of how these relationships allowed for more risky lending but I want to start with everyone's favorite loan, the Liar's Loan.  When I worked as a broker, very few of our investors allowed stated income loans to close without something known as a 4506-T, a form that the borrower would sign allowing the company to pull copies of tax transcripts.  The only investors we had that would allow stated income loans without this form were, shockingly, large banks.   Why does this matter?  Well, for starters a 4506-T pulled during the processing of a loan could confirm whether the borrower was lying about the income or whether they even had a job.  Smart loan originators knew better than to grossly overstate income on a loan with a 4506-T because there was the fear of getting caught, not getting paid, and potentially getting fired.  There were probably a number of loan originators who weren't aware of the potential for disaster but the majority that I knew, were very aware and this helped to reduce the risk inherent in a stated income loan.  My first manager in the industry hated the notion of tax transcripts, as he would say, "If underwriters can see your tax return it isn't a stated income loan."  That statement is what F. Ross Johnson referred to as a BGO or a blinding glimpse of the obvious.

So tax transcripts helped to reduce fraud by the loan officer but they served many functions.  A tax transcript pulled after the loan closed, but before it was sold, could have identified whether the loan carried more or less risk than the investor would expect. Sometimes investors wouldn't buy loans after pulling tax transcripts leaving correspondent lenders stuck with a loan they thought they could sell.

Tax transcripts could have prevented a number of issues with loan quality.  Imagine catching liars before the loan closes or before the loan was sold with an understated amount of risk.  In terms of mathematical assessment of loan quality, a random sample of the tax transcripts might have provided a firm with information on the thresholds of risk; ie, what percentage of liar's loans overstated income by 5%, 10%, or 20%.  This type of information could have been used to create thresholds for underwriters.  I'm sure some companies did use this information to reduce risk but the most important players in the industry weren't doing this and that includes Fannie Mae and big banks.   

At the Bank of Hell, we were able to do a number of Fannie Mae backed Liar's Loans.  There seems to be a huge misconception that Fannie didn't do these loans but the truth is that only large banks and large mortgage companies like Countrywide were given the ability to do these loans by Fannie.  I have heard a story that the Bank of Hell got access to these loans after pissing a bitch to Fannie Mae because Countrywide and Wells Fargo had them.  Who knows what kind of sketchiness went on behind the scenes as banks lobbied Fannie for the right for more risky, but prime, Fannie Mae loans.

The beauty of a Fannie Mae stated income loan was that there was no 4506 required, meaning there was no way that anyone would know how extreme the risk was or how bad the lie was.  Perhaps, that is how Fannie Mae wanted it.

At the Bank of Hell we had our own Fannie approved stated income/stated asset loan that A. Hole already blogged about.  Let me be perfectly clear, many of these loans were way riskier than sub-prime loans.  These loans were given to people with fair to excellent credit so while they didn't carry the credit risk, there was tremendous opportunity and incentive for loan officers to commit fraud with this program.  As A.Hole explained, the Mortgage Devil encouraged us to lie about borrower's income to get them into this easy loan program because you could take a loan from application to settlement in seven days. If you have been reading this blog you aware that we were doing Fannie Mae loans at 65% debt to income ratios.  This loan allowed loan officers to do loans with high debt to income ratios by falsely stating the customer's income so that it looked like it was 45% or less.

When these loans were bundled into pools they looked like low risk loans, they were Fannie Mae prime backed loans and had the implied backing of the United States government.  Fannie Mae pimped these pigs in dresses.

The scam gets worse when you add the folks on Wall Street to the mix.  When loans were bundled into securities for trade, these prime loans were mixed with sub-prime loans to reduce the risk.  You offer a lower rate of return on the non-risky piece (the Fannie Mae piece) and a high rate of return on the sub-prime piece which frankly, everyone knew had a very high probability of default.

In my opinion, Fannie Mae fucked it up for everyone.  There so called "prime" loans were riskier than a lot of sub-prime loans.  Perhaps the borrowers weren't credit risks, but they were overextending themselves with the help of Fannie Mae and the biggest players in the mortgage industry.  This means that virtually every loan pool sold understated risk substantially and investors who thought that Fannie Mae was synonymous with low risk, eventually found out that Fannie Mae was a giant phony. 

