I have a good routine going now. Four nights at The Big Box J.O.B. and two nights at the gasbar – finances are in order, pre-paid bank accounts are being built up, my garden is “gardening”, and my book is selling.
I feel like I’m in a safe little cocoon again – much like this little guy, who is hanging out in the door jamb of the gasbar.
Please find enclosed CMHC’s Deficiency Release document in your name representing full and final satisfaction of your outstanding debt.
Please sign above your name on the attached Release document and keep the document for your file. We have advised the Sheriff’s Office and the Credit Bureaus to update their files with this information.
It took more time and money than I wanted to spend, but, now it’s finally all over with.
It was a wicked week. Ups, downs, and a few upside-downs, to boot.
On the “up” side, the Lily-Dawg has her new home. As I write this, I imagine she is either paddling in the creek or lazing on/tearing through the back field of “her” farm, located down the line toward Teeny-Tiny Town…
It’s possible, too, that she’s slobbering into the wind with her head stuck out the passenger window of her new owner’s car. The new owner, you see, prefers dogs to people, and the older dogs are spoiled right rotten. Lily, at 10, is now the second of what The Dog Lady considers to be her “older kids”. And the “older kids” get the Extra Special Treatment, which includes rides in the car. Every time The Dog Lady gets into the car.
The Dog Lady came to my work to get her. Kyla tearfully brought Lily over, introduced her to her new Mom, and ran her through her groovy-cool set of “gimme the treat” tricks. The Dog Lady was especially tickled with Lily’s high-five. And then, she promptly renamed the dog “Lillers” and removed the leash, saying, “Now, let’s get rid of this nasty ol’ thing, eh?”, to which LilyLillers readily agreed, very much approving of the disgust with which The Dog Lady threw the thing into the trunk – most likely never to be retrieved again.
When she went to let her into the back seat, though, the Other Older Kid told her to piss off. LilyLillers was unperturbed, however, and simply called shotgun.
It was unbelievably excruciating to watch Ky wipe the tears away as best she could, and turn her back on the dog to walk away. LilyLillers had a hard time at first, too, trying to scramble over The Dog Lady to get out the window and back to her kid. She settled down quite happily again, though, as soon as Ky disappeared around the building. That somehow made me feel worse.
And Sheikh the cat, who went from avoiding the dog to stalking the dog… to shooing the dog away from her own water dish so he could drink first… to doing this really hilarious “duck-down walk” while following the dog around very closely, making it necessary to continuously bob his head so as not to get hit with her tail… to sleeping beside the dog… is moping around, demanding to know where his dog is…
I kind of miss her myself. All her F-ing hair is still here, however, so I expect I’ll get over that.
Meantime, I’ll just keep picturing LillersThe Lily-Dawg slobbering into the wind with her “laughy-face” on….
* * *
One of the “downs” of the past week was the mysteriousness going on at the J.O.B…. what with secret meetings, and the near-completion of several construction projects, and confusing replies to the “what’s going on?” questions… which all ended up being boiled down to most of the staff being laid off in a couple of weeks’ time, when a form of automation process kicks in… no more dancing in the parking lot. Sigh…* Those remaining will be trapped (trapped, I say!) behind glass.
No one’s saying yet, who’s staying vs. who’s going, but some have already put their notice in (thankfully for me, because the fewer there are when the axe falls, the better my chances of avoiding it, I think).
I’ve continued to apply for jobs in my New Weird Field as they come up over the last eight months, but generally don’t even get an interview. There are too many people in administration et al, who have been laid off, but at least have actual working experience, applying for the same jobs, I think. When I do land an interview, it invariably goes very well, but again…. I have no “real” experience in any of the fields I have accreditation in.
So, I’ve begun to apply for other “crap pay” jobs. And I’ll be crying on Louie’s shoulder over it all, mooching for more hours, just as soon as…
As soon as…
As soon as…
(Yeah, this is a hard one… the “upside-down” part…)
Just as soon as I go talk to the mortgage holder of the house that’s not supposed to be mine, because my “legal” papers, once translated to plain english only stipulate that The Sire agrees not to try and get money out of me for the place.
