Okay, NOW I'm home.
I just need to get rid of some of these boxes; the sound of felines climbing Mount Kittimus is quite troubling. They're reaching truly alarming heights. Sometimes I think these aren't cats, they're monkeys.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
New Scene
AAAAAAAAAaaaaaaand....we're back.
(Okay, MOSTLY back. I'm at work right now. But tonight's task is to reconnect the computer, and the Internet is already in place (as is the cable, installed as the movers hauled things in...happy, happy me!) and once I'm reconnected fully, THEN I'll consider myself COMPLETELY back. But right now, that's a small thing.)
And NOW I'm excited. NOW I'm happy. NOW I am not so ambivalent anymore.
I have three lamps and two small boxes left at the old place. I'll pick them up on Saturday, after work. But otherwise, everything I own is either in my new place or snugly tucked away in Mom's basement.
The cats, having spent yesterday in carriers, have been giving me dirty looks since I let them out to explore. They also, however, decided to share the bed last night, in a rare show of feline solidarity; all three of them managed to spend half the night with no hiss, no spit, no growl nor yowl. Cassidy slept on my left arm, which I found adorable. (Poor kitty has been through a lot, and he's got a lot more to go through; apparently, apartments not being a possibility, Tim and Squeaky are going to live at Squeaky's dad's. Cassidy will join them once they're settled, in a couple of weeks; in the meantime, I'm kittysitting. I don't mind--he's a love, actually.)
When I finally let them out of their carriers, Cass ran around the house investigating everything; Bad ran under the bed and stayed there til dinnertime; and Snick was nowhere to be found. He finally emerged when I put out food, but he'd clearly had enough of this ordeal; I plucked him off a bookcase at one point, and for the first time in his life he HISSED at me. Snickers NEVER hisses at me. He's clearly stressed. (Not stressed enough to affect his appetite, though!)
I am very, very happy with my new place. I will be happier once things are unpacked...but it's DONE; it's OVER; I have moved. (Hallelujiah!)
(Okay, MOSTLY back. I'm at work right now. But tonight's task is to reconnect the computer, and the Internet is already in place (as is the cable, installed as the movers hauled things in...happy, happy me!) and once I'm reconnected fully, THEN I'll consider myself COMPLETELY back. But right now, that's a small thing.)
And NOW I'm excited. NOW I'm happy. NOW I am not so ambivalent anymore.
I have three lamps and two small boxes left at the old place. I'll pick them up on Saturday, after work. But otherwise, everything I own is either in my new place or snugly tucked away in Mom's basement.
The cats, having spent yesterday in carriers, have been giving me dirty looks since I let them out to explore. They also, however, decided to share the bed last night, in a rare show of feline solidarity; all three of them managed to spend half the night with no hiss, no spit, no growl nor yowl. Cassidy slept on my left arm, which I found adorable. (Poor kitty has been through a lot, and he's got a lot more to go through; apparently, apartments not being a possibility, Tim and Squeaky are going to live at Squeaky's dad's. Cassidy will join them once they're settled, in a couple of weeks; in the meantime, I'm kittysitting. I don't mind--he's a love, actually.)
When I finally let them out of their carriers, Cass ran around the house investigating everything; Bad ran under the bed and stayed there til dinnertime; and Snick was nowhere to be found. He finally emerged when I put out food, but he'd clearly had enough of this ordeal; I plucked him off a bookcase at one point, and for the first time in his life he HISSED at me. Snickers NEVER hisses at me. He's clearly stressed. (Not stressed enough to affect his appetite, though!)
I am very, very happy with my new place. I will be happier once things are unpacked...but it's DONE; it's OVER; I have moved. (Hallelujiah!)
Monday, October 29, 2007
Here Goes Nothing
Last step before moving: pack up the cats.
Second-to-last step before moving: pack up the computer.
Hopefully, by the time I have internet access again, the memory of the past 24 hours will have vanished from my mind; this will spare my readers the most profanity-laced post in TSOW history, because...
Let's just say I am so, so, so very done helping people, ever.
EVER ever. From this point on, I plan to nurture a carefully cultivated streak of total jerkitude and self-centeredness, so as to avoid ever, EVER going through ANYTHING like this again, EVER.
Last thought on this before I take the requisite deep breath:
When you live in someone's house rent-free for a year, should it not be customary to assist with projects without complaint? Or even better, without making yourself out to be some kind of tragic hero for successfully "balancing the wishes of two entirely different people"? Especially when one of these two disparate parties is doing NOTHING for the cause, is in fact DISTRACTING at every turn from the process at hand; and the other party is THE PERSON IN WHOSE HOUSE YOU AND THIS DISTRACTION HAVE LIVED RENT-FREE FOR AN EXTENDED PERIOD OF TIME??? Wouldn't you tell the distraction, "You know, babycakes sugarbooty bumpkin pie, after tomorrow, I can give you every moment of my undivided attention forever and ever--which is what you seem to require in order to continue operating as the barely-functioning individual you are, bless your cute widdle heart--but just for today, I feel like I owe this to a person who's helped both of us quite a bit"? Instead of "This is what amazing, wonderful, self-effacing people like me do for their friends. Look how heroic and wonderful and long-suffering I am"???
Firefly, I apologize, but I gotta use the V-word here: the whole thing makes me wanna vomit.
Every choice, every plan, and every decision I have made through the course of this move--everything from where to stack stuff, to whether to tape certain boxes shut, to what time I could go to bed (!!!), has been debated, argued, contradicted, and second-guessed. Last night, I just snapped--several times, in fact--and by the time I finished with the requisite tears of nervous exhaustion and total fury, and finally DID get to bed, I was so tense that it took me about an hour to fall asleep.
I have to stop ranting now and put the computer away. In a few hours, this move will be done. But since Tim and Squeaky have walked out the door to go to work/wherever--the worst is over.
See you all on the other side....
:::set fades to black:::
Second-to-last step before moving: pack up the computer.
Hopefully, by the time I have internet access again, the memory of the past 24 hours will have vanished from my mind; this will spare my readers the most profanity-laced post in TSOW history, because...
Let's just say I am so, so, so very done helping people, ever.
EVER ever. From this point on, I plan to nurture a carefully cultivated streak of total jerkitude and self-centeredness, so as to avoid ever, EVER going through ANYTHING like this again, EVER.
Last thought on this before I take the requisite deep breath:
When you live in someone's house rent-free for a year, should it not be customary to assist with projects without complaint? Or even better, without making yourself out to be some kind of tragic hero for successfully "balancing the wishes of two entirely different people"? Especially when one of these two disparate parties is doing NOTHING for the cause, is in fact DISTRACTING at every turn from the process at hand; and the other party is THE PERSON IN WHOSE HOUSE YOU AND THIS DISTRACTION HAVE LIVED RENT-FREE FOR AN EXTENDED PERIOD OF TIME??? Wouldn't you tell the distraction, "You know, babycakes sugarbooty bumpkin pie, after tomorrow, I can give you every moment of my undivided attention forever and ever--which is what you seem to require in order to continue operating as the barely-functioning individual you are, bless your cute widdle heart--but just for today, I feel like I owe this to a person who's helped both of us quite a bit"? Instead of "This is what amazing, wonderful, self-effacing people like me do for their friends. Look how heroic and wonderful and long-suffering I am"???
Firefly, I apologize, but I gotta use the V-word here: the whole thing makes me wanna vomit.
