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While I wasn't alive during the Great Depression, my grandparents were and my father was born a few months before all hell broke loose in 1929. My grandparents didn't trust banks much and mostly dealt in cash, rare was the occasion where you would get a check in the mail from them. The institutional distrust of banking was strong in that generation and they told me things like, "Save your pennies." My parents, slightly less influenced by the Great Depression, used banks as the times dictated and as their business required. They didn't necessarily trust banks, they trusted their banker. My parents would say things like, "Save your quarters." They had a relationship with the bank through a real person whom they could go to when they needed to borrow money, open a savings account, or get advice on business matters. A relationship with your banker is a relic like plastic covers on flowered davenports and doilies on all your tables.
I went to a bank on purpose today, I mean actually INSIDE the bank. I never do this. I loathe banks so much that I am a drive through girl all the way and if I don't want to even see the drive through person, I use the ATM for most transactions. Unfortunately, today I had to open a new account which cannot be done in the drive through.
As I am waiting in the lobby, I am experiencing symptoms of a panic attack. I feel out of breath and my hands are shaking, meanwhile a wave of nausea passes over me. So hideous was my time at the Bank of Hell that I cannot even sit in a bank and function like a normal human being. I imagine that this is what an Ex-Con would feel like if they went back to visit a friend and were on the free side of the glass. After a small wait, the Branch Manager comes out to help me. I am going into (deep breath) a banker's office.
She is incredibly pleasant and is only helping me because her business bankers are working with other clients. She keeps apologizing for the time it is taking her which is making me paranoid that federal agents are lurking outside and she is stalling. I'm hoping my disdain for banks is not readily apparent and that she won't be alarmed by shiftiness and fidgeting or infer that it means I'm about to try and rob her vault. When she discovers that I am an economist and former loan officer she wants to chat about all the nuances of the industry. The worst thing she cites about her time as a loan officer are some adjustable rate mortgages she did and how customers would sometimes call her on the weekend. I bite my tongue because the stuff I could tell her would shock the shit out of her. I did tons of ARMS, pay options, liar's loans, and my customers called me virtually 24 hours a day. While she mentions she didn't like the competitiveness of the mortgage side I refrain from having complete diarrhea of the mouth and unloading stories of the Mortgage Devil on her.
She was so pleasant and nice that I felt it necessary to point out here that I don't hate all bankers, even though I will throw a bank under the boss in virtually every blog. I now have a neighbor who is a banker who appears normal and a number of friends who work in the banking and mortgage industry that seem like the kind of people to perform a random act of kindness. What I don't like though are what happens in the collective of a bank and how the industry has evolved to the point where we don't have relationships with our banks and are increasingly dependent on a small number of banks for an ever increasing number of services. Consolidation of power in that degree scares the crap out of me.
When I worked in the industry my arch rival (outside of my own boss) was Wells Fargo and its loan officers. I detested Wells Fargo because it was our biggest competition and their refugee loan officers who became my colleagues described unfavorable working conditions. Ironically, I now live 20 minutes from their headquarters and know a lot of their employees and I still refuse to bank there.
I have never understood Wells Fargo's apparent resiliency to this crisis and therefore, I have never bought it. In fact, for years now I have been waiting for their controversy and their day in the Horrors of Banking Annals. My theory is that they are the Enron of the industry now that Countrywide is defunct and by that I mean that I think their accounting practices must be similar to those of Enron. I read articles where Wells Fargo's lack of exposure in the crisis is because of their conservative nature. I don't recall this. In fact, they had 125% equity lines, loan products for people without credit scores, and they underwrote a ton of Alt-A. They were a major player in a lot of urban markets where predatory lending, fraud, and discrimination were rampant. They were a major player west of the Mississippi where a ton of homeowners are underwater. They were one of the biggest players in all of the loan products we have been told destroyed our economy. How can they come out relatively unscathed?
Last week, a former Wells Fargo loan officer who got me into the business received a letter from the Department of Justice requesting her insight as they investigated the lending practices of Wells Fargo. The next day, Wells Fargo announced that it was taking the ax to Wells Fargo Financial and cutting 3,800 jobs and closing down those branches. They cited overlap ensuing from their forced merger with Wachovia. I'm not buying it. Wells Fargo Financial did personal loans, 9 months same as cash financing, and subprime loans. How has his not impacted their larger financial picture before now?