Worse, the mortgage holder is a credit union; the only type of banking institution that can legally suck my wages away whether I can afford it or not. Which I can not.
My new lawyer told me, “Now, when you go down there, and they ask you for your work number, for God’s sake don’t give it to them! Hopefully, they won’t find out where you work until you can get the place cleaned up enough to live in. It doesn’t look like you can afford both places…”
When I morosely pointed out that in a couple of weeks, I may not have a work number to not give to them, he jumped on it, very pleased, apparently.
“Good! You won’t be lying when you tell them that you’re looking for employment. With luck, they won’t foreclose before you can get things straightened out.”
I asked him if there was any way at all out of this, other than taking over the house….
“Weeeeellllll….. you could do what The Sire’s doing, and just ignore it altogether – they may not look for you if they can find him…. but when they foreclose, it will affect your credit something awful.”
“So, that’s a ‘no’, then, huh…?”
“You could claim bankruptcy…”
And that’s a ‘no’, folks. Not doing that. Nope.
And worse…. if all goes well, and I take over the payments, get caught up on the defaulted payments and overdue taxes and insurance, and then sink a shitload (more likely two shitloads. Three even.) of money into fixing the place up to sell, I can’t sell it unless The Sire signs off, or I can get a court-order.
And worser, even…. if I do all of that successfully (read: when pigs fly and other miracles), he could legally walk right back in and take the house out from under me, simply by beginning to make the payments himself, again. I don’t think he’d do that; I really don’t – but the thought that he could…
You see, the part in my “legal” papers that states that I give up all rights to the house, its contents, and any or all income or profit from its sale, is already in plain english and means sort of, almost, not-quite-exactly that. The house is “ours”. Or the house is “his”. It ain’t never “mine”, even if I get stuck paying for it. The only way around that is another court-order.
And, hopefully, that will be the silver lining I’m looking for… followed shortly thereafter by the sale of the F-ing money pit.
Now, don’t get all excited by the “Ta-DA”; I don’t have much in the way of “lawyer” news, yet. I have to admit, though, that I’m sick and tired of being pissed off, already.
And I feel guilty about dissing The Sire on my very public blog, even if he (sorta) does deserve it.
And he does deserve it. Sorta.
I wanted to not be pissed anymore, and now I’m not. I’m busy setting things straight, and that’s helped. It’s long past due.
I want to get back to my plans, and I can’t do that until this mess is fixed.
And, dammit, I want a new camera.
Don’t get me wrong – I still love Hilary Federwhore. She is the bomb. The Evil Hypnotist is a video-making addict, though, and I can never find Hilary when I really want/need her.
And if, by some miracle, I do find her, the batteries are generally dead. It’s time for Camera #2 (I’m going to leave the little HP I drowned with an extra large Tim’s® out of the count – it’s no doubt been recycled into… whatever drowned cameras get recycled into, by now), whatever its name will be .
Hil’s been good to me. That shot up at the top there is a good case in point. If you click it and then zoom the photo, the clarity is pretty damned good for what I paid for it. You can even see the aphids crawling on the fronds…
I don’t know anything about which camera has what features now that I don’t sell cameras anymore. Nor do I have time to stand in Louie’s store and play with them all.
But, guess what I found, Betches ‘n Shetbags?!
I found this place! I want you all to go and find your dream camera and report back to me. Go, go, go! Or, better yet, read the rest of the post, then go, and pick me up my fave. 😀
Okay, I’m kidding – but only a little…
I know what I want in a camera, as far as features go. And, much as I want to stay true to Canon, considering Hilary just won’t drown, no matter what I pour on her, or set her down in (even an extra large Tim’s®), scrolling and searching through the Canon website – the Canuckian version, anyway – is tedious and time-consuming.
And I don’t know if I want to starve trying to pay for an DSLR, or if I want to “settle” for another point-and-shoot, which I can at least afford, lawyer bills and all…
Best In Class (and yeah, it’s a free service) found MY new camera for me with a few clicks. And it is a Canon.
So, if my legal battle is won (errr… what I call “won” – ahem…*), I’m celebrating with a new camera. If I lose… well, I’m buying it anyway.