Every choice, every plan, and every decision I have made through the course of this move--everything from where to stack stuff, to whether to tape certain boxes shut, to what time I could go to bed (!!!), has been debated, argued, contradicted, and second-guessed. Last night, I just snapped--several times, in fact--and by the time I finished with the requisite tears of nervous exhaustion and total fury, and finally DID get to bed, I was so tense that it took me about an hour to fall asleep.
I have to stop ranting now and put the computer away. In a few hours, this move will be done. But since Tim and Squeaky have walked out the door to go to work/wherever--the worst is over.
See you all on the other side....
:::set fades to black:::
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Six More Days
I'm moving Monday.
Seven days from now, I will be leaving work and heading home to an apartment with a trillion boxes, furniture in places it shouldn't be, two bewildered kitters, and...
...absolutely nothing else.
The court date went fine; they granted us an extension til November 5th, which was just fine with me. Frankly, even if Tim and Squeaky don't get their apartment, I'm not going to worry about it. I've had it; my "nice" button is now broken from overuse.
I am really, really very excited about this move. (Welll...Okay, I'm not excited about the move itself. I loathe and despise moving. But eventually it's over, and when that moment comes THIS time, it's going to come with SO many perks. I fully intend to spend my first night at my new place with a delivery pizza, my cats, and whatever crap is on television. I won't even care what it is, because for the first time in forever, I'll be able to watch it without Squeaky coming out of the other room to ask me "a favor", or Tim talking through whatever I was watching, or anything but the sound of Bad and Snick charging through the boxes.)
I know I'm not doing a very good job of being patient--I'm sure I'm just as annoying to them, in my own ways, as they are to me. The difference is: I'm being annoyed WHILE I'm supporting them; they're being annoyed while being supported. That shouldn't matter, but it does; I can't wait to see how my financial status changes, as well, when I'm not stopping at the store every day for their little whims (and occasionally for a couple of mine, as well).
It's just time, is all, for this whole scenario to come to an end.
Seven days from now, I will be leaving work and heading home to an apartment with a trillion boxes, furniture in places it shouldn't be, two bewildered kitters, and...
...absolutely nothing else.
The court date went fine; they granted us an extension til November 5th, which was just fine with me. Frankly, even if Tim and Squeaky don't get their apartment, I'm not going to worry about it. I've had it; my "nice" button is now broken from overuse.
I am really, really very excited about this move. (Welll...Okay, I'm not excited about the move itself. I loathe and despise moving. But eventually it's over, and when that moment comes THIS time, it's going to come with SO many perks. I fully intend to spend my first night at my new place with a delivery pizza, my cats, and whatever crap is on television. I won't even care what it is, because for the first time in forever, I'll be able to watch it without Squeaky coming out of the other room to ask me "a favor", or Tim talking through whatever I was watching, or anything but the sound of Bad and Snick charging through the boxes.)
I know I'm not doing a very good job of being patient--I'm sure I'm just as annoying to them, in my own ways, as they are to me. The difference is: I'm being annoyed WHILE I'm supporting them; they're being annoyed while being supported. That shouldn't matter, but it does; I can't wait to see how my financial status changes, as well, when I'm not stopping at the store every day for their little whims (and occasionally for a couple of mine, as well).
It's just time, is all, for this whole scenario to come to an end.
Friday, October 19, 2007
That Update I Promised
So....lessee. What's been happening in my life?
I got the apartment, for one thing. Moving day could be as soon as the 29th or as late as...well, as late as whatever the judge will allow it to be.
I was pissed-off enough by what happened with Countrywide "We'd Be More Accurate Without The O" Mortgage, that I took the advice I got from the nice lady on the other end of the Cook County Sheriff's phone, and filed a Motion for Stay of Possession. This required a substantial chunk of a morning, $163, and approximately eleventeen elevator trips from one floor to another in Daley Center, all of which resulted in a court date, scheduled for Monday, which will decide whether we get the house for another thirty days.
And by "we", I mean "Tim and Squeaky"; I plan to move sooner rather than later. The only thing that's holding me back even a LITTLE is this insane desire to be NICE, not to take away the stove and fridge and all the furniture and basically everything they would need in order to continue staying here after I leave.
My insane desire to be "nice", however, is rapidly dying, under the assault of Too Much Relationship Info, Courtesy of Squeaky.
Squeaky is madly in love with Tim. She got some money from an aunt, and promptly spent all of it on Sweetest Day gifts for Tim. I mean, she went OVERBOARD: candy, balloon, books, videotapes, a big whompin chocolate-covered apple...If he gets her anything, I'll be amazed. Because he, you see, is substantially LESS in love. And she knows it, but it doesn't stop her from bashing her head against the wall, doing every single thing he asks--and things he HASN'T asked, but which he might concievably ask for some day in the FUTURE. He totally takes advantage of it, treats her like crap, and generally makes me extremely glad that I don't find him the least bit attractive. I would feel sorry for her, if all the schmoopy-woopy-boopy-poop didn't make me want to scream til my lungs bleed. See, she has no way of getting around to do most of the pathetically-clingy stuff she wants to do for him--so guess who she asks?? "Would you do me a favor and get him some cigarettes/Aleve/cookies/etc? I'll pay you back..." (She hasn't.)
The most trivial thing, which is also possibly the most annoying thing of all: Tim's real name is one of those names which can be tweaked in spelling, to suit the preferences of its owner. (You know--like Britney/Brittany/Brytynie/ad nauseam.) Tim has, in recent months, adopted one of these exceedingly stupid-looking spellings for his real name. (I'm going to use "Christopher" as the base example, even though that's not Tim's real name and honestly, how he's screwed with his REAL name is even worse than the illustration.) I have scrupulously avoided going along with this silliness, because I'm weird about names--I can't even BEGIN to tell you how I felt about the name he saddled his DAUGHTER with--and so I've mostly began notes with either "C" or "Hey dude". But Squeaky...oh, she's more than happy to go along with this ridiculous spelling, along with every other whim of his. So every IM she sends me--and oh, sweet merciful Heaven, does she send me IMs?? YOU guess--aggravates me even more than it ought to, simply by assaulting my brain-cells with things like "Chrystofer is mad at me, I think..." It makes me want to gouge my eyes out.
I try to be charitable. I remember how I was at 19--Firefly, I'm sure, can second that; how I was obsessed with the wishes of my boyfriend at the time, and would pretty much move heaven and earth if he said he wanted something. I remember being goofy (Firefly--remember pissing off our next-door roomies by singing that BoDeans song every night for a week? hehehe...) and childish and silly. But...here's the thing: I only inflicted that goofiness on OTHER 19-year-olds. I didn't move into the house of an unrelated 37-year-old and expect her to be just as entranced with all my silliness as I was. (I may be an immature 37, but an immature 37 is still a hell of a lot more mature than an immature 19.) And frankly, her goofiness is WAY goofier than OUR goofiness was. Is that a self-serving, revisionist statement? Probably, yeah. But I'm standing by it--again, I never inflicted it one an unrelated 37-year-old.
And I know that my friends, over the years, have dealt with a lot from me in the realm of relationships. They've listened to me bemoaning the men that didn't love me, the ones who mistreated me, the ones who I kept around for absolutely NO REASON other than the fact that I didn't know how to get rid of them without feeling like an unconscionable bitch. So maybe this is karma; I don't know. But even karma has its limits...doesn't it?
So there's that, and then there's the fact that Tim is rapidly becoming King of the Asshole Frontier.