Another "non-risky" lending practice affiliated with Wells Fargo is the lending of money to payday loan firms. Wells Fargo is one of the largest players in this industry associated with predatory lending, discrimination, and oh yeah, risk.
I have to wonder if we are going to find out that the Cinderella of the mortgage industry is really the ugly stepsister of Countrywide. While I hope its not true for friends who work for the company, it is baffling to me that my biggest competitor while I was at two different huge companies has not had its equal share of distress. TARP money they claimed they didn't need was given to them for a reason...
So, I do hate most Banks, especially the big ones, even though I recognize the purpose they serve and I have to admit, not all bankers are bad. The runaway growth in bank size and services is dangerous for the economy and for the consumer. The new regulations do nothing to solve this problem and like any government regulation, will create unintended consequences that make us vulnerable for another crisis.
Perhaps, my Grandparents had it right. Save your money in a jar and don't buy anything you can't pay cash for. Only sign up for an account because you really are blown away by the free toaster.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Independence from the Myth of Homeownership
It is Independence Day and I have been contemplating whether it is time for us to collectively say we don't buy the myth of homeownership anymore and declare our independence from the fallacy. Will we do this? Of course not.
The government likes homeowners and for good reason. Homeownership provides stability, a tax base, and makes people far less mobile than they otherwise might be. All of this allows for easier governance and more far reaching impacts. This isn't just a goal at the Federal level, municipal governments enjoy these benefits as well and are incredibly reliant upon homeowners as a means of survival. This is why the government promotes homeownership and creates the propaganda we know as the "American Dream."
In 2001, I was invited to dinner at a small business owner's home. The evening was pleasant at first, but when I made what I thought was an innocuous and indisputable observation, they turned on me. The hideousness that came out of my mouth was, "Housing isn't always a good investment, the stock market outperforms housing over time. People would be better off renting and investing their money in the market." What had been a pleasant evening with food and wine turned into an absolute shitfest. The couple, twice my age, looked at me like I had just declared that I was going to eat them with fava beans and chug a nice Chianti. Actually, it was worse than that. In heated voices, they provided me anecdotal evidence of how if they didn't own homes they never could have started their business. I cried Bullshit. At one point, the wife rolled her eyes at me and called me a naive child. Then when I provided economic evidence for my argument, they called me Un-American. Apparently providing statistical data supporting the fact the return on investment of the stock market is greater than that for housing is unpatriotic, who knew? I lack the ability to back down from an argument and because I was so convinced I was right, I didn't shut my yapper and was never invited back to their home. Their final argument as they shoved me out the door was that the dot-com bust proved me wrong. Is there nowhere that I can hide from foreshadowing and irony?
So how did I go from arguing against homeownership to becoming a homeowner and then profiting from shoving other people into the same situation? The answer is complicated but I think it was the combination of the propaganda post September 11th along with the recognition that the market was about to boom. I bought my first house with the expectation that I would make a lot of money on the investment plus, I needed somewhere to live. I never thought I would become a salesperson for the American Dream and there was no way I could have anticipated how good I would be at it. I guess I'm saying that I sold out.
When you stop and think about what happened after September 11th it is hard to not realize how fragile our economy is. I don't think we ever recovered from the 2001 recession, certainly not in terms of incomes and real wealth. We had a fake recovery, fueled by an illusion. The housing boom made people feel wealthier, and on paper they actually were. That is why we had the rapid increase in household wealth and the record consumer spending expansion. The price we paid was the ensuing decline in household wealth, the single greatest decline in modern history and nearly tenfold what we experienced during the OPEC crisis in the 1970's. Without the government fueled housing boom we would still be in the recession of 2001. Reread that statement because I don't think it gets enough play in the media.
It seems ironic that people get up in arms about government spending to get out of this recession when they didn't bat an eye while government incentives "got us out" of the last one. The sad and scary fact is that this recession is really the double dip of the last one and since we aren't recovering, we might get a triple serving of economic smackdown.
Perhaps, I'm wrong, but I don't think so. Here is a basic fact about our housing boom recovery that supports what I am arguing: We really didn't have inflation during the recovery according to government measures. Inflation is not always a bad thing, in fact, in a true period of economic growth we should have inflation due to rising wages which increases demand and puts upward pressure on prices. We actually had stagnant wages during this time and by some measures, we experienced wage erosion. That is the opposite of economic growth, that is economic decline.
