Right now, it's been a little over 24 hours since I officially become the sole owner of the house that my ex-fiancé and I bought together in February 2010. I don't think I'm used to the thought yet that it's me, only me, on the title and mortgage for my (my!) house, making it mine, all mine.
I was never good at sharing when I was a kid.
Anyway, the refinance process was fucking ridiculous. The first 2.5 years after P. left, I couldn't find anyone who could give me a loan -- I went to three different banks and a credit union. One of them actually told me that lending to a single woman makes banks "nervous," which I later learned is a totally illegal practice.
I then found a mortgage company in February that would take on my case. I was so relieved and excited that I actually texted P., even though we don't really talk, to tell him I was finally going to be able to refinance. Things moved very quickly after that -- I got pre-approved, an appraiser was sent over to the house, I generated copies of every document that I've touched since birth, etc. I was getting five emails a day from the loan originator about a missing page 7, things I need to sign and send back, and what the appraiser will be looking for; by the end of the day, I usually never wanted to see or hear from my loan originator ever again, but I knew that this would all be worth it.
When I got the appraisal, I was told that this:
Two months later. A week before I was supposed to close... I get an email from my loan originator, asking for more documents, plus, "Is construction done on that bedroom? We can't close on the refinance without that bedroom being done."
Um, WHAT? All I was supposed to do is get all the materials, but apparently not. And could no one have fucking told me??
David and I tried to get the room done, at a feverish pace, but it was still not enough. We even looked into hiring a contractor to do it, and we weren't expecting to have to pay that much because:
- All they'd have to do is hang the drywall, mud it, and tape it.
- The ceiling was already done.
- They wouldn't have to mess with the carpet.
- We had the drywall, the mud, and the drywall tape already.
- I'd already removed all the nails from the studs and scraped off excess pray foam, and David had insulated the whole room.
So David did it.
|Not completely finished, but still. Was that so fucking hard?|
So the appraiser had to come back to simply take a picture of the bedroom and leave -- a service that I later learned had cost me about $150 -- and I was go for refinance...
Except for one little thing. And by "little," I mean it threw me into an unfettered and inexplicable rage. The loan originator, who at this point must have just thought paperwork was "like, what are this?", couldn't manage to get her shit together long enough to generate an actual monetary figure that I'd be expected to bring to closing. So like, pretty much the one thing I have to bring in order to close.
Twenty minutes before closing: Picture me at the bank, phone to my ear, screaming unladylike things, sweating bullets, face red. Not much of a departure from my usual demeanor, but at the bank this time. This usually just happens at the DMV. Or the bathroom.
Anyway, so I got a cashier's check for an arbitrary amount, hoping it was enough, and got my ass downtown. I took David with me, and when I tried to tell him about the mortgage company's most recent antics, he waved me off. "If you tell me that they fucked up again, I'm gonna have to [expletive deleted] a [expletive deleted] with a [expletive deleted] until next Tuesday," he said. Yeah, what he said was hardcore, even for me.
So I sat and signed things.
My cashier's check was more than enough. And I officially closed on the house. I'm now the sole owner of the property.
It's a little bittersweet, because although this is what I wanted (and probably what P. wanted), I no longer have anything to do with my ex ever again. There's absolutely no reason for contact now. He's completely out of my life -- nothing to talk to him about, no way I'd see him -- forever. I haven't been in a state of "not 'knowing' P." in ten years. I can't say I'm incredibly happy about that, but I'm going to have to get used to it.
In the meantime, I feel like I'm in a courtship with this house, where I'm getting to know it again, as a different person. For the first time in three years, I can let myself get emotionally invested with home projects, and I can put in more sweat and blood (literally... there's thistle in the backyard). Before this, I felt like I was in limbo -- I was afraid to make any improvements or adjustments, because it didn't exactly feel like it was "my" house. Now it is.
|For example, I actually exhaust myself with yardwork now.|
Of course, the problems with my mortgage company have not stopped, despite all of this and everything they've put me through. I got some emails from the loan originator, saying she needed more documents. AND NOW, I'm having problems creating an account online in order to pay my own mortgage (due August 1... is now August 4), because it isn't "recognizing" who I am. I tried the phone service, and the automated voices didn't recognize me either; naturally, I couldn't talk to a real human. So I emailed my loan originator -- I was positive that she could help, or at least respond, because she was the queen of emails... I used to get 5-7 emails a day from her, asking about stupid things, and even got emails from her at night.
But no. I haven't heard back. what.