I discovered last night that they PROBABLY have an apartment. I found this out by asking Squeaky; she was in the kitchen getting another piece of pizza while I was making the latest batch of catfood, and when I asked her, "So have you guys got any prospects on an apartment?" she immediately dropped her voice to a whisper. "Tim doesn't want me to talk to you about it," she said, and promptly spilled all the beans. Apparently it's a studio, and her aunt is going to cosign, and her grandma is going to help with security deposits and the like, and...blah blah blah...
I can't wait for peace, quiet, order. I can't wait to see how I'll do financially, with only my own worries to worry about, and no $8-a-pack cigarettes, $7 bottles of Aleve, cold medicine for Squeaky, Sweetest Day cookies, 12-packs of Old Style, and all the rest.
I'm moving on the 29th, I think. Better sooner than later; and once the move is done, I can relax and get on with my life. I may be losing my house, true....but a fresh start won't be the worst thing in the world, either.
I got the apartment, for one thing. Moving day could be as soon as the 29th or as late as...well, as late as whatever the judge will allow it to be.
I was pissed-off enough by what happened with Countrywide "We'd Be More Accurate Without The O" Mortgage, that I took the advice I got from the nice lady on the other end of the Cook County Sheriff's phone, and filed a Motion for Stay of Possession. This required a substantial chunk of a morning, $163, and approximately eleventeen elevator trips from one floor to another in Daley Center, all of which resulted in a court date, scheduled for Monday, which will decide whether we get the house for another thirty days.
And by "we", I mean "Tim and Squeaky"; I plan to move sooner rather than later. The only thing that's holding me back even a LITTLE is this insane desire to be NICE, not to take away the stove and fridge and all the furniture and basically everything they would need in order to continue staying here after I leave.
My insane desire to be "nice", however, is rapidly dying, under the assault of Too Much Relationship Info, Courtesy of Squeaky.
Squeaky is madly in love with Tim. She got some money from an aunt, and promptly spent all of it on Sweetest Day gifts for Tim. I mean, she went OVERBOARD: candy, balloon, books, videotapes, a big whompin chocolate-covered apple...If he gets her anything, I'll be amazed. Because he, you see, is substantially LESS in love. And she knows it, but it doesn't stop her from bashing her head against the wall, doing every single thing he asks--and things he HASN'T asked, but which he might concievably ask for some day in the FUTURE. He totally takes advantage of it, treats her like crap, and generally makes me extremely glad that I don't find him the least bit attractive. I would feel sorry for her, if all the schmoopy-woopy-boopy-poop didn't make me want to scream til my lungs bleed. See, she has no way of getting around to do most of the pathetically-clingy stuff she wants to do for him--so guess who she asks?? "Would you do me a favor and get him some cigarettes/Aleve/cookies/etc? I'll pay you back..." (She hasn't.)
The most trivial thing, which is also possibly the most annoying thing of all: Tim's real name is one of those names which can be tweaked in spelling, to suit the preferences of its owner. (You know--like Britney/Brittany/Brytynie/ad nauseam.) Tim has, in recent months, adopted one of these exceedingly stupid-looking spellings for his real name. (I'm going to use "Christopher" as the base example, even though that's not Tim's real name and honestly, how he's screwed with his REAL name is even worse than the illustration.) I have scrupulously avoided going along with this silliness, because I'm weird about names--I can't even BEGIN to tell you how I felt about the name he saddled his DAUGHTER with--and so I've mostly began notes with either "C" or "Hey dude". But Squeaky...oh, she's more than happy to go along with this ridiculous spelling, along with every other whim of his. So every IM she sends me--and oh, sweet merciful Heaven, does she send me IMs?? YOU guess--aggravates me even more than it ought to, simply by assaulting my brain-cells with things like "Chrystofer is mad at me, I think..." It makes me want to gouge my eyes out.
I try to be charitable. I remember how I was at 19--Firefly, I'm sure, can second that; how I was obsessed with the wishes of my boyfriend at the time, and would pretty much move heaven and earth if he said he wanted something. I remember being goofy (Firefly--remember pissing off our next-door roomies by singing that BoDeans song every night for a week? hehehe...) and childish and silly. But...here's the thing: I only inflicted that goofiness on OTHER 19-year-olds. I didn't move into the house of an unrelated 37-year-old and expect her to be just as entranced with all my silliness as I was. (I may be an immature 37, but an immature 37 is still a hell of a lot more mature than an immature 19.) And frankly, her goofiness is WAY goofier than OUR goofiness was. Is that a self-serving, revisionist statement? Probably, yeah. But I'm standing by it--again, I never inflicted it one an unrelated 37-year-old.
And I know that my friends, over the years, have dealt with a lot from me in the realm of relationships. They've listened to me bemoaning the men that didn't love me, the ones who mistreated me, the ones who I kept around for absolutely NO REASON other than the fact that I didn't know how to get rid of them without feeling like an unconscionable bitch. So maybe this is karma; I don't know. But even karma has its limits...doesn't it?
So there's that, and then there's the fact that Tim is rapidly becoming King of the Asshole Frontier.
I discovered last night that they PROBABLY have an apartment. I found this out by asking Squeaky; she was in the kitchen getting another piece of pizza while I was making the latest batch of catfood, and when I asked her, "So have you guys got any prospects on an apartment?" she immediately dropped her voice to a whisper. "Tim doesn't want me to talk to you about it," she said, and promptly spilled all the beans. Apparently it's a studio, and her aunt is going to cosign, and her grandma is going to help with security deposits and the like, and...blah blah blah...
Okay, whatever. But "Tim doesn't want me to talk to you about it" ?? WTF? And yet...this isn't the first time I've witnessed it. He gets this way, all secretive and awful, when there are stressful things going on; I remember it from our final days with CR, but Tim always blamed the stress during that time on the way -WE- treated -HIM-. And I went along with it--there were things I did during that time which were not very characteristic of a good friend--but now, I'm seeing things he's doing now--things he also did back then--which are ALSO not very friend-like. And this secret-keeping, creeping around, playing one person against the other--oh yeah, I remember those too.
I can't wait to move.I can't wait for peace, quiet, order. I can't wait to see how I'll do financially, with only my own worries to worry about, and no $8-a-pack cigarettes, $7 bottles of Aleve, cold medicine for Squeaky, Sweetest Day cookies, 12-packs of Old Style, and all the rest.
I'm moving on the 29th, I think. Better sooner than later; and once the move is done, I can relax and get on with my life. I may be losing my house, true....but a fresh start won't be the worst thing in the world, either.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Things That Can Bite Me
Things That Can Bite Me, Tech-Support Edition:
1-347,325: Microsoft.
Microsoft can bite me because:
- Office 2007. "Hey, Bob, here's a great idea! Let's take the normal, intuitive menu structure, the neat layout, and the uncluttered feel of Office 2003…AND CHUCK IT OUT THE WINDOW! We can make a…..a….I know! A BIG UGLY BUTTON where everyone has to click to do everything! And then? Get this…we can make cluttery, redundant TABS! EVERYONE loves tabs, RIGHT? And we can hide ALL the useful features."
"Gee, Mr. Gates…do you think that's what the users want?"
"USERS? Screw the USERS. They want what we TELL them to want!"
- So I get this ticket at work, see. We just upgraded our people to Office 2007. Most of our users also have some form of Adobe—generally Adobe Professional 7 or 8. About a week ago, one of the users said she could no longer create or combine PDFs with Adobe 7. She would rather not update to 8, but she would if she had to.