The booming economic years of 2003-2007 were a myth, just like homeownership. The government stimulated us into recovery through less transparent measures than it is using now. Incentivizing homeownership through legislation, expansion of the GSEs and arbitrarily low interest rates was our stimulus and ultimately has proven more costly than we can even comprehend.
Am I saying the housing crisis is the fault of the government? Hell yes. I recognize that greedy bastards on Wall Street and Main Street played a role, but, they were merely responding like rational economic actors to the incentives the government was providing. I almost feel sorry for the poor bastards on Wall Street who are being demonized by indignant politicians for causing the crisis. Hi Pot, have you met Kettle?
So, Happy Independence Day. Enjoy your potato salad and beer, it is as American as dogs in bandannas. In the spirit of the holiday, I offer this from the Declaration of Independence:
."..that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness."
Notice that homeownership isn't a fundamental right. Let's remember that the next time we hear about the American Dream. Don't even get me started on the liberty part....
The government likes homeowners and for good reason. Homeownership provides stability, a tax base, and makes people far less mobile than they otherwise might be. All of this allows for easier governance and more far reaching impacts. This isn't just a goal at the Federal level, municipal governments enjoy these benefits as well and are incredibly reliant upon homeowners as a means of survival. This is why the government promotes homeownership and creates the propaganda we know as the "American Dream."
In 2001, I was invited to dinner at a small business owner's home. The evening was pleasant at first, but when I made what I thought was an innocuous and indisputable observation, they turned on me. The hideousness that came out of my mouth was, "Housing isn't always a good investment, the stock market outperforms housing over time. People would be better off renting and investing their money in the market." What had been a pleasant evening with food and wine turned into an absolute shitfest. The couple, twice my age, looked at me like I had just declared that I was going to eat them with fava beans and chug a nice Chianti. Actually, it was worse than that. In heated voices, they provided me anecdotal evidence of how if they didn't own homes they never could have started their business. I cried Bullshit. At one point, the wife rolled her eyes at me and called me a naive child. Then when I provided economic evidence for my argument, they called me Un-American. Apparently providing statistical data supporting the fact the return on investment of the stock market is greater than that for housing is unpatriotic, who knew? I lack the ability to back down from an argument and because I was so convinced I was right, I didn't shut my yapper and was never invited back to their home. Their final argument as they shoved me out the door was that the dot-com bust proved me wrong. Is there nowhere that I can hide from foreshadowing and irony?
So how did I go from arguing against homeownership to becoming a homeowner and then profiting from shoving other people into the same situation? The answer is complicated but I think it was the combination of the propaganda post September 11th along with the recognition that the market was about to boom. I bought my first house with the expectation that I would make a lot of money on the investment plus, I needed somewhere to live. I never thought I would become a salesperson for the American Dream and there was no way I could have anticipated how good I would be at it. I guess I'm saying that I sold out.
When you stop and think about what happened after September 11th it is hard to not realize how fragile our economy is. I don't think we ever recovered from the 2001 recession, certainly not in terms of incomes and real wealth. We had a fake recovery, fueled by an illusion. The housing boom made people feel wealthier, and on paper they actually were. That is why we had the rapid increase in household wealth and the record consumer spending expansion. The price we paid was the ensuing decline in household wealth, the single greatest decline in modern history and nearly tenfold what we experienced during the OPEC crisis in the 1970's. Without the government fueled housing boom we would still be in the recession of 2001. Reread that statement because I don't think it gets enough play in the media.
It seems ironic that people get up in arms about government spending to get out of this recession when they didn't bat an eye while government incentives "got us out" of the last one. The sad and scary fact is that this recession is really the double dip of the last one and since we aren't recovering, we might get a triple serving of economic smackdown.
Perhaps, I'm wrong, but I don't think so. Here is a basic fact about our housing boom recovery that supports what I am arguing: We really didn't have inflation during the recovery according to government measures. Inflation is not always a bad thing, in fact, in a true period of economic growth we should have inflation due to rising wages which increases demand and puts upward pressure on prices. We actually had stagnant wages during this time and by some measures, we experienced wage erosion. That is the opposite of economic growth, that is economic decline.
The booming economic years of 2003-2007 were a myth, just like homeownership. The government stimulated us into recovery through less transparent measures than it is using now. Incentivizing homeownership through legislation, expansion of the GSEs and arbitrarily low interest rates was our stimulus and ultimately has proven more costly than we can even comprehend.
