So I promised in another entry that I would tell the story of my mortgage and Mar-see-a, my nemesis.
So we applied for our mortgage on January 2nd, 2002. The second day of the new year. How young we were. How naive. Our mortgage is through a New York state program that allows for low down payments and really low interest rates (basically the state equivalent of an FHA loan), and as such has strict income and other requirements. However, we never would have been able to afford the house we got without that interest rate. And my awesome mortgage lady, Mary Lou, assured me that we would qualify, and that she never had mortgages turned down, but that it sometimes takes a little longer for our particular type of mortgage to go through. Our sellers knew this too, and pushed the closing date a little further back than we originally asked to compensate for it.
Then Mary Lou went on vacation for a week. But no one hears about their mortgage approval within a week, right? So I wasn't that worried.
More time went by. Jim and I worked to get all of the supporting paperwork in, and I believe that we got everything they asked for within that week that Mary Lou was out -- notarized affadavits, copies of bank statements, all sorts of things. Finally, on February 11th (I'm referring to my planner for the actual dates), which was over a month since our application, Mary Lou told me that she had sent the paperwork to the mortgage company headquarters in Rochester for approval. There were three parts to the approval process: the mortgage company, the PMI (private mortgage insurance) company, and the state agency. Mary Lou assured us that if we got approved by the mortgage company, the other two would be a piece of cake. Ha. Ha ha. So after Mary Lou probably got sick of me calling her every day to check the status of our application, she referred me to Marcia, in the Rochester office, since she was the one working on it. Marcia, pronounced Mar-see-a.
So I called Marcia. And she told me that they needed me to fax a copy of Jim's 2001 W2, and that was the only thing holding up the approval. I had already submitted that with my original paperwork, but whatever -- maybe it got misplaced. I faxed. And waited. At some point in here, Marcia told me that she wasn't getting a response from RIT, one of my employers, from whom she needed confirmation of my employment. I called RIT and in one phone call, got a response. In fact, two different people faxed the paperwork to Marcia that day. This was my first clue that maybe Marcia wasn't really working all that hard.
About a week later, I still hadn't heard anything. I kept calling about twice a week and was always told that our application was being processed. Now we were originally supposed to close on March 15th, and we never told the mortgage company that it might get pushed later, to give ourselves a cushion. So now it's March 1st, and we still have three layers of approval to get through, including the notoriously slow state agency. So I'm freaking out a little. Plus, we needed to give notice on our apartment, but I didn't want to do that until we had at least one layer of approval, or else if everything fell through, we would be screwed. I started calling Marcia every day, sometimes twice a day, and as soon as the receptionist asked who I was, I would be sent to voice mail. And rarely, if ever, receieved a call back.
At this point, Mary Lou realizes that Marcia has her head up her ass, and asks me to fax her any information I had that could support a case to get Marcia in trouble with the boss, which I was glad to do. Mary Lou wanted to light some fires, but she needed documentation, which I was happy to provide. Now, this could have gone two ways: Marcia could have been pissed at us, and avoided my calls, or she could have tried to put a rush on things just to get us out of her hair and make her bosses happy. Of course, she did the first. At some point in this whole mess, our application made it away from the mortgage company and to the PMI company, the next layer.
So now my realtor calls me, and she's all fired up because as far as the mortgage people know, we are supposed to close in a week, and yet we are still waiting for approval. And the sellers' realtor was calling every day and complaining, with good reason. She didn't want the sale to fall through. I didn't want the sale to fall through. No one wanted the sale to fall through! Except maybe fucking Marcia.
So then, to cover her own ass probably, Marcia starts pretending like we haven't submitted enough documentation. She needs our insurance affadavit, which I have already submitted. Other bullshit like that. At least at this point, a few weeks before closing, she was returning my calls, but she was very bitchy to me, like it's my fault that she sucks. I was nothing but pleasant to her. I even apologized to Mary Lou for being such a problem client, and thanked her for her work, and Mary Lou told me that I was so much nicer -- usually people just get on the phone and start screaming. I promised to do that if that's what it would take.
We're supposed to close on March 28th. We are still waiting for that final level of approval. On March 18th, Marcia told me that she needed a copy of my graduate school diploma. What the fuck? How does that prove anything about my employment or credit history? At this point, I suspect that she's just making shit up to piss me off. But I fax it. Oh, and she also needs me to get a notarized affadavit saying that I won't use our new home as a business. I took this to mean that I couldn't have an office there with clients coming in and out, which I wouldn't anyway. So I type up an affadavit. While looking for something to kind of copy for the language, I discover that we have already signed such an affadavit -- with our original application! But, at this point, I was willing to jump through flaming hoops.
