"So I was wondering, what are you doing on the fourteenth?"
"Valentines day?"
"As it were."
"You're asking me to out on Valentines day? I don't even know your last name."
"No, I'm not asking you, I'm just ascertaining your availability."
"Why?"
"Because I've already made reservations."
"Even though I haven't said yes?"
"Even before you asked me on this date. I made the reservations a month ago to alleviate the anxiety about getting into Henri at the last minute. I figured it's easier to cancel reservations than make them at the last minute."
"So you're sort of kind of asking me?"
"I just need to know whether I should rule you out altogether, asking you happens later, contingent on the success of the first two dates. You see if I just waited for things to progress naturally at an average pace of one date per week valentines day would happen shortly after the second date thus leaving us with some cheeseball restaurant or Trader Joes frozen dinners at home. Therefore every year I keep a standing reservation at a French restaurant on Valentines day on the off chance that I will find a date."
"You did this last year."
"No my boyfriend broke up with me a week before last year. I preformed dark voodoo last Valentines day with an energy worker I found in the phonebook."
"You still get a phone book?"
"Yes, you have to request them, and if you don't live in a high rise you might have to pay for it now, I don't know. Or you could use Angies List."
"Angies List rates witch doctors?"
"She was an energy worker. She promised to make his varicose veins turn purple and his psoriasis act up every time a man was attracted to him. Oh and she also promised me someone would feed him something with tree nuts going into anaphylactic shock."
"Do you think it worked?"
"Yeah, but they probably got him to the hospital in time. Voodoo is not a perfect craft."
And from hexes on exes to signing on exes:
We had finally settled on a price for the condo after a lackluster bidding war. I expected it to look like a really dramatic episode of House Hunters but really it's pretty boring and happened almost entirely by e-mail. After the paperwork was in order the seller's agent sent out a e-mail to all of us: "here's to a smooth escrow."
Shit, naturally, hit the fan immediately after he said that.
I had secured a pre-approval from a stylish young mortgage broker at Bank of America. I told her that my credit was probably still shot from when I settled out of my student loan debt.
"That is totes no problem. I went to art school too for fashion. I was like wait, how am I supposed to make money. And my ex was like get a real estate license and you can like sell houses in California but then I was like but I want to move to Chicago or New York or like the big city. So then he broke up with me and now I'm doing this stuff."
"This. Stuff. As in, mortgages."
"Def. So we'll get you a totally sexy rate cause you're cool and we have the art school thing. I can lock in a 3.5"
"What? Really? Rates are that low?"
"I know, right? Say do you know where sha or shay or something is? It's like a restaurant. I'm meeting this guy there for lunch after we wrap this shiz up."
I know what you're thinking as you read through this exchange, and I was thinking the same exact thing as I sat across from her,
"Do you have any single gay friends?"
I went home and willed my computer to produce e-mails. I had applied for over twenty jobs at this point, any of which I would have been a great fit for, some of which I was even recommended by people who worked at the company. And still, three weeks, no call. They say that a watched pot will never boil, and it would seem that a watched inbox will always be empty. The trick in the job hunting process is to not act unemployed. Wake up, shower, get dressed, drink coffee, go about your business as usual so that physically you don't feel unemployed. It's important to starve off the lethargy as long as possible. Once the laziness and gloom sets in you're on the long term unemployment track. If I've learned anything in my life bad news begets more bad news. When one thing goes wrong everything else goes with it.
This has been true every year of my life. It's always like a delicate end-game Jenga puzzle precariously hanging on. All it takes is one foolish person to come alone and pull the wrong block out and the whole thing comes toppling down. I was a juggler and I had to keep any one ball in my life from dropping; just keep throwing balls in the air, worry about catching them later. The best thing to do at the very least was keep the good news coming. The second the bad news hit, the second I dropped one ball it would all fall apart. I took a mental inventory of my life. This condo was good news. I got the old lady with her enormous furniture down to the price I wanted, I was getting a great fixed rate on my mortgage, I was going to have a view of the lake. It was clear that the condo was my only source of good news lately so I needed to keep that going.