We have all bought things based on the implied quality of a brand name only to find out that we bought a name and nothing else.  This in a nutshell is one of the major reasons we are in this mess.  Most of our financial innovation and trading during the housing boom was based on Fannie Mae's name and the implied quality of the loans.  There were a lot of lemons in that pool and as I said before, Fannie Mae is a bitch.

For those of you that have seen the movie Tommy Boy, Chris Farley provides the perfect metaphor for what happened to our economy.  Fannie Mae was selling boxes of crap with a stamp that said "Guaranteed" and now we know what the guarantee was: our money and future economic prosperity.

When Bat Shit Crazy Became The New Black

In the fall of 2005, I came to realize that bat shit crazy was pervasive.  Not just in my industry, or my office, but basically throughout my entire world.  It didn't take me long to realize that the Mortgage Devil had every personality disorder ever named and probably a few unique to him that he should have proprietary rights to naming.  The Bank of Hell was a nightmare and the Mortgage Devil laughed with delight.

I was hanging out in my own branch alone and minding my own business when A. Hole strolls in one day and sits down in the office next to me and starts unpacking shit like he is planning on staying.  He starts eating fried chicken and checking the Washington Redskins message board.  I can see the fucker because our two offices had some kind of weird sliding glass window between them, which might of come in handy except we have nothing to pass each other but dirty looks.  I am pissed.  My sanctuary away from the craziness of the other branch has been invaded by another loan officer who is eating my least favorite food and is by the way, not even a fan of my favorite football team.  Boo.  The phone rings and he actually answers it, "Bank of Hell Mortgage, A.Hole speaking."  Now I'm really mad because I have been alone in this branch for months and that is my phone and if there is a loan waiting on the other end well, it is mine and all mine.

Why did I hate A. Hole so much in the beginning?  The answer is because of the Mortgage Devil and the ultra competitive and paranoia rich environment he created.  The Mortgage Devil was a Top 20 producer in the entire nation that year which is a huge deal in an industry with a plethora of assholes originating loans.  I don't want to give the impression that I think all loan officers are assholes, there really are a lot of decent people in the industry, I just didn't get to meet too many of them.  This is akin to hearing how beautiful New Jersey is but then you spend your whole time on the turnpike and wonder if there are secret places that non residents are not allowed to see. 

When I was hired I was promised my own office and branch and basically no competition.  Then one day, I get called to the main branch of the Bank of Hell and there sits Curly Sue, A.Hole, and this third loan officer that I call the Quaker.  I really don't know what religion the Quaker was even though A.Hole has told me like twenty times, I just know that he didn't really swear or drink and even though he was some strict puritan he ogled all the Mortgage Devil's assistants like he was trying to figure out where to stick his dollar bills.  I hated them all at first sight. 

Really, it was bad enough to have to compete with the Mortgage Devil in our market.  Then throw in his old partner, a Top 100 national producer,  who had jumped ship and I was basically trying to break a cartel.  Now I have to compete with three more loan officers in my own company against my own boss?  I saw recently that there was an article about the Mortgage Devil from back in the day that was praising his aggressiveness and determination and the quote was, "You would not want to have him in your territory!".  No shit, I don't even want him on my planet.

So my anger about the new loan officers was because I knew something that they didn't.  In my naivety I had assumed that feudalism died in the middle ages when in fact, it was alive at the Bank of Hell and the Mortgage Devil was the Lord.  Apparently the fact that the Mortgage Devil made money on every loan the loan officers did underneath him was not enough for him, nor were the accolades and awards, nor the $125,000 monthly income.  It seems that the Mortgage Devil's narcissism also made him think that every loan one of his loan officers did really should have been his.  He would take our commission statements and go down them line by line to see what loan(s) he could take from us and put in his name.  It was like a tax on us poor serfs for the privilege of working for the worst boss ever.

The first time this happened to me I am sitting in my sanctuary by the sea when the phone rings and the Mortgage Devil is on the other end.  It was a little like this:

Turdy:  "Bank of Hell Mortgage, This is Turdy."