Am I saying the housing crisis is the fault of the government? Hell yes. I recognize that greedy bastards on Wall Street and Main Street played a role, but, they were merely responding like rational economic actors to the incentives the government was providing. I almost feel sorry for the poor bastards on Wall Street who are being demonized by indignant politicians for causing the crisis. Hi Pot, have you met Kettle?
So, Happy Independence Day. Enjoy your potato salad and beer, it is as American as dogs in bandannas. In the spirit of the holiday, I offer this from the Declaration of Independence:
."..that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness."
Notice that homeownership isn't a fundamental right. Let's remember that the next time we hear about the American Dream. Don't even get me started on the liberty part....
Saturday, July 3, 2010
Saturday Night's All Right for Stealin'
One of the hobbies of the Mortgage Devil was working on Saturday. While most of us might enjoy playing golf, going to the beach, watching a college football game, drinking themselves stupid or a combination of these items on a Saturday… the Mortgage Devil worked….EVERY Saturday. In order to continue to be the Dark Overlord of the Beach Market he needed to work on Saturday…it was kinda’ like his own Holy Day.
His Saturday would start with a stop in the Bank of Hell to check voice mail and write down the name of numbers of the people that he hadn’t called back from that Friday or possibly six Friday’s ago. He always said “if the worst thing that I do is never call people back…then I am doing alright”. Well he did way worse than not calling people back…and I will get into one example of that in a minute.
Now that the voice mails are checked, he grabs a stack of flyer's and his cell phone and start driving like a maniac all over the Beach to stop by all of the Real Estate offices. He picked Saturday’s because he can’t get past the receptionist (gate keeper) during the week. He had free reign on Saturday’s to terrorize the Real Estate Agents with his flyer's…aka propaganda…proclaiming how great he was and how awesome the Bank of Hell was compared to the rest of the world. In between stops he would be on his cell phone calling his customers and patting himself on the back for how dedicated he was to be returning their phone call on a Saturday. He was in his glory. You would think by the time he returned all of their phone calls and passed out all of his propaganda…he would call it a day. Not this asshole. Nope.
He would then head back to the Bank of Hell for the second half of his Saturday hobby. Since none of the Devil’s Minion’s or support staff were in on a Saturday…he would start grabbing and looking at EVERY loan file they had in their filling cabinets that were “in process”. Which basically meant that everyone who had applied for a loan but had not gone to closing was having the Devil look through their mortgage file. But don’t worry, he wasn’t stealing customer’s personal information. He was trying to find an angle to steal the loan application from the other loan officers in the office (such as Turdy and myself). He would look at the name of the Loan Officer on the file then rip into the file like a madman trying to find out the customer’s name, who was the selling real estate agent, who was the listing agent, who was the builder, the title company, the sellers, if the children’s name were on a tax return he might write their names down too. Why did he do this? Because he is fucking crazy? Yes. Greedy? Yes.
He honestly believed that everyone that applied for a mortgage at the Bank of Hell, were there because of him. There was no way any other loan officers could have brought that customer to the Bank of Hell…on their own. Yes, he is that narcissistic and crazy.
Then the Mortgage Devil would put a yellow “sticky” note on the front cover of the file and plop it into the offending loan officer’s chair. There were several Monday mornings I would stumble into the Bank of Hell after a Sunday of tailgating and drinking to find a stack of my files in the seat of my chair. The first time that this occurred it was after a particular rough Monday morning following a long day of tailgating. I see the stack of files, rub my eyes because I thought I was seeing shit at this point, and realize…yeah, files are really in my chair. My first thought was that my processor at the time (who was the Devil’s most loyal Minion) had worked on the file over the weekend and needed me to look at it for a reason. Silly me. She would NEVER work on a Saturday unless large sums of unmarked cash were placed in a non-descript white envelope then pressed into her greedy mitt. I grab the file on top and notice the “sticky” note. It read: “See Me! – Mortgage Devil”. Ok…so I head off in search of the Dark One.
I find him in his usual position…behind a large desk with files stacked up to his eyes, head set on, spouting his scripted bull shit to some unsuspecting customer, while pounding away on a manual calculator. I give him my best “What the Fuck?” look. He gives me his index finger extended…his universal sign of “wait a minute (or an hour as explained previously). I know that he saw me, so I head back to my desk (Gilligan’s Island) to look at the rest of the sticky notes…I then grow disgusted and push them aside for now. Eventually, the Mortgage Devil comes around the corner. His words “Grab those files and meet me in the Break Room”. Though I don’t feel like being obedient, I decide that I am curious to see what he wants from me. I quickly find out what he wants…those files. Literally. The conversation goes something like this:
Mortgage Devil: “I was looking through your files this weekend and noticed that a few of those files should be mine”.