Moving from a studio into a one bedroom feels like moving into a whole different lifestyle. When you live in a studio, no matter how cleverly you decorate, you can't have people over. You can't buy furniture. You don't need to hang art. You don't need to make your bed. Now, these are generalizations my apartment always looks Home & Garden ready. I have art up, and a sophisticated palate of cherry wood, Dior gray and Scarlet accents. Instead of flowers I put sharpies and pens in vases. I hate plants. I think they look sad and unnatural indoors. Plants outside, great go for it, but plants inside, ew creepy go away. So maybe I'm Home & Garden minus the garden. But the fact of the matter was I was moving out of one lifestyle and into another. I am living in the ultimate single person's apartment. Walk in closet, plenty of kitchen cabinets for storing extra clothes that don't fit in the enormous closet. A coat closet big enough for two, or one with a lot of coats. 800 sq. feet of space for kitty to run around and cough up hairballs in. Across the street from Nordstrom and next door to a steakhouse. I was living the glorious frivolous and fiscally irresponsible life of a single 20-something in downtown Chicago. Make money in the summers, spend the winter months in whiskey bars.
It was fun while it lasted but it was time to grow up, buy some furniture and learn how to make a place setting at the dinner table. I went into the modernist's crack den, Room & Board, to get my fix of mid-century-esque designs. Some people like to dabble in modern. I prefer to bathe in it. I want an IV drip of 50s design. It's something about coming of age in Chicago, it's such a different design style here than on the east coast. There it's French, English, opulence, old money kitchy kitchy ya ya, Ralph Lauren tufted lounge chairs. In Chicago it's a less is more modern scandinavian architectural sensibility, unless you're the old lady living in the condo I'm buying-- this woman climbed every beanstalk in the kingdom looking for giant furniture. I am reminded of last season on Downton Abbey where Lady Mary was talking about the differences in how people furnish their mansions-- your people buy furniture and art, my people inherit it, and this old lady carved hers out of boulders.
That is what we call an enormous bed.
When my mother shops for furniture she hits the massive warehouse places, antique stores, and probably pulls it all together with some filler furniture from restoration hardware. I, on the other hand, was designing the quintessential upwardly mobile yuppie Chicagoan apartment: 40% Room & Board, 40% vintage, and 20% Ikea. With coaching--and shameless use of discounts--from my designer friends I had settled on a very cozy warm masculine palate or blacks, browns and natural wood. I picked out some lavishly priced gallons of paint from Farrow & Ball, maxed out a credit card on a leather sofa, and dipped into my savings for what seemed like a vital piece of furniture: a cowhide ottoman. Luckily, I had some money tucked away in a CD that was about to mature. I had already switched the money over to my savings account. My broker called me while I was pillaging the floor samples at Crate & Barrel. I plopped down in an armchair.
"My mortgage banker? I don't know I gave her all of the information, I would assume things are moving along," I said. I turned over the tag on the chair and grimaced at the price. I turned it over quickly to try and erase that number from my brain. I used to sell high end furniture and I always manage to get sticker shock.
"So you began the application process? You were approved?"
"I don't know. Yes?"
"Did she schedule an appraisal?"
"A Praise-all?"
"It's when someone from the bank tells you what something is worth."
"I know what that word means. Why do I need them to tell me what it's worth, the finishings alone put that way over the comp prices. Just that kitchen had to cost twenty thousand."
"Yes but if the appraiser says the unit is not worth the purchase price they won't give you a loan. She didn't explain this to you."
"She's not the brightest lightbulb." In fact, she was like a dimmer forever stuck on the low setting.
"I'm getting nervous, can you give her a call and make sure the application is underway."