I spent hours on this ticket. I spent hours at her desk, I spent hours at MY desk, I spent hours on Google and on Adobe's website, trying to find out what the problem was. At one point I printed out a list of about 15 pages of steps to take, in order, to solve the problem.
Today, as I was discussing it with my cube-mate, who claimed that updating to Adobe 8.1 would definitely solve the problem, I got an e-mail from the guy in the next cube, who'd heard us talking. It was a forward of an e-mail one of the OTHER techs had sent out a couple of months back, in which she explained a solution. I read it, and thought "That is SO not gonna help. Something that simple, that ridiculously unrelated to the problem—nah. It's not gonna help. But I'll try it…maybe it will help something else."
I had another call for the same issue, by this time. I went to this user's office and tried all my usual steps, the ones which hadn't worked for the first user; they didn't work here either. I told her I'd be back tomorrow when I had a chance to do some more research.
As I walked away, I thought of the e-mail. "Let me try this one more thing," I said. "I doubt it will work, but…"
I clicked on the big stupid Office button—the source of all menus—and clicked Word Options. There was an item on the list that said "Popular", which I clicked. There, at the bottom of that screen, it said "Personalize your Copy of Microsoft Office", followed by a space for the user's name and a space for the user's initials. I filled them in—Jane Doe, initials JD--clicked OK, and clicked the Acrobat tab to create a PDF file.
And damn it all –it WORKED. The lack of a stupid NAME and stupid INITIALS was causing a whole myriad of "unexpected error"s across two entirely unrelated applications. If that is not the STUPIDEST, most outstandingly DUMBASSED thing I've ever encountered in my ENTIRE LIFE as a tech-support person…
I think I need to calm down.
(But I mean, SERIOUSLY!)
- "Um, Mr. Gates, sir??"
(sigh) "What is it now, Bob?"
"Got a question. I'm setting up the updater for the new version of Office for the Macin…"
(Turns on him, eyes narrowed)"What did I tell you about saying that name in my almighty presence!"
"Sorry…sorry, Mr. Gates. Anyway, I'm working on Office for…well….you know, that other company's computer….and I've noticed that after they install it, there are like ELEVEN individual updaters they have to run, one at a time. They've got to click on each, then enter their name and password…I was just thinking, couldn't we create a cumulative update? I mean, it would save them time…"
"They don't NEED time. What they NEED…what they NEED is a good LESSON. Eleven individual updates? It's a small, small penalty for their betrayal. Let them suffer."
"Yes sir, Mr. Gates."
I love my job—truly I do—but oh, how I hate Microsoft.
Saturday, October 13, 2007
Aughhroo??
That title, should you wonder, is the transcription of the sound made by a large dog as it cocks its head and looks at you in confusion after you've done something perplexing. It implies total bewilderment, which is what I'm experiencing here.
So someone, tell me this: How, if an individual has extraordinarily-limited English skills, does that same individual expect to understand the content and subject-matter of an English-taught class in a highly-specialized, exceedingly complex field?? If your English skills are so weak that you can't translate the contents of an error window on your computer, how on Earth are you going to understand what's being said?
Also, not to show any disrespect to my younger readers, but...seriously, some of these people? Raised by wolves. By RUDE wolves, in fact. If your print job is in the middle of a stack of other people's print jobs, and there are names on the cover sheets in an effort to assist you in sorting them, and there is a rack LITERALLY next to the printer so people can find the jobs that belong to them, WHY would you dump EVERYONE ELSE's job on the side of the printer, taking only your own? And why would you ALSO leave your cover sheet on the printer table, instead of putting it into the recycling file?
They won't let me hang a sign that says "We've Fired The Maid--Clean Up After Yourself!" Nor will they let me hang one that says "Your Mama Doesn't Work Here Anymore".
No one EVER lets me have any fun.
I'm beginning to worry about the future, though--if this is the cream of the crop, I'm thinking we've got an EXCEEDINGLY curdled crop here. And everything I see reinforces my already-pretty-well-reinforced decision not to have kids.
You've simply GOTTA wonder about some of these parents, though.
So someone, tell me this: How, if an individual has extraordinarily-limited English skills, does that same individual expect to understand the content and subject-matter of an English-taught class in a highly-specialized, exceedingly complex field?? If your English skills are so weak that you can't translate the contents of an error window on your computer, how on Earth are you going to understand what's being said?
Also, not to show any disrespect to my younger readers, but...seriously, some of these people? Raised by wolves. By RUDE wolves, in fact. If your print job is in the middle of a stack of other people's print jobs, and there are names on the cover sheets in an effort to assist you in sorting them, and there is a rack LITERALLY next to the printer so people can find the jobs that belong to them, WHY would you dump EVERYONE ELSE's job on the side of the printer, taking only your own? And why would you ALSO leave your cover sheet on the printer table, instead of putting it into the recycling file?
They won't let me hang a sign that says "We've Fired The Maid--Clean Up After Yourself!" Nor will they let me hang one that says "Your Mama Doesn't Work Here Anymore".
No one EVER lets me have any fun.
I'm beginning to worry about the future, though--if this is the cream of the crop, I'm thinking we've got an EXCEEDINGLY curdled crop here. And everything I see reinforces my already-pretty-well-reinforced decision not to have kids.
You've simply GOTTA wonder about some of these parents, though.
Sunday, October 7, 2007
Saturday, October 6, 2007
Captain Cranky's Bitch-O-Rama
I am really, really conflicted.
After all the go-around with Countrywide Bastard People (my former mortgage company and the current owner of the former Chez Gladys), it became evident that I needed to get my portly butt in gear--getting an apartment, packing, and moving--as soon as possible. So I started squeezing in apartment visits at every available moment--before work, after work, lunch. I went to look at a studio with my old landlord, in the building where Tim and I lived with CR; not only did the building itself give me the screaming heebie-jeebies, thanks to its CR memories, but the apartment itself was a)beyond teeny, and b)just barely north of squalid. Not dirty-squalid, but please-strangle-your-decorator squalid. I would have died a trillion deaths trying to live with that kitchen for a year.
The same night, I had an appointment to look at what sounded like an AWESOME place. One bedroom, garden apartment, sunny, good area...I get to the appointment (which required juggling my schedule, leaving work an hour early, and driving to the entirely opposite end of the city during rush hour) only to be informed by the assclown owner that "oh, THAT apartment has been gone for MONTHS...All we have is this two-bedroom." Which was nice, but: no. Too much opportunity for unwanted guests. I was really, REALLY disappointed--more than I thought I'd be, and definitely more than strictly necessary--and so I walked around the neighborhood, which I liked very much, taking down numbers. There was one place that had a "for rent" sign out, so on a whim I called the number and asked if there was anyone who could show me the apartment; it turned out to be a tinier-than-tiny studio in a building with a WHOLE lot of problems, including exposed electrical wires ("Enrique is an electrician!" the custodian enthused. "We do ALL our own wiring!") and an alley view containing one of the largest rats I've ever seen. I went home with a headache.
The next day, I started looking, just for fun, at the area around my job.
(Here's where I get ambivalent, part one. See, to go into more detail about the neighborhood will pretty much be to reveal where I work; it's one of those neighborhoods defined by something within it. It's like, if I say "Evanston", everybody thinks "Northwestern"; if I say "Northfield", everybody thinks "Jewel" or "Dominicks"...well, if I say the neighborhood, every Chicagoan will instantly know the institution for which I work. But if I DON'T mention the neighborhood, it's gonna be really hard talking about WHY, exactly, I'm conflicted. )
I found a building (one of those managed things, with the move-in incentives and the elevator and the fitness center and the nice video presentation on its website and all that) walking distance from work.