Me: “You did WHAT this weekend to my files?”
Mortgage Devil: “I was looking through your files this weekend”.
Me: “Why do you think it is OK to look through MY files?”
Mortgage Devil: “I noticed that several of your loans are actually my loans. The stack of loans you are holding are my customers.”
Me (trying not to punch him in the face): “I honestly don’t know why you would think they were your customers?!”
Mortgage Devil: “Well take the one on top for example. The builder is a friend of mine. We had lunch before.”
Me: “Oh really? If he is your friend then why did he refer his customer to me?”
Mortgage Devil: “That is what I am trying to figure out. You obviously took that customer from me somehow.”
Me: “I took the customer because he was referred to ME! By your “friend”…which I wonder how close you two are because he has been referring clients to me for the past two years on a regular basis and we had lunch three weeks ago. So, when exactly did you have lunch with your “friend”?
Mortgage Devil: “Look…you need to check with me when you get something from that builder. I am going to let it slide this one time.”
Me: “Why don’t we have a conference call with the Builder and ask him who he was referring the loan to?”
Mortgage Devil: “Look, you just need to run this by me next time.”
Me (walking away): “I don’t see that happening”.
Mortgage Devil: “Hey come back here…we need to talk about the rest of the files!”.
I walked down the back steps with my files out the back door into the parking lot…got into my car and drove straight to the beach to go cool off. Unfortunately, Turdy and I weren’t very close then…or I would have demanded she attend Happy Hour with me immediately…the drinks would have definitely been on me. So, I had to find one of my unemployed drunk friends to vent to…which isn’t very hard to find at the Beach. Sure it was around 11:00 a.m. on a Monday morning but I didn’t see me going back to the office that day.
After I am properly cooled off from many drinks at Happy Hour, I decide I need to start holding onto my files until the last minute. Basically, I would start the file and keep it away from the Processor’s and more importantly the Mortgage Devil’s Saturday Night Stealin’ expeditions until the file was almost ready to close. Sadly, it was necessary to do business that way at the Bank of Hell.
The Mortgage Devil as mentioned before was making $1-2 million a year in commissions and yet was so paranoid and narcissistic he would spend Saturday’s trying to steal files so he can make MORE money and more importantly produce MORE loans so he can remain the #1 Producer for the Bank of Hell. A prize more coveted to him than spending time with his family or even his own sanity.
His Saturday would start with a stop in the Bank of Hell to check voice mail and write down the name of numbers of the people that he hadn’t called back from that Friday or possibly six Friday’s ago. He always said “if the worst thing that I do is never call people back…then I am doing alright”. Well he did way worse than not calling people back…and I will get into one example of that in a minute.
Now that the voice mails are checked, he grabs a stack of flyer's and his cell phone and start driving like a maniac all over the Beach to stop by all of the Real Estate offices. He picked Saturday’s because he can’t get past the receptionist (gate keeper) during the week. He had free reign on Saturday’s to terrorize the Real Estate Agents with his flyer's…aka propaganda…proclaiming how great he was and how awesome the Bank of Hell was compared to the rest of the world. In between stops he would be on his cell phone calling his customers and patting himself on the back for how dedicated he was to be returning their phone call on a Saturday. He was in his glory. You would think by the time he returned all of their phone calls and passed out all of his propaganda…he would call it a day. Not this asshole. Nope.
He would then head back to the Bank of Hell for the second half of his Saturday hobby. Since none of the Devil’s Minion’s or support staff were in on a Saturday…he would start grabbing and looking at EVERY loan file they had in their filling cabinets that were “in process”. Which basically meant that everyone who had applied for a loan but had not gone to closing was having the Devil look through their mortgage file. But don’t worry, he wasn’t stealing customer’s personal information. He was trying to find an angle to steal the loan application from the other loan officers in the office (such as Turdy and myself). He would look at the name of the Loan Officer on the file then rip into the file like a madman trying to find out the customer’s name, who was the selling real estate agent, who was the listing agent, who was the builder, the title company, the sellers, if the children’s name were on a tax return he might write their names down too. Why did he do this? Because he is fucking crazy? Yes. Greedy? Yes.