Mortgage Devil:  "Turdy, I have been going over your commission statement and we need to talk." 

Turdy:  "I thought I had a good month considering I have only been here for a few months."

Mortgage Devil:  "I think you had too good of a month, there are some loans on here that I'm wondering how you stole from me."

Turdy:  "Stole from you?  I'm sorry, I have no idea what you are talking about."

Mortgage Devil:  "Well lets start with this loan for Mr. Smith.  I talked to a Mr. Smith last month about doing a loan for him and then I see you close a loan for someone with the last name Smith.  What am I supposed to think?"

Turdy:  "Perhaps, that Smith is a very common name."

Mortgage Devil:  "Hmm, well tell me how you got that loan and this other one for the real estate agent, whats her name, Judy."

Turdy:  "Well the Smith loan was a referral from a loan officer I used to work with that couldn't get the loan done at her company, the guy used to work with her husband.  The Judy loan I got because she is one of my best friends and we play golf together, in fact we are meeting for happy hour and appetizers later."

Mortgage Devil:  "Well I had a deal with Judy last year, why wouldn't she ask me to do her loan?"

Turdy:  "Probably because she is one of my best friends??"

Mortgage Devil:  "You should know I keep an eye out for this stuff.  I guess you can keep the Judy loan commission but I'm going to have to take the Smith loan because I can't have stuff like this going on in my branches.  How am I supposed to trust you?"

Turdy:  "You can't take that loan, you never even talked to the guy.  He is a friend of a friend.  I was counting on that commission to pay bills and buy Christmas presents."

Well he took that loan and many more from me during my stay in the feudal system of Hell.  Here is a man making 1.5 million a year who is stealing $2,000 commissions from his loan officers to boost his numbers so he can get more awards and inflate his ego some more.  After I left the Bank of Hell I calculated that he had taken more than $25,000 in commission away from me in one year, on loans that were legitimately mine.  You couldn't complain about it to anyone because all the Senior Veeps loved their Top Producer and the Mortgage Devil could do no wrong.

This is why I hated all the other loan officers, including A. Hole.  I knew that it was going to be even harder to make money if we were all competing for the Mortgage Devil's sloppy seconds.  It took time for me to not feel resentful of the competition from A. Hole in part because the Mortgage Devil wanted it that way and also, the Redskins thing was kind of hard for a fanatical Bears fan.  If A. Hole had been a Packers fan or a Vikings fan, I can promise you that this blog wouldn't exist.

I have to close with a note on the Quaker.  Even though I couldn't stand him when we worked together, I have developed a respect for him now that is pretty special.  When the Quaker left the Bank of Hell he pulled the ultimate coup on the Mortgage Devil.  He bought the domain name of the real name of the Mortgage Devil.  If you type in www.insertrealnamehere.com you are transported to the Quaker's website with a huge picture of the Quaker and testimonials to his greatness as a mortgage ho.  Priceless move, out deviling the devil.  You are alright, Quaker, you are alright. 

 

Don't own a Nextel Phone

The next stop on my journey into the Bank of Hell required me to spend a week in Dante’s Inferno “training” at “Experienced Loan Officer Academy”. The Mortgage Devil had put it in writing that I had to attend this “training”….yes, it was in my offer letter. Unlike my co-worker Turdy… I wasn’t clever enough at this point in my tenure to find a way out of attending this week of torture.

Three weeks into my “career” at the Bank of Hell I was sent on my way to training. My Op’s Manager was pleased to tell me that another new loan officer from our office was going to Dante’s Inferno the same week as me. She was wondering if we could carpool together? Yipee!! Sound like fun. Fortunately, I had a quick excuse as to why I had to travel alone. I had met the girl once before at the office and didn’t get a warm and fuzzy feeling from her. I will call her “Curly Sue” for a lack of a better name because she had blondish curly hair.