WALKING distance.
As in, "I need to be at work at 10 AM and it's now 9:05 and I can hit snooze three more times before I even have to THINK about getting up."
So I went to look at it. It was a one-bedroom, fourth floor, pretty nice place. It was about $80 a month more than I'd hoped to pay, but again: WALKING distance. No need to burn gas driving to work, no need to keep my bus-pass deduction, no need for ANY transportation-related expense, really, over and above......
And here's where I get REALLY ambivalent.
See, this neighborhood has no grocery stores.
That's not an exaggeration--that's a fact. There is the This Neighborhood Co-Op, which has had a monopoly on groceries in This Neighborhood since approximately forever; from everything I've read and heard, it's apparently very pricey and very understocked, and it's also fairly distant for a quick grocery walk. But there's no Jewel, no Dominicks, no Food-4-Less; no Treasure Island or Meijers or ANYTHING, for at least a twenty-block radius on all sides. (This is due to the political activism of the denizens of This Neighborhood; they're a pack of rabid liberals, which is all well and good since I'm one of those myself, but my liberalism ends when my inability to buy groceries cheaply begins. They don't want Big EEEEEVil Capitalists encroaching on their happy little Utopia, and apparently they're willing to forego groceries in favor of this principle. (Or at least, they'd have you believe they would. Actually that's 100% bullshit--either they shop at the Co-Op and pay extra for a smaller selection because they can afford to support their principles, or they subscribe to Peapod and get their expensive groceries delivered because they can afford the convenience, or they drive their Volvos and their minivans to Whole Foods or wherever they go. So the only people inconvenienced by this piece of liberal quixotism are the students (oops!) and/or the disadvantaged of the neighborhood. Gee, THANKS, wealthy liberal folks! I'm beginning to see why we're not well-liked...))
Politics aside, though, one of the reasons I'm actually almost GLAD to leave my current 'hood is just exactly that: no grocery stores for miles. So for the new neighborhood to have EXACTLY the same deficiency, albeit for a totally different reason...disappointing.
But that can be surmounted. There are two car-sharing services I can subscribe to, where I can rent a car for a couple of hours to go to the store on a Sunday or whatever, and not have to worry about keeping a car for myself. So the grocery thing: irritating beyond belief, but not the end of the world.
However, there's the OTHER thing: the thing I'm totally not proud of, the thing that's got me questioning "Who are you, and what have you done with Gladys?"
I don't know all that much about This Neighborhood. I mean, in terms of the important stuff--like, what is there to do for fun? Where do I go on the fourteenth boring afternoon, when I've exhausted all the very obvious stuff and don't feel like making the trip downtown? (There's plenty of that--but eventually you can't GO to the same bookstore for another day. Eventually you exhaust the museums.) What, other than Place Where I Work and the politics and the architecture and the landscape...other than that, what makes this place special? And what about the other considerations. For example: where is it safe to walk after dark, and where isn't it? (Of course, there are those who would have me believe that NOWHERE is safe after dark. I'm definitely not one of those, but I AM aware that around my potential new abode, there are some pretty rough spots. I'm just not sure exactly where they are.) Up in Edgewater and Rogers Park and Andersonville, I KNEW where all those places were. I even knew it where I am now, although the answer was a very simple blanket statement: "I wouldn't." But in my new neighborhood, I don't know the boundaries as well. I've been told to avoid Stony Island south of 60th; anything near the Green Line tracks after 55th; stuff like that. (Yeah, that's right. I'm moving to Hyde Park. Which means you now know where I work, if you're a Chicagoan, or know Chicago very well. I'm associating with, shall we say, People of the Maroon Persuasion. This is the closest-together that I've ever allowed my "real life" identity to get to my Gladys-ness, and it's scaring the crap out of me; I feel like Clark Kent would feel if he mistakenly walked out in tights and a cape one morning on the way to work at the Daily Planet.) But safety's generally something I'm good at--I've lived HERE for four years, after all! But as far as FUN--Okay, there's the Museum of Science and Industry--that should be good for the first six months of weekends!--and the DuSable, and I know the University has a lot of movie fests and whatnot--but other than that, I know JACK about Hyde Park, really, and it makes me nervous. That's the point I'm making here.
Normally--and by "normally" I mean "several years ago"--the element of surprise and new adventure would have been exciting. Now? It's just...daunting. And that scares me. When did I get old and scary about new experiences?? What the hell? When did that happen, and more importantly: WHY? And even more importantly than THAT: How do I make it stop happening???
That fear, though, may just be an indicator of how godawful stressful this situation is for me right now. I have just--in putting down the deposit on this apartment, which I did (at the rental agent's behest--"I have a lot of people looking at it," he warned me)--in putting down that deposit, I have accepted the necessity of taking the contents of a seven-room house with basement and garage, and deciding which of my entire collection of personal belongings are important enough to merit squeezing them into three tiny rooms, and which can be exiled to my mom's basement. I am coming face-to-face with the fact that this is all actually HAPPENING, and it's happening NOW, and I have anywhere from twelve to nineteen days to get my shit together and haul it out of there. I am not happy about this. I have coordinated moves before---many, many, many times!--but never quite this fast, and definitely nowhere NEAR this big. Really, the two parts of the process which are giving me the most anxiety are: one, the contents of the basement and the garage; and two, dividing and marking everything according to its eventual destination. And the speed at which this needs to happen is not in any way helping.
"But you have roommates to help you!" you say. And I laugh.
To be fair, Tim offered to help. But his "offer" seemed to be a blatant attempt to use helping me as a completely transparent excuse for why he couldn't go looking for a job, which could later be used as a very good reason for why I would have to help him after the move. "If I hadn't been doing YOUR packing...." I can just see it now. So I told him "Worry about your own well-being first: go get a job. If I need help packing, I'll ask for it. In the meantime, take care of yourself."
Well, THAT possibility evaporated anyway, because ever since I said that, he's been ministering to Squeaky, who we took to the emergency room last week. Again. This time, it was for seven large boils on her butt and legs, which at one point had been ONE boil, a few weeks back when I told her she needed to get that looked at and get some antibiotics before it got worse. Nobody listens to me. Anyway, she ended up with stitches and packing and multiple doctor appointments and Vicodin, which she and Tim fought over non-stop til it was gone, because HE has a sore shoulder and he can't do anything because it keeps him awake.
(If there are two things I hate, they're these: hypochondriasis, for one; and for the other, people who talk and talk and talk about their infirmities, real or imagined, but then never actually do anything to take care of them until the situation is so bad it requires an E.R. visit. I have had so many of BOTH kinds of people in my life that it makes me nuts. I recognize that I have been blessedly healthy, especially considering the amount of crap I've done to my body, but the one time I required an E.R. visit for a non-drug-related reason, it was because the actual PROBLEM--my gallbladder--had been previously misdiagnosed, not because I didn't TRY to get it dealt with! Tim won't go NEAR a doctor; he just crabs about this pain and won't get it looked at. And Squeaky, had she gone to the E.R. back when it was ONE boil, could have avoided a WHOLE LOT of pain...but she didn't want to go by herself, and she didn't want to wake Tim up to make him take her, and... I am SO GLAD to be getting away from their relationship!!! I may be a low-self-esteem-having, low-maintenance woman, but I don't think I ever neglected my own medical needs to avoid pissing off a GUY!)