He honestly believed that everyone that applied for a mortgage at the Bank of Hell, were there because of him. There was no way any other loan officers could have brought that customer to the Bank of Hell…on their own. Yes, he is that narcissistic and crazy.
Then the Mortgage Devil would put a yellow “sticky” note on the front cover of the file and plop it into the offending loan officer’s chair. There were several Monday mornings I would stumble into the Bank of Hell after a Sunday of tailgating and drinking to find a stack of my files in the seat of my chair. The first time that this occurred it was after a particular rough Monday morning following a long day of tailgating. I see the stack of files, rub my eyes because I thought I was seeing shit at this point, and realize…yeah, files are really in my chair. My first thought was that my processor at the time (who was the Devil’s most loyal Minion) had worked on the file over the weekend and needed me to look at it for a reason. Silly me. She would NEVER work on a Saturday unless large sums of unmarked cash were placed in a non-descript white envelope then pressed into her greedy mitt. I grab the file on top and notice the “sticky” note. It read: “See Me! – Mortgage Devil”. Ok…so I head off in search of the Dark One.
I find him in his usual position…behind a large desk with files stacked up to his eyes, head set on, spouting his scripted bull shit to some unsuspecting customer, while pounding away on a manual calculator. I give him my best “What the Fuck?” look. He gives me his index finger extended…his universal sign of “wait a minute (or an hour as explained previously). I know that he saw me, so I head back to my desk (Gilligan’s Island) to look at the rest of the sticky notes…I then grow disgusted and push them aside for now. Eventually, the Mortgage Devil comes around the corner. His words “Grab those files and meet me in the Break Room”. Though I don’t feel like being obedient, I decide that I am curious to see what he wants from me. I quickly find out what he wants…those files. Literally. The conversation goes something like this:
Mortgage Devil: “I was looking through your files this weekend and noticed that a few of those files should be mine”.
Me: “You did WHAT this weekend to my files?”
Mortgage Devil: “I was looking through your files this weekend”.
Me: “Why do you think it is OK to look through MY files?”
Mortgage Devil: “I noticed that several of your loans are actually my loans. The stack of loans you are holding are my customers.”
Me (trying not to punch him in the face): “I honestly don’t know why you would think they were your customers?!”
Mortgage Devil: “Well take the one on top for example. The builder is a friend of mine. We had lunch before.”
Me: “Oh really? If he is your friend then why did he refer his customer to me?”
Mortgage Devil: “That is what I am trying to figure out. You obviously took that customer from me somehow.”
Me: “I took the customer because he was referred to ME! By your “friend”…which I wonder how close you two are because he has been referring clients to me for the past two years on a regular basis and we had lunch three weeks ago. So, when exactly did you have lunch with your “friend”?
Mortgage Devil: “Look…you need to check with me when you get something from that builder. I am going to let it slide this one time.”
Me: “Why don’t we have a conference call with the Builder and ask him who he was referring the loan to?”
Mortgage Devil: “Look, you just need to run this by me next time.”
Me (walking away): “I don’t see that happening”.
Mortgage Devil: “Hey come back here…we need to talk about the rest of the files!”.
I walked down the back steps with my files out the back door into the parking lot…got into my car and drove straight to the beach to go cool off. Unfortunately, Turdy and I weren’t very close then…or I would have demanded she attend Happy Hour with me immediately…the drinks would have definitely been on me. So, I had to find one of my unemployed drunk friends to vent to…which isn’t very hard to find at the Beach. Sure it was around 11:00 a.m. on a Monday morning but I didn’t see me going back to the office that day.
After I am properly cooled off from many drinks at Happy Hour, I decide I need to start holding onto my files until the last minute. Basically, I would start the file and keep it away from the Processor’s and more importantly the Mortgage Devil’s Saturday Night Stealin’ expeditions until the file was almost ready to close. Sadly, it was necessary to do business that way at the Bank of Hell.
The Mortgage Devil as mentioned before was making $1-2 million a year in commissions and yet was so paranoid and narcissistic he would spend Saturday’s trying to steal files so he can make MORE money and more importantly produce MORE loans so he can remain the #1 Producer for the Bank of Hell. A prize more coveted to him than spending time with his family or even his own sanity.
Friday, July 2, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, June 7, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
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 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.
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.
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