I was expected to check in to the hotel on a Sunday night…so I was stuck with a five hour drive on a Sunday afternoon during football season. That is cruel and unusual punishment in my world. They wanted me to be ready to board the Shuttle Bus that would take me to Dante’s Inferno at 7:30 a.m. Monday morning. The email I received prior to my arrival from the “trainer” wanted us to be “bright-eyed and bushy tailed Monday morning”. If the Bank of Hell wanted me “bright-eyed and bushy tailed” they should have hired a fucking squirrel. What they got was half-asleep and blood shot eyed me…bright and early.

Our Trainer can best be described as one of the Munchkins from the Wizard of Oz. It was fitting because the Mortgage Devil was sorta’ like the Wizard with his magic whiteboard. She was small and cute (she was about 4 and ½ feet tall)…well she was cute until she opened her mouth. She didn’t sing a happy little song about a dead witch and dance. Instead she made it clear that she hated Loan Officers. I couldn’t blame her. Most of the ones in training class were prima donna's (and I am certain most classes were full of them). We were on a schedule so strict that the Nazi’s would have been pleased. The Munchkin had us on “lock down” and they were going to take full advantage of this opportunity to serve up large doses of the Bank of Hell Kool-aid. They paraded in everyone with a title of Sr. Vice President of Something or Other all day…every day. They were all so “pumped” to meet us that by noon that Monday I was trying to find a way out of there.

Once again there was someone smarter than me that found a way out by Tuesday morning. He got himself kicked out of training and sent home. How did he accomplish this? Let me tell you how this went down. At 5:30 that Monday the shuttle bus came to pick us up from work release and carry us back to the hotel. We were supposed to go to the hotel, eat some dinner, complete our homework, and get to bed early so we would be “bright-eyed and bushy tailed” Tuesday morning. Yeah, I said homework. We had assignments each evening. But what actually happened is this…I talked with some fellow Loan Officers that I didn’t find totally offensive…figured out where we could go get some dinner and drinks….then planned to bar-hop and watch Monday night football.

We got back to the hotel, changed clothes, and summoned the shuttle bus. Once on the shuttle bus, we talked to the driver and offered him cash if he could pick us up later that night somewhere in town after the bars let out. He was so pleased with this arrangement that he gave us his cell phone number. We now had our own personal chauffeur…well…because Cabs are for suckers!

Back to the Loan Officer that got himself sent home from Dante’s Inferno. After a meal and a few drinks; we ended up at a sports bar watching Monday Night Football. Once the game was over we went over to a “College Bar” next door. That is where this guy got so wasted off of tequila shots that he was trying to dance on the bar like the ladies of Coyote Ugly. After the bouncers asked him to step down, he proceeded to grind all over co-eds on the dance floor that weren’t “digging” him. He was a one man train-wreck. His final act of the evening was to puke all over the bar after he tried to buy another round of shots for everyone. At this point he was removed from the bar and wanted to fight the bouncers…bad idea. He ended the night in the care of the local Police. Word spread quickly about his escapades and he was sent home. If you are going to go out…go out in style. He was the lucky one.

On Tuesday I got to sit next to a couple of female loan officers from Tennessee. They both had 80’s "pouffe" blonde hair and wore matching navy blue blazers, white blouses, and navy blue skirts… EVERY day. They looked like Flight Attendants. Being born with the smart-ass gene, I couldn’t resist the opportunity to make Flight Attendant jokes every time I had a few drinks in me. A few of the smart-assed comments I can still recall consisted of “when are you bringing the drink cart by because I am getting thirsty?”. “Can I get a bag of peanuts when you get a chance?”…”Can this seat be used as a floatation device?”

The rest of the week consisted of more torture and hangovers for me. The whole training ended with us taking a test on Friday afternoon. Curly Sue had been performing a vanishing act all week (along with a male Loan Officer from Florida…hmmm) and I hadn’t seen much of her outside the classroom. But she did remind us she was still in the room right before our test. The whole class had assembled and we had our #2 pencils all sharpened ready for the big final test. Right before we got started I heard a *chirp*. Curly Sue and her husband apparently had those annoying red-neck “Nextel” walkie-talkie cell phones. The conversation went like this:

Husband: (CHIRP) Hey…you there woman??!!!

Curly Sue: (CHIRP) Yes.