After I hung up the phone I kicked my feet up on the matching footstool. Of course my application was underway. We were three weeks into escrow. How could it not be underway? I overheard a couple talking about their cousins sister's boyfriend or something about a loan and then she didn't pay it back and then they went to her house and it was empty,
"That bitch done flew the coop," she said. Then they walked out of my hearing range.
Maybe my fashionista had already scheduled the appraisal. But wouldn't I have to pay for that? I checked my bank account, no unusual charges, except all of my recent furniture purchases. And somehow...I had a negative number in my savings account. I didn't even think that was possible. I went through my transactions and couldn't find the deposit from the CD. They never moved it over into my account. Or did they put the money in someone else's account? Where did it go? Was it just sitting on a desk somewhere in the corporate offices of Merrill Lynch?
My Bank of America branch was only a few blocks away so I figured I could just knock out both problems by heading into the branch. I explained the situation to the teller and showed her a receipt that said, "FUNDS NOW AVAILABLE:..."
"Yes, that money should be available now."
"Should is correct. But it is not available."
"Let me see. Oh, it looks like it was never deposited."
"So is it still in the CD account?"
"No."
"I'm sorry, I'm a little confused. Where exactly is the money?"
"I--I--"
"You what?"
"I don't actually know. Right now it's nowhere."
The digital age was marked by some of the most incomprehensible situations. Money no longer seems like a material thing, it's just numbers floating on computer screens like the Matrix. And one little glitch and it's just gone.
"So, I'm going to go meet with my mortgage banker and you're going to fix this."
"Ok, let me just--oh, wait she moved back to California."
"She moved back to California." I thought that maybe repeating the line would help it make sense but it didn't
"Yes, she isn't working as a loan officer anymore."
"She isn't working as a loan officer anymore."
"You can meet with Darrell though, while I--you know--fix this."
"Yes, let me meet with Darrell. Who is Darrell?"
Darrell was not like my fashionista. Darrell did not think my credit was 'totes okay.' I sat in the chair staring at the desk hutch, I needed to buy a desk. I really wanted a secretary desk. But were those practical? No I should just use the desk I have now. But it's so ugly, maybe I needed a new one. At least I didn't have to worry about the CD. It was already placed into it's rightful account. They still couldn't answer the question of where exactly it was for 24 hours. My money was literally in limbo, it was just nowhere.
"Michael," he said.
"Actually I go by Zack. It's my middle name."
"Okay, Zack," he said as if allegedly that was my name, "You're not eligible for this loan."
"I'm not eligible for this loan."
"That is what I said. She messed up this pre-approval, you should have never been approved for this amount. She neglected to calculate PMI into this. And with your credit no matter how much you put down you're going to pay PMI."
"PMI. Premenstrual--"
"Private Mortgage insurance. All FHA loans have it."
"FHA. PMI. WTF. These are all new acronyms. Why were these acronyms never mentioned? And I thought I had already applied for a mortgage."
"She never started the process. I think she realized putting in all the numbers that she messed up."
"I've been in escrow for three weeks."
"You're going to need to get out. I've moved all the numbers around every way imaginable, there is no way for you to possibly finance this condo."
"So what can I do?"
"Find another condo."
"I'm sorry-- why did this happen? Can you get that woman on the phone, the one who told me that my credit was 'totes okay.'"
"What? Totes? She moved to California."
"Yes I've heard."
"We've been unable to reach her since-- she changed her number."
"Oh my god."
"Are you okay sir?"
"Oh my god."
"What is it?"
"I don't believe this."
"What?" Darrell seemed concerned. Should he call security? An exorcist? What had come over me? What did I realize? Did I leave the oven on?
"I honestly don't believe it. That bitch done flew the coop."