Anyway, Tim HAS managed to put out a few job applications, and so has Squeaky--but neither of them has any promising leads. I worry about them--but I would worry more if I wasn't so mad at Tim for the way he's been treating me. For the first time in our friendship, I actually FEEL taken-advantage-of. Not because of anything financial, but because he's treating me like an irritant, whereas with Squeaky (when he's not pissed at her) he's fun and chatty and enjoyable to be around--the Tim I know. I try to talk to him, I get monosyllables and eye-rolls. (Unless he needs something.) And forGET trying to actually spend any time with him. The other night, he was watching TV in the living room while I was playing on the computer. We were actually having a conversation for the first time in a while--nothing important, just chatting. Squeaky was in their room, watching something else. She comes out and starts wheedling him to come into the room to watch TV (because she cannot STAND to be alone, even just in a separate room, for even a short time--last week, when Tim went out to put out applications and she was stuck at home healing, she IMed me at work repeatedly, about nothing, even though I told her I was busy). He follows her, and for the rest of the night I can hear them laughing and giggling and talking. Hey, whatever, you know? But it's like that all the time now. I am the least high-maintenance person I know, but one of my unwritten rules is: if you're living in a house with me, be prepared to at least have conversations. I don't require entertainment or company, but I cannot STAND being actively ignored for a long period of time. And this is a person who is supposedly my friend. Well, the past couple of months--since Squeaky appeared--have really injured this friendship, from my standpoint. I'm sure we'll talk it out, eventually, but right now I'm pissed and hurt and can't wait for this move to be over, so I can get some peace and quiet.
As for my fear of a new neighborhood, I keep reminding myself: this is NOT Scientology; I'm not signing a billion-year contract on this apartment. (Actually, I don't think I'm even signing a one-year lease; I think it's a month-to-month thing, given that they cater to so many students.) If I hate hate hate it, I can move. And then I think about going through all THIS again, albeit on a smaller scale...
I really hope I like it. But anything's better than THIS.
After all the go-around with Countrywide Bastard People (my former mortgage company and the current owner of the former Chez Gladys), it became evident that I needed to get my portly butt in gear--getting an apartment, packing, and moving--as soon as possible. So I started squeezing in apartment visits at every available moment--before work, after work, lunch. I went to look at a studio with my old landlord, in the building where Tim and I lived with CR; not only did the building itself give me the screaming heebie-jeebies, thanks to its CR memories, but the apartment itself was a)beyond teeny, and b)just barely north of squalid. Not dirty-squalid, but please-strangle-your-decorator squalid. I would have died a trillion deaths trying to live with that kitchen for a year.
The same night, I had an appointment to look at what sounded like an AWESOME place. One bedroom, garden apartment, sunny, good area...I get to the appointment (which required juggling my schedule, leaving work an hour early, and driving to the entirely opposite end of the city during rush hour) only to be informed by the assclown owner that "oh, THAT apartment has been gone for MONTHS...All we have is this two-bedroom." Which was nice, but: no. Too much opportunity for unwanted guests. I was really, REALLY disappointed--more than I thought I'd be, and definitely more than strictly necessary--and so I walked around the neighborhood, which I liked very much, taking down numbers. There was one place that had a "for rent" sign out, so on a whim I called the number and asked if there was anyone who could show me the apartment; it turned out to be a tinier-than-tiny studio in a building with a WHOLE lot of problems, including exposed electrical wires ("Enrique is an electrician!" the custodian enthused. "We do ALL our own wiring!") and an alley view containing one of the largest rats I've ever seen. I went home with a headache.
The next day, I started looking, just for fun, at the area around my job.
(Here's where I get ambivalent, part one. See, to go into more detail about the neighborhood will pretty much be to reveal where I work; it's one of those neighborhoods defined by something within it. It's like, if I say "Evanston", everybody thinks "Northwestern"; if I say "Northfield", everybody thinks "Jewel" or "Dominicks"...well, if I say the neighborhood, every Chicagoan will instantly know the institution for which I work. But if I DON'T mention the neighborhood, it's gonna be really hard talking about WHY, exactly, I'm conflicted. )
I found a building (one of those managed things, with the move-in incentives and the elevator and the fitness center and the nice video presentation on its website and all that) walking distance from work.
WALKING distance.
As in, "I need to be at work at 10 AM and it's now 9:05 and I can hit snooze three more times before I even have to THINK about getting up."
So I went to look at it. It was a one-bedroom, fourth floor, pretty nice place. It was about $80 a month more than I'd hoped to pay, but again: WALKING distance. No need to burn gas driving to work, no need to keep my bus-pass deduction, no need for ANY transportation-related expense, really, over and above......
And here's where I get REALLY ambivalent.
See, this neighborhood has no grocery stores.
That's not an exaggeration--that's a fact. There is the This Neighborhood Co-Op, which has had a monopoly on groceries in This Neighborhood since approximately forever; from everything I've read and heard, it's apparently very pricey and very understocked, and it's also fairly distant for a quick grocery walk. But there's no Jewel, no Dominicks, no Food-4-Less; no Treasure Island or Meijers or ANYTHING, for at least a twenty-block radius on all sides. (This is due to the political activism of the denizens of This Neighborhood; they're a pack of rabid liberals, which is all well and good since I'm one of those myself, but my liberalism ends when my inability to buy groceries cheaply begins. They don't want Big EEEEEVil Capitalists encroaching on their happy little Utopia, and apparently they're willing to forego groceries in favor of this principle. (Or at least, they'd have you believe they would. Actually that's 100% bullshit--either they shop at the Co-Op and pay extra for a smaller selection because they can afford to support their principles, or they subscribe to Peapod and get their expensive groceries delivered because they can afford the convenience, or they drive their Volvos and their minivans to Whole Foods or wherever they go. So the only people inconvenienced by this piece of liberal quixotism are the students (oops!) and/or the disadvantaged of the neighborhood. Gee, THANKS, wealthy liberal folks! I'm beginning to see why we're not well-liked...))
Politics aside, though, one of the reasons I'm actually almost GLAD to leave my current 'hood is just exactly that: no grocery stores for miles. So for the new neighborhood to have EXACTLY the same deficiency, albeit for a totally different reason...disappointing.
But that can be surmounted. There are two car-sharing services I can subscribe to, where I can rent a car for a couple of hours to go to the store on a Sunday or whatever, and not have to worry about keeping a car for myself. So the grocery thing: irritating beyond belief, but not the end of the world.
However, there's the OTHER thing: the thing I'm totally not proud of, the thing that's got me questioning "Who are you, and what have you done with Gladys?"