Husband: (CHIRP) Where you at??!!

Curly Sue: (CHIRP) I’m still in training.

Husband: (CHIRP) Hurry home cuz my dick is lonely!!

Ok….did he just say his dick is lonely??!! Curly Sue turned three shades of red. But seriously, why would you have one of those stupid walkie-talkie phones turned on while you are in a classroom getting ready to take a test? The Munchkin wasn’t amused. I was reasonably certain that she hadn’t been laid in years, so this must have been particularly annoying to her. I took the test and drove out of there like I stole something and never went back. Apparently, I passed the test because I still had a job on the following Monday when I got back to the office. Now I was officially trained to work in Hell.

The Secret of My Success

It was later in the afternoon during my first day at the Bank of Hell that the Mortgage Devil finally appeared. He had a few minutes between calls and wanted to share with me how his wonderful system of NEVER missing a closing date works. Bottom line, he wanted to show me the secret to his success. I am curious about this system. He does close a lot of loans.

What it is it you ask? Well…it is a big-ass “Whiteboard”. My reaction…a Whiteboard??!! Seriously?? This is the Secret of his Success. A freakin’ Whiteboard? So, what exactly does this magical Whiteboard do? Nothing. It is a calendar….on a Whiteboard. To be fair, it is a color coded calendar on a Whiteboard. Here is how the magic happens…he takes a marker and writes the customers last name on the date when they are supposed to close on their loan. That’s it. Seriously, that is it.

The color coding came into play as in each Loan Officer has their own marker color. Since I was the last one aboard the U.S.S. Bank of Hell the color that was left for me was brown. Turd brown. I do have a brown tone to my skin, so the marker sort of matched my skin tone. How nice.

I stood there in my shirt and tie looking at the magical Whiteboard. Basically, I felt like Dorothy when she arrived at Oz and discovered that mighty and powerful Oz was just a man behind a curtain pulling levers. The curtain had been pulled back and it revealed a Whiteboard…and colored markers.

Then I was whisked around the office to officially meet the Devil’s Minions. His staff was dressed like they were getting junk ready for a yard sale. I was way overdressed for this place. My reception was less than warm when I arrived…my shelf/desk was on an island…I was underwhelmed by the secret of the Devil’s success…and now I am apparently overdressed. I felt a little like Ben Stiller in the movie “There’s Something about Mary” when he goes to pick up for Mary for Prom. I rang the doorbell and the step-dad (receptionist in my case) wonders why I am here. I had that moment of feeling that I am “all dressed up and no one knows I am supposed to here”. Except in the movie they were “just fucking with” Ben Stiller and “busting his chops”. In my case, they really did not know I was supposed to be there or why I was there. The feeling that I had a made a mistake coming to the Bank of Hell had just increased ten-fold. At least I didn’t get my dick caught in my zipper in the bathroom that day.

Touching It Doesn't Look So Bad

I had been at the Bank of Hell about 2 months before A. Hole joined the ranks. I had already realized that I was miserable but considering my previous boss had told me to touch his male genitalia, I was low on options. This is the phase of my career in the mortgage industry that would be classified by confusion as to what the hell was happening and acceptance that I had committed an egregious error.

The Devil's minions were foul and I didn't really make an effort to be nice to them because my motto was basically, "Fuck you, I have enough friends already and you all suck." See, A.Hole was blessed with an ass kissing gene that I (Turdy) did not get. I couldn't play the game, I still can't. I am 100% unadulterated me, everyday and all day. This made me pretty unpopular at the Bank of Hell where phoniness and the status quo were valued.

So after a week of "training", which was not training at all and involved me being stuck at an extra desk and largely ignored, I decided it was time to move on to the branch I was hired to work at. I was given a key to that office and for months, I was the only one there. No receptionist, no loan processors, no loan closers, and no assholes. It was pretty heavenly but there was a price. Since I basically hid at the beach branch, none of the processors or underwriters at the Mortgage Devil's branch worked on my loans. This led to a ton of stress the day before loan settlements when they would finally pick up my loan to get it approved. Then I would be calling my customers the day before they were to close on their loan to tell them we needed some inane piece of documentation that my processor should have picked up on 30 days before. This also got me some heated phone calls from the Mortgage Devil himself where he would rail on me about protecting his reputation and basically tell me what an asshole and embarrassment I was to him. The truth was, the Mortgage Devil only hired me to keep me from competing with him and because he was mandated to do so by management.