This has been true every year of my life. It's always like a delicate end-game Jenga puzzle precariously hanging on. All it takes is one foolish person to come alone and pull the wrong block out and the whole thing comes toppling down. I was a juggler and I had to keep any one ball in my life from dropping; just keep throwing balls in the air, worry about catching them later. The best thing to do at the very least was keep the good news coming. The second the bad news hit, the second I dropped one ball it would all fall apart. I took a mental inventory of my life. This condo was good news. I got the old lady with her enormous furniture down to the price I wanted, I was getting a great fixed rate on my mortgage, I was going to have a view of the lake. It was clear that the condo was my only source of good news lately so I needed to keep that going.
Moving from a studio into a one bedroom feels like moving into a whole different lifestyle. When you live in a studio, no matter how cleverly you decorate, you can't have people over. You can't buy furniture. You don't need to hang art. You don't need to make your bed. Now, these are generalizations my apartment always looks Home & Garden ready. I have art up, and a sophisticated palate of cherry wood, Dior gray and Scarlet accents. Instead of flowers I put sharpies and pens in vases. I hate plants. I think they look sad and unnatural indoors. Plants outside, great go for it, but plants inside, ew creepy go away. So maybe I'm Home & Garden minus the garden. But the fact of the matter was I was moving out of one lifestyle and into another. I am living in the ultimate single person's apartment. Walk in closet, plenty of kitchen cabinets for storing extra clothes that don't fit in the enormous closet. A coat closet big enough for two, or one with a lot of coats. 800 sq. feet of space for kitty to run around and cough up hairballs in. Across the street from Nordstrom and next door to a steakhouse. I was living the glorious frivolous and fiscally irresponsible life of a single 20-something in downtown Chicago. Make money in the summers, spend the winter months in whiskey bars.
It was fun while it lasted but it was time to grow up, buy some furniture and learn how to make a place setting at the dinner table. I went into the modernist's crack den, Room & Board, to get my fix of mid-century-esque designs. Some people like to dabble in modern. I prefer to bathe in it. I want an IV drip of 50s design. It's something about coming of age in Chicago, it's such a different design style here than on the east coast. There it's French, English, opulence, old money kitchy kitchy ya ya, Ralph Lauren tufted lounge chairs. In Chicago it's a less is more modern scandinavian architectural sensibility, unless you're the old lady living in the condo I'm buying-- this woman climbed every beanstalk in the kingdom looking for giant furniture. I am reminded of last season on Downton Abbey where Lady Mary was talking about the differences in how people furnish their mansions-- your people buy furniture and art, my people inherit it, and this old lady carved hers out of boulders.
When my mother shops for furniture she hits the massive warehouse places, antique stores, and probably pulls it all together with some filler furniture from restoration hardware. I, on the other hand, was designing the quintessential upwardly mobile yuppie Chicagoan apartment: 40% Room & Board, 40% vintage, and 20% Ikea. With coaching--and shameless use of discounts--from my designer friends I had settled on a very cozy warm masculine palate or blacks, browns and natural wood. I picked out some lavishly priced gallons of paint from Farrow & Ball, maxed out a credit card on a leather sofa, and dipped into my savings for what seemed like a vital piece of furniture: a cowhide ottoman. Luckily, I had some money tucked away in a CD that was about to mature. I had already switched the money over to my savings account. My broker called me while I was pillaging the floor samples at Crate & Barrel. I plopped down in an armchair.
"My mortgage banker? I don't know I gave her all of the information, I would assume things are moving along," I said. I turned over the tag on the chair and grimaced at the price. I turned it over quickly to try and erase that number from my brain. I used to sell high end furniture and I always manage to get sticker shock.
"So you began the application process? You were approved?"
"I don't know. Yes?"
"Did she schedule an appraisal?"
"A Praise-all?"
"It's when someone from the bank tells you what something is worth."
"I know what that word means. Why do I need them to tell me what it's worth, the finishings alone put that way over the comp prices. Just that kitchen had to cost twenty thousand."
"Yes but if the appraiser says the unit is not worth the purchase price they won't give you a loan. She didn't explain this to you."