I don't know all that much about This Neighborhood. I mean, in terms of the important stuff--like, what is there to do for fun? Where do I go on the fourteenth boring afternoon, when I've exhausted all the very obvious stuff and don't feel like making the trip downtown? (There's plenty of that--but eventually you can't GO to the same bookstore for another day. Eventually you exhaust the museums.) What, other than Place Where I Work and the politics and the architecture and the landscape...other than that, what makes this place special? And what about the other considerations. For example: where is it safe to walk after dark, and where isn't it? (Of course, there are those who would have me believe that NOWHERE is safe after dark. I'm definitely not one of those, but I AM aware that around my potential new abode, there are some pretty rough spots. I'm just not sure exactly where they are.) Up in Edgewater and Rogers Park and Andersonville, I KNEW where all those places were. I even knew it where I am now, although the answer was a very simple blanket statement: "I wouldn't." But in my new neighborhood, I don't know the boundaries as well. I've been told to avoid Stony Island south of 60th; anything near the Green Line tracks after 55th; stuff like that. (Yeah, that's right. I'm moving to Hyde Park. Which means you now know where I work, if you're a Chicagoan, or know Chicago very well. I'm associating with, shall we say, People of the Maroon Persuasion. This is the closest-together that I've ever allowed my "real life" identity to get to my Gladys-ness, and it's scaring the crap out of me; I feel like Clark Kent would feel if he mistakenly walked out in tights and a cape one morning on the way to work at the Daily Planet.) But safety's generally something I'm good at--I've lived HERE for four years, after all! But as far as FUN--Okay, there's the Museum of Science and Industry--that should be good for the first six months of weekends!--and the DuSable, and I know the University has a lot of movie fests and whatnot--but other than that, I know JACK about Hyde Park, really, and it makes me nervous. That's the point I'm making here.
Normally--and by "normally" I mean "several years ago"--the element of surprise and new adventure would have been exciting. Now? It's just...daunting. And that scares me. When did I get old and scary about new experiences?? What the hell? When did that happen, and more importantly: WHY? And even more importantly than THAT: How do I make it stop happening???
That fear, though, may just be an indicator of how godawful stressful this situation is for me right now. I have just--in putting down the deposit on this apartment, which I did (at the rental agent's behest--"I have a lot of people looking at it," he warned me)--in putting down that deposit, I have accepted the necessity of taking the contents of a seven-room house with basement and garage, and deciding which of my entire collection of personal belongings are important enough to merit squeezing them into three tiny rooms, and which can be exiled to my mom's basement. I am coming face-to-face with the fact that this is all actually HAPPENING, and it's happening NOW, and I have anywhere from twelve to nineteen days to get my shit together and haul it out of there. I am not happy about this. I have coordinated moves before---many, many, many times!--but never quite this fast, and definitely nowhere NEAR this big. Really, the two parts of the process which are giving me the most anxiety are: one, the contents of the basement and the garage; and two, dividing and marking everything according to its eventual destination. And the speed at which this needs to happen is not in any way helping.
"But you have roommates to help you!" you say. And I laugh.
To be fair, Tim offered to help. But his "offer" seemed to be a blatant attempt to use helping me as a completely transparent excuse for why he couldn't go looking for a job, which could later be used as a very good reason for why I would have to help him after the move. "If I hadn't been doing YOUR packing...." I can just see it now. So I told him "Worry about your own well-being first: go get a job. If I need help packing, I'll ask for it. In the meantime, take care of yourself."
Well, THAT possibility evaporated anyway, because ever since I said that, he's been ministering to Squeaky, who we took to the emergency room last week. Again. This time, it was for seven large boils on her butt and legs, which at one point had been ONE boil, a few weeks back when I told her she needed to get that looked at and get some antibiotics before it got worse. Nobody listens to me. Anyway, she ended up with stitches and packing and multiple doctor appointments and Vicodin, which she and Tim fought over non-stop til it was gone, because HE has a sore shoulder and he can't do anything because it keeps him awake.
(If there are two things I hate, they're these: hypochondriasis, for one; and for the other, people who talk and talk and talk about their infirmities, real or imagined, but then never actually do anything to take care of them until the situation is so bad it requires an E.R. visit. I have had so many of BOTH kinds of people in my life that it makes me nuts. I recognize that I have been blessedly healthy, especially considering the amount of crap I've done to my body, but the one time I required an E.R. visit for a non-drug-related reason, it was because the actual PROBLEM--my gallbladder--had been previously misdiagnosed, not because I didn't TRY to get it dealt with! Tim won't go NEAR a doctor; he just crabs about this pain and won't get it looked at. And Squeaky, had she gone to the E.R. back when it was ONE boil, could have avoided a WHOLE LOT of pain...but she didn't want to go by herself, and she didn't want to wake Tim up to make him take her, and... I am SO GLAD to be getting away from their relationship!!! I may be a low-self-esteem-having, low-maintenance woman, but I don't think I ever neglected my own medical needs to avoid pissing off a GUY!)
Anyway, Tim HAS managed to put out a few job applications, and so has Squeaky--but neither of them has any promising leads. I worry about them--but I would worry more if I wasn't so mad at Tim for the way he's been treating me. For the first time in our friendship, I actually FEEL taken-advantage-of. Not because of anything financial, but because he's treating me like an irritant, whereas with Squeaky (when he's not pissed at her) he's fun and chatty and enjoyable to be around--the Tim I know. I try to talk to him, I get monosyllables and eye-rolls. (Unless he needs something.) And forGET trying to actually spend any time with him. The other night, he was watching TV in the living room while I was playing on the computer. We were actually having a conversation for the first time in a while--nothing important, just chatting. Squeaky was in their room, watching something else. She comes out and starts wheedling him to come into the room to watch TV (because she cannot STAND to be alone, even just in a separate room, for even a short time--last week, when Tim went out to put out applications and she was stuck at home healing, she IMed me at work repeatedly, about nothing, even though I told her I was busy). He follows her, and for the rest of the night I can hear them laughing and giggling and talking. Hey, whatever, you know? But it's like that all the time now. I am the least high-maintenance person I know, but one of my unwritten rules is: if you're living in a house with me, be prepared to at least have conversations. I don't require entertainment or company, but I cannot STAND being actively ignored for a long period of time. And this is a person who is supposedly my friend. Well, the past couple of months--since Squeaky appeared--have really injured this friendship, from my standpoint. I'm sure we'll talk it out, eventually, but right now I'm pissed and hurt and can't wait for this move to be over, so I can get some peace and quiet.
As for my fear of a new neighborhood, I keep reminding myself: this is NOT Scientology; I'm not signing a billion-year contract on this apartment. (Actually, I don't think I'm even signing a one-year lease; I think it's a month-to-month thing, given that they cater to so many students.) If I hate hate hate it, I can move. And then I think about going through all THIS again, albeit on a smaller scale...
I really hope I like it. But anything's better than THIS.
Monday, October 1, 2007
Countrywide
Countrywide Mortgage Co. (or whatever their official name is) can SUCK IT. (I have several "it"s in mind, none of them pleasant.)
I got a letter a few days back, in legalese, telling me basically what I already knew: my house was sold. The letter said that there had been a motion made to take possession of the building (okay, fine) and it contained the following phrase:
"The Sheriff cannot evict until 30 days after the entry of this order."
The order was dated Sept. 18th. I had been told on several occasions that it takes approximately forever to evict someone; when Tim was evicted, it didn't actually happen til nearly 6 weeks after the date he was originally given. So figure, October 18, plus an unknown period of time. Not un-doable, but I was hoping to leave at the end of the month--and that's saying nothing for Tim and Squeaky, who don't have JOBS yet, let alone a place to go. For them, I was thinking December 1st would be more reasonable.
So I called the lawyers. "Well, we don't handle the evictions," they said. "You'll have to call Countrywide." (They're the original lender; they apparently got the building back in the sale. Dunno how that works, but after today I can only tell them Good luck to you, bastard people.)
I called Countrywide. The first department gave me the number of a second department. The second department advised me to call the REO department, who in turn advised me to call the Foreclosure department, which turned out to be the department I'd spoken to first. Needless to say, this did not improve my attitude at all. But finally I got a person. I explained the situation to her. "Well, how long would you need?" she asked. I told her "I'd prefer December 1st, but I'll settle for November 1st."