We were basically hired because the second biggest producer in the whole area decided to jump ship. The Mortgage Devil was previously partners with the Barbie Doll that A. Hole mentioned in his post on the clown. The two of them were so successful and overexposed that they had water bottles, frisbees, golf balls, and other crap with their pictures on them. The pictures were actually pretty funny because they both are the size of Romanian gymnasts, so when they pose in their "We are a team" fashion they look like they are part of an 8th grade cheerleading pyramid. I guess that was to inspire trust that they could get your loan done or alternatively, they could cheer you on to homeownership. Whatever, it was stupid. Despite their small stature, they were intimidating to the rest of us assholes in the business that weren't even well known enough to get recognized in person let alone to have our own line of bottled water.

To make a long story short, the Barbie Doll ditched the Mortgage Devil to go to another company. The Mortgage Devil was devastated and felt betrayed, you know, because he was such an ethical and upstanding individual that it rocked him to his core that someone wouldn't be loyal. This is why A. Hole and I were hired, to fill the void her production had left in the local market. And really, we were hired because he didn't want to lose any of his minions and if production fell, he would have to lose some of his dirty deed doers.

So I was promised the branch she had worked in and all her customer lists, connections, etc. This never happened. The Mortgage Devil took all of her contacts and left me to hope one of her customers would just call out of the blue and ask for a loan.

When I complained that I had no support in the beach branch and my loans weren't getting the attention I was promised by the Mortgage Devil (notice a reoccurring theme here), they got me a receptionist. I didn't get a Bank of Hell sanctioned receptionist, I got a temp from a local agency for three days a week. She was either a crack head or a meth addict, for real. One day she went to lunch and never came back. Doesn't that inspire trust that in an office with people's social security numbers, tax returns, and valuable personal information, the Mortgage Devil so carefully vetted the person who would have access to that information? I am still not sure whether it was legal for her to be there, but I suspect it at least violated the corporate policy of the Bank of Hell.  At least, I would hope so.  

So, while I waited for A. Hole to join me, I basically questioned my decision everyday. I closed loans, endured flack from the Devil, and often times thought a boss who asks you to touch his dick really isn't that bad after all.

Here on Gilligan's Island

I joined the Bank of Hell after five hours of face-to-face meetings with the Mortgage Devil. I was sold on how wonderful things were in Hell and how I could be part of a “team” and make lots of money. Everything sounded great…a team that was trained to complete your loans quickly, lots of loan products to sell, I would be given a certain amount of the “up-calls” (people calling in just to check rates and terms on loans) and I would work with Bank branch referrals in our area.

I was leaving behind my antiquated small Bank for a shiny new toy, the grass was greener, blah, blah, blah. I was frustrated by my current employer’s lack of moving towards technology available in the industry and the fact that I would have to wait 10 years (at least) to get a promotion. The next step up for me would have been to run the Mortgage Department. The person that held that job currently had no plans to retire within the next decade. He was basically riding the gravy train…being paid handsomely for doing very little. In his situation, why would he retire? Two meetings a week and a few loans a month is all he did. Ohh, I almost forgot the frequent smoke breaks he took while walking around the building. I often thought he must have incriminating evidence against the President of this small bank. Perhaps a photo of him “bending” an intern over his desk (or something similar). While some might think I am just being a smart-ass about this alleged photo…my thoughts about this photo are grounded in reality. While I was an employee of this small Bank, the President held a tearful staff meeting to announce that he was being accused of sexual harassment by a female teller that had quit and filed charges. I think the case was settled out of court. Anyway, it is not a far stretch that this photo exists.