"She's not the brightest lightbulb." In fact, she was like a dimmer forever stuck on the low setting.
"I'm getting nervous, can you give her a call and make sure the application is underway."
After I hung up the phone I kicked my feet up on the matching footstool. Of course my application was underway. We were three weeks into escrow. How could it not be underway? I overheard a couple talking about their cousins sister's boyfriend or something about a loan and then she didn't pay it back and then they went to her house and it was empty,
"That bitch done flew the coop," she said. Then they walked out of my hearing range.
Maybe my fashionista had already scheduled the appraisal. But wouldn't I have to pay for that? I checked my bank account, no unusual charges, except all of my recent furniture purchases. And somehow...I had a negative number in my savings account. I didn't even think that was possible. I went through my transactions and couldn't find the deposit from the CD. They never moved it over into my account. Or did they put the money in someone else's account? Where did it go? Was it just sitting on a desk somewhere in the corporate offices of Merrill Lynch?
My Bank of America branch was only a few blocks away so I figured I could just knock out both problems by heading into the branch. I explained the situation to the teller and showed her a receipt that said, "FUNDS NOW AVAILABLE:..."
"Yes, that money should be available now."
"Should is correct. But it is not available."
"Let me see. Oh, it looks like it was never deposited."
"So is it still in the CD account?"
"No."
"I'm sorry, I'm a little confused. Where exactly is the money?"
"I--I--"
"You what?"
"I don't actually know. Right now it's nowhere."
The digital age was marked by some of the most incomprehensible situations. Money no longer seems like a material thing, it's just numbers floating on computer screens like the Matrix. And one little glitch and it's just gone.
"So, I'm going to go meet with my mortgage banker and you're going to fix this."
"Ok, let me just--oh, wait she moved back to California."
"She moved back to California." I thought that maybe repeating the line would help it make sense but it didn't
"Yes, she isn't working as a loan officer anymore."
"She isn't working as a loan officer anymore."
"You can meet with Darrell though, while I--you know--fix this."
"Yes, let me meet with Darrell. Who is Darrell?"
Darrell was not like my fashionista. Darrell did not think my credit was 'totes okay.' I sat in the chair staring at the desk hutch, I needed to buy a desk. I really wanted a secretary desk. But were those practical? No I should just use the desk I have now. But it's so ugly, maybe I needed a new one. At least I didn't have to worry about the CD. It was already placed into it's rightful account. They still couldn't answer the question of where exactly it was for 24 hours. My money was literally in limbo, it was just nowhere.
"Michael," he said.
"Actually I go by Zack. It's my middle name."
"Okay, Zack," he said as if allegedly that was my name, "You're not eligible for this loan."
"I'm not eligible for this loan."
"That is what I said. She messed up this pre-approval, you should have never been approved for this amount. She neglected to calculate PMI into this. And with your credit no matter how much you put down you're going to pay PMI."
"PMI. Premenstrual--"
"Private Mortgage insurance. All FHA loans have it."
"FHA. PMI. WTF. These are all new acronyms. Why were these acronyms never mentioned? And I thought I had already applied for a mortgage."
"She never started the process. I think she realized putting in all the numbers that she messed up."
"I've been in escrow for three weeks."
"You're going to need to get out. I've moved all the numbers around every way imaginable, there is no way for you to possibly finance this condo."
"So what can I do?"
"Find another condo."
"I'm sorry-- why did this happen? Can you get that woman on the phone, the one who told me that my credit was 'totes okay.'"
"What? Totes? She moved to California."
"Yes I've heard."
"We've been unable to reach her since-- she changed her number."
"Oh my god."
"Are you okay sir?"
"Oh my god."
"What is it?"
"I don't believe this."
"What?" Darrell seemed concerned. Should he call security? An exorcist? What had come over me? What did I realize? Did I leave the oven on?
"I honestly don't believe it. That bitch done flew the coop."
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