She went away to consult with someone. Ten minutes later, she returned.
"They said you need to move out. Today."
I informed her that no, that was NOT the case; I had before me a letter saying clearly that I had 30 days.
"Well, you need to move out by October 18th, then," she countered. "They're not going to extend it."
I explained to her the history, as follows:
I was out of work for ten months.
When I lost my job I told them "I need to make arrangements."
I was told "We can't make arrangements unless you have a job."
I told them "If I had a job, I wouldn't need arrangements."
When I finally GOT a job, I called and said "Okay, I've got a job; I'm ready to make those arrangements."
They said "We can't make arrangements unless you have $10,000 to get caught up."
I told them "If I had $10,000, I wouldn't BE in foreclosure."
So finally (I said) the house was sold, and now I'm asking for thirteen stinking days, and you can't give me THAT? And this from a company whose name has been all over the news as one of the WORST offenders in the subprime mortgage crisis--from the SAME company who encouraged me to exaggerate my income so that the loan would go through--and this SAME company now can't even work with me so that I have the time to find a place to stay now that they've got their building back and have the power to put me on the street?
Needless to say (I told her) I will not be speaking positively of Countrywide in the future. In fact, I will make it my business to tell everyone I know, and possibly total strangers in the street, about my experience with your company, and its total lack of empathy or corporate accountability.
"Have a good day, ma'am," she said.
At this point, aside from being wrathfully pissed, I was also having a minor freakout. Seventeen days is not a long time to find a place to live, to pack all your worldly belongings, and to find a moving company--particularly while working what, when commute time is added, amounts to a ten-hour day.
I took a few deep breaths.
Then I called the Sheriff's Department. I picked the "Evictions" option, and after letting the phone ring one hundred times, I hung up. Next I tried the "Operator" option. After eighty rings, I was fairly sure that everyone there had been overcome by poison gas and were sitting at their desks, slowly decomposing.
Next I randomly picked a department; miracle of miracles, a HUMAN answered. "I really don't NEED this department," I told her. "I need Evictions, but I can't get them to answer the phone for love nor money, and I have a really general question but it's REALLY important," I said.
"Let me transfer you," she said.
After three rings: success. I asked what the real situation was, and finally got a little good news: Apparently the Countrywide Bastard People Co. cannot even FILE for an eviction til thirty days after that order--so, October 18th--and from then, it takes between one and eight weeks for the actual eviction to take place. The odds are in my favor, at least.
She also told me I could go downtown and talk to a judge, who might be able to give me a little wiggle room. So the proverbial wolf, although he is quite near the door, is not quite breathing through the peephole just YET. Small favors, and all that.
The last thing I did was to call my old landlord, to see if he had any studio or one-bedroom places available. And so Wednesday morning before work, I'm going to go look at a studio in my old building--$535 a month, all utilities included.
As for Tim and Squeaky--I told them the whole story later, since they didn't roll out of bed til nearly 3-- and if that's not a wake-up call, nothing ever will be. But right now, I can't worry about them--thanks to Countrywide, I now have QUITE enough to worry about on my OWN account.
I got a letter a few days back, in legalese, telling me basically what I already knew: my house was sold. The letter said that there had been a motion made to take possession of the building (okay, fine) and it contained the following phrase:
"The Sheriff cannot evict until 30 days after the entry of this order."
The order was dated Sept. 18th. I had been told on several occasions that it takes approximately forever to evict someone; when Tim was evicted, it didn't actually happen til nearly 6 weeks after the date he was originally given. So figure, October 18, plus an unknown period of time. Not un-doable, but I was hoping to leave at the end of the month--and that's saying nothing for Tim and Squeaky, who don't have JOBS yet, let alone a place to go. For them, I was thinking December 1st would be more reasonable.
So I called the lawyers. "Well, we don't handle the evictions," they said. "You'll have to call Countrywide." (They're the original lender; they apparently got the building back in the sale. Dunno how that works, but after today I can only tell them Good luck to you, bastard people.)
I called Countrywide. The first department gave me the number of a second department. The second department advised me to call the REO department, who in turn advised me to call the Foreclosure department, which turned out to be the department I'd spoken to first. Needless to say, this did not improve my attitude at all. But finally I got a person. I explained the situation to her. "Well, how long would you need?" she asked. I told her "I'd prefer December 1st, but I'll settle for November 1st."
She went away to consult with someone. Ten minutes later, she returned.
"They said you need to move out. Today."
I informed her that no, that was NOT the case; I had before me a letter saying clearly that I had 30 days.
"Well, you need to move out by October 18th, then," she countered. "They're not going to extend it."
I explained to her the history, as follows:
I was out of work for ten months.
When I lost my job I told them "I need to make arrangements."
I was told "We can't make arrangements unless you have a job."
I told them "If I had a job, I wouldn't need arrangements."
When I finally GOT a job, I called and said "Okay, I've got a job; I'm ready to make those arrangements."
They said "We can't make arrangements unless you have $10,000 to get caught up."
I told them "If I had $10,000, I wouldn't BE in foreclosure."
So finally (I said) the house was sold, and now I'm asking for thirteen stinking days, and you can't give me THAT? And this from a company whose name has been all over the news as one of the WORST offenders in the subprime mortgage crisis--from the SAME company who encouraged me to exaggerate my income so that the loan would go through--and this SAME company now can't even work with me so that I have the time to find a place to stay now that they've got their building back and have the power to put me on the street?
Needless to say (I told her) I will not be speaking positively of Countrywide in the future. In fact, I will make it my business to tell everyone I know, and possibly total strangers in the street, about my experience with your company, and its total lack of empathy or corporate accountability.
"Have a good day, ma'am," she said.
At this point, aside from being wrathfully pissed, I was also having a minor freakout. Seventeen days is not a long time to find a place to live, to pack all your worldly belongings, and to find a moving company--particularly while working what, when commute time is added, amounts to a ten-hour day.
I took a few deep breaths.
Then I called the Sheriff's Department. I picked the "Evictions" option, and after letting the phone ring one hundred times, I hung up. Next I tried the "Operator" option. After eighty rings, I was fairly sure that everyone there had been overcome by poison gas and were sitting at their desks, slowly decomposing.
Next I randomly picked a department; miracle of miracles, a HUMAN answered. "I really don't NEED this department," I told her. "I need Evictions, but I can't get them to answer the phone for love nor money, and I have a really general question but it's REALLY important," I said.
"Let me transfer you," she said.
After three rings: success. I asked what the real situation was, and finally got a little good news: Apparently the Countrywide Bastard People Co. cannot even FILE for an eviction til thirty days after that order--so, October 18th--and from then, it takes between one and eight weeks for the actual eviction to take place. The odds are in my favor, at least.
She also told me I could go downtown and talk to a judge, who might be able to give me a little wiggle room. So the proverbial wolf, although he is quite near the door, is not quite breathing through the peephole just YET. Small favors, and all that.
The last thing I did was to call my old landlord, to see if he had any studio or one-bedroom places available. And so Wednesday morning before work, I'm going to go look at a studio in my old building--$535 a month, all utilities included.
As for Tim and Squeaky--I told them the whole story later, since they didn't roll out of bed til nearly 3-- and if that's not a wake-up call, nothing ever will be. But right now, I can't worry about them--thanks to Countrywide, I now have QUITE enough to worry about on my OWN account.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)