So, I resign from my current job. That did not go well. Once I announced that I was going to work with the Mortgage Devil I was basically kicked out of the Bank. I had a company car at this Bank and I was told to turn over the keys right on the spot and hand over my cell phone. Basically,this sucked because the cell phone was in the Banks name and I had no ride home. So, I walked down the street to a friend’s office and called a cab. A lot of my referral sources had my cell phone number and this created the headache of distributing my new number to everyone. Advice to anyone in sales…ALWAYS make sure the cell phone is in your name and the company pay you a cell phone allowance each month instead of the company paying for the cell phone directly and having the phone number in their name.

I spent the weekend preparing for my new job. I had to gather my contact list, I had to get a new cell phone, and prepare to transfer for my business over to the Bank of Hell. After the long weekend, I show up with my pile of papers and files.

I head right up to the mortgage division and the over-baked fake tanned Receptionist is on the phone. She transfers a call and smiles at me and asks, “May I help you”. I tell her my name and announce that I am the new Loan Officer starting today. The smile instantly turns into a look of annoyance and disgust. The first words out of her mouth “Great…another new one. I have no idea where they are going to put you”?

Whaaaat?? No idea where they are going “to put me”? Where is my office, desk, laptop, keys to the kingdom? So, I wait several minutes while she goes into the back. I have no idea what she is doing, talking to the Operations Manager, talking to the Mortgage Devil, taking a nip of Vodka….who knew? She comes back out and without any words to me, starts answering the phones again. Ok, I am feeling stupid at this point.

Finally, the Operations Manager (Op’s Manager) comes out and asks me to come back to her office. Her “office” is basically a walk-in closet in the corner. Since I am a larger individual I have to wedge myself in sideways to sit across from her at the desk. She asks me to fill out a bunch of paperwork, forms, etc. Informs me they are ordering a laptop and passwords. Ok, soooo….basically no one knew I was coming. I guess the red carpet was in an off-site storage space (more on that another day). No balloons or confetti for my arrival?

She then shows me my office…err desk. It is basically part shelf/part table that is set up in a middle of a walkway. No walls or even cubicle walls. I did have a phone but no chair. They found a chair that was currently being used in the lunchroom to use. So, I left a private office with a cherry desk and leather chair for a shelf/desk and a lunchroom cast off chair.

I feel like I am out on an island. I am trying to make calls and there is a constant parade of people walking past. They are constantly talking on their headsets like they are the old "Time-Life" operators from the commercials many years ago. After a few hours of this...I realize...I made a mistake. This is a joke. Except it is not funny to me because the joke is on me. Here I am....a prize new recruit stuck "Here on Gilligan's Island".

Welcome to Hell, I Forgot You Were Coming...

So my first day as a Mortgage Banker finally arrives and with it a promotion from the more tawdry title of Mortgage Broker. The air conditioning in my Volvo station wagon dies that day, I remember this vividly because I drove 40 miles to meet the Mortgage Devil at what would be my new office wearing a black dress, with no air conditioning, on a 95 degree day at the beach. The black dress thing was part of my notion that now that I was a banker, rather than a broker, I had to dress like I could also handle your funeral arrangements and host your wake. This was an idea I eventually shitcanned in favor of wearing whatever I felt like.

Excitedly I run up the steps to thrust open the office door and greet my new and prosperous life....It's fucking locked. I am now super grateful I am wearing black despite the heat because I'm sweating my ass off and pretty sure any other clothing choice would ruin my only chance to make a great first impression.

I peer inside, no people are evident. I remember that there is a front and back door, of course, they probably just forgot to unlock the back door. I run around the building in my 3 inch heels, sweating profusely (insert your favorite sweating like phrase here....) tug on the front door and you guessed it....locked. Motherfucker. First, I question myself. Did I get the my first day right? Yes, the Mortgage Devil insisted I start today and that we meet here, get me settled in and then go have lunch. Is the time right? Check.

Down the list I go, but now 5 torturous minutes have passed and I am HOT!!!!!!! I'm wearing long sleeves because I rationalized that banks are always really well air-conditioned. Take it from my tenure at the Bank of Hell, seriously, it is hot as balls in Hell.