March 20th. We are supposed to close in a week. I get a call from Marcia, saying that the state agency is balking because I have taken a home office deduction on my income taxes for the past two years, since I do freelance writing. And to them, that violates the regulation that I can't use my new home for business use. So the whole thing might fall through. But Marcia would call me back and let me know within a few hours.
People, I nearly threw up. A week before closing. Almost three months since we submitted our application. And NOW they figure out that I work from home? In all those layers upon layers, no one figured it out. I called Mary Lou, since she was good at calming me down, and she said that the state had never done this before (which was probably a lie, but it made me feel better), and she was sure that it would be fine. Mostly because we didn't need the income I get from freelancing to qualify for the mortgage. At that point, I did something I haven't done in about twenty years. I dropped to my knees and prayed. I just keep saying Hail Marys, because if I tried to do anything else, I was afraid that I might flip out. I really wanted that house.
Finally. FINALLY. The phone rang. And, as you probably know, Marcia told me that we were approved for our mortgage. Done deal. Schedule the closing. Godspeed. So I can't take the home office deduction on my taxes anymore, but being able to deduct mortgage interest should make up the difference, if my calculations are correct. Plus my freelance income is a smaller percentage of my overall income now that I'm teaching three classes. So I'm not that worried about it's impact on my tax bill. And I didn't care. We got the house!
So, we moved into our house, on my mom's birthday. March 29th. Do you think I thought to wish my mom a happy birthday, even though she risked life and limb to help us move? No, I did not. I am officially the worst daughter ever.
So here's how it went, according to my memory. We closed on March 28th. As I recall, we had our final walk-though, which was pretty uneventful, and then we had our closing, also uneventful. After all of the hullaballoo we went through to get the mortgage (and remind me to tell you about Marcia, pronounced Mar-see-a, and also pronounced shit-head), I was pretty happy for the lack of events. We signed and signed and signed and then we were homeowners.
So then we started moving stuff from our old, crappy apartment that I do not miss one bit. Not a lick. Not even for one minute do I miss that place. Wait, let me think...nope. Don't miss it. Anyway, we moved as much as we could in our two cars. We made numerous trips back and forth, just loading stuff in. That night we slept in our apartment for the last time. And I wasn't sad at all. Did I mention I don't miss that place at all?
The next morning, we got up bright and early and went to pick up our U-Haul. Jim and I had tried to prepare as best we could for moving. We had moved just about everything we could ourselves and all we had left in our apartment were the big things (like furniture) and cleaning supplies. And then the eight million little knick-knacks that you somehow forget to pack and are tempted to just throw away, and yet you don't, and we still haven't unpacked that stuff. Anyway.
My mom and dad were kind enough to drive out to help us move. Thank God. We moved on a Friday, so all of the usual suspects (Jim's brother, my brother, Terry) who could have helped out with the heavy lifting were working. But my blessed retired parents could help. So Jim and my dad started loading up the truck while my mom and I cleaned and moved smaller things. Not to be all women-folk about it, but Jim and my dad are both way stronger than me. It's just a matter of muscle mass. Plus, I'm lazy. Anyway, my dad was all Mr. Spatial Relations and trying to pack the truck as tightly as possible. My mom was walking around behind me, recleaning everything that I had just cleaned. I think she didn't believe me that there was some force in that apartment that just never let it get clean. After she mopped the kitchen floor for like the fifth time, I think she figured it out. After a few hours, we had the truck, my parents' van, my car and Jim's car all packed full of belongings and cats and people, and we took off. Thank God we were only moving a few miles away!
We arrived at our new home, and I gave my parents the grand tour. It seemed so big with no furniture in it. God bless the previous owners -- they left it spotless. It really was move-in condition. I mean, that was part of our purchase agreement, but they could have done a half-ass job and at that point, were we really going to refuse to move in? So we moved and moved and moved. Jim and my dad had a fine time trying to get the mattress and other items up the stairs. Our stairs double back 180 degrees and the landing is very small. It makes getting items up there quite challenging, but they managed. It was a beautiful day -- not too hot and not too cold.
After we got somewhat settled in, my dad took a break and my mom and I went to the grocery store to pick up some necessities like paper plates and soda. Jim and his dad went to return the U-Haul. When we returned, the former owners were there -- they had forgotten their garbage cans. So the woman told me all about the various bird feeders they had and what kind of birds they attracted. Little did I know I would soon become obsessed with birds! But that's a story for another time.
Jim's mom and dad brought over fish fries for everyone, and we all had a nice dinner in our new house! I think that was my favorite part of the day. Before too long, my parents had to hit the road, and so did Jim's parents. We were all pretty exhausted, but I was also really happy. I love my house! Sure, there are a lot of cosmetic improvements that I want to make, but it's so great to live in a house, with a yard.