Finally, I call the Mortgage Devil, the man who took every one of my phone calls when he was wooing me and promised to take care of my every need once I came to Hell. Voicemail. I leave a message, get into my car and head to get some water. On the way I call the other branch of Bank of Hell. I ask for the Mortgage Devil and an incredibly bitchy voice informs me he is on the phone. I'm explaining that I'm the new loan officer and am starting today and he is supposed to let me into my office at which point she cuts me off and tells me there are five calls holding for him and she will have him call me as soon as he can. Fuck, if he is in that office he is at least 40 minutes away which means I'm faced with the choice of a very hot Volvo (this is when leather seats suck) or killing time somewhere. Unfortunately everywhere I know to kill time in the area is a bar, probably not a good idea on my first day as a grown up banker. So, sensibly, I choose to drive the beach highway until he calls me which I'm expecting will just be a few minutes.

So now an hour has passed, I have had to put fuel in my car and I am supremely jealous of all the people in their swimsuits headed to the ocean. I finally get the call from the Mortgage Devil. Of course he apologizes, he got hung up and blah blah blah. He tells me it was a bad idea to have my first day at that office anyway, I should just come to the other branch where he is and meet the staff who were excited to meet me anyway. Like a good salesman, the Mortgage Devil is trying to convince me his fuckup would actually be better for me than his original plan. This is a tactic all loan officers use, usually on their customers though, not on other loan officers. It's like my father always said, "Never try and bullshit a bullshitter, they know what you're up to."

I show up at the office where everyone is excited to meet me to find no one knows I am coming or who I am. No one looks excited. In fact, all the women there look pissed and bitchy. I am getting my first tinge of regret. I was not envisioning a bunch of dowdy, middle-aged, scowling bitches when I heard "excited to meet you". Finally, the bitchy receptionist lets out a huge sigh...."I guess we will have to find somewhere to put you, he will be on the phone for a few minutes." Find somewhere to put me, what the fuck? I feel like one of those crappy decorations someone gives you that you are entitled to display when they come to your house and then you eventually sell at a garage sale and pretend it was broken.

Here is something I learned that day. When normal people say they will be on the phone a few minutes, they usually mean between 3 and 5 minutes. The really poor estimators among us might actually mean 10 minutes. The Mortgage Devil's definition of a few minutes ranges from hours to weeks.

The bitchy receptionist, who looks like she got drunk on an I.V. of Everclear and fell asleep in a tanning bed for 20 years, sticks me at a desk. The Mortgage Devil looking dapper in his Top Producer and Vice President getup is pacing by me having a conversation on a headset, giving me the universal signal for one minute (index finger up), and simultaneously fielding calls on his cell phone while throwing files and paper on his assistant's desks. The best part is that every time he leaves the room his assistants shoot him dirty looks and swear like sailors about what a fucker he is. No one acknowledges me. I start unloading some of my files on a desk and after more than an hour of the weirdest fucking scene of my professional life, the Mortgage Devil gets off the phone. Yippee, now my new mentor will take me under his wing and make me feel welcome here. Yeah, not so much.

He introduces me to the bitches in the office. Now to be fair, a few of them are nice and decent people, but they are outnumbered and therefore I will refer to all of them as bitches. No one really even smiles, they just look annoyed. After two minutes of awkward introductions he gives me a two minute tour and returns me back to my desk which really isn't even my desk and is covered with his self promoting marketing shit. I'm informed they don't have a computer for me yet, it seems they don't have a user name or password for me to get on the computer network either. Oddly enough, it seems that the entire corporate structure of Bank of Hell, and the local management to include the Mortgage Devil, was largely unaware that I was coming to work there. How could this be I wonder, I was his top recruit?

He basically dismisses me and tells me to come back tomorrow, when they are better organized. Our whole exchange (where he is off the phone) takes approximately 5 minutes. Then he is signaling for the bitchy receptionist to send another call through to his headset and he is off, maniacally pacing the halls again.

The reality hits me pretty quickly on my way home in the blistering hot Volvo. I was treated like a drunken college girl...The Mortgage Devil got me into bed but is never going to call me again. I feel dirty from the realization I have been played, oh, and also the profuse sweating of the morning. I wish I could say it was the last time the Mortgage Devil made me feel like I needed a shower.....