Well, this is a weird space I’m in… I feel like I’ve been through a cheese grater, hence the pic above, which is not a cheese grater, but it’s the closest I could come up with, without getting the camera out. Not to mention, finding a cheese grater.
The house that isn’t mine is about to go into foreclosure.
I’m working on “lawyering up”, but it’s a slow go. I’m trying to find one that deals specifically with real estate, but so far, none of those seems to be able to fit me in for months and I’m afraid to do anything without legal advice.
I don’t know yet if I can sell this house without The Sire’s cooperation or not (I’m thinking it’s “not”, though…), but that’s what I’m trying for, right now. I have two interested parties, and a lot of hope.
This would go much faster if my work schedule would cooperate. I’m back on nights again for the next few shifts, and that makes it difficult to be awake during “lawyer’s hours”. Most of my calls end with me waiting to hear back from people with answers to my questions, and there haven’t been many answers so far.
Ky’s depressed about the whole thing – won’t go to school, can’t sleep, barely eats. Not a lot of singing going on in the shower lately…
One way or another, this will all work out. I’ve got my fingers crossed that at I don’t end up bankrupt when it does.
In the movie, “Blow”, George’s dad tells him that money isn’t real. “It doesn’t matter, Georgie…”
My dad would have disagreed with that one. I sure as hell disagree with that one.
I am about to embark on a legal battle of epic proportions.
Well… Epic for me. The Sire has gone AWOL.
That still doesn’t change the house situation, though.
This should not be affecting me. I have a very legalish sheaf of very legalish-sized paper that says I don’t own that house. If he were to sell it, I could not demand a cent from the sale.
But (Ain’t there just always a “but”?!).
Six years ago, the house was supposed to be refinanced and my name removed from both deed and mortgage. It was not.
Every now and again over the years, I have “reminded” The Sire of his legal obligations. He has always promised to “get right on that”. And then did not.
There are a couple of “should haves” that I “should have” taken care of between now and then…
I should have legally forced him to refinance the place the first time he kakked on doing so.
Better yet, I should have told him to kiss my ass when he asked to keep the house, and forced a sale. I gave him my half of that house. How stupid is that?!
Life got in the way, though, and I have a tendency to take the easy way out.
But now… my name is still on that mortgage.
The mortgage rep. tells me I am legally responsible for half of the mortgage left owing, never mind my legalish sheaf of paper. Yet (and this is insane), in the same breath, the same mortgage rep. tells me I don’t have a legal right to know what’s left owing on the mortgage, because my legalish sheaf of paper gives me no rights to the house.
That particular bright bunny argument, I hope to win with the next phone call. I had that argument with them a while back and won it with a few choice words.
In truth, however, if The Sire really has walked away, the bank will come after me for the whole amount owing. They are not going to piss around going after him, if he pulls a disappearing act, when they already know where *I* am.
I will find him, though…
But this is where it really gets dicey…
I’m really worried about what all of this is doing/going to do to our daughter, which is the biggest of the reasons why I haven’t done what I should have done a long time ago.
But (Again with the “but”! Apparently, I have a but fetish.) I can’t live like this any longer. I have plans, dammit, and those plans do not include bankruptcy over a house that I no longer own, don’t want, and won’t shoulder.
I’ll be using a lot less of my little stepper machine in future, I think…
Since I bought the Prissy-Van, “Walking-About” has declined to “walking across the street”. Ky and I (who has yet again been re-named – she is “The Evil Hypnotist”, and you’re about to find out why) both worried this would happen.
And that our bums would suffer for it.
Which they have. Mine started to get flabby, so I bought one of those little stepper things that look like bike pedals. I will attest that they work wonders on flabby bums.
Ky’s bum got big. Er. BiggER. Not big (She’s bigger than me, now. She may read this. I may suffer.). Thankfully, the little stepper-thing works wonders on big. er. bums, too.
Finding time to go on Walk-About disappeared about the same time the snow flew for the first time last fall. We were going to get snowshoes, just like the last five winters, but, just like the last five winters, winter came and went, but we are still snowshoeless. The stepper made us feel a lot less guilty.
We will be walking again. And again… and again… and again… because…
We now own that dog you see up there at the top.
The Lily-Dawg was ours for her first couple of years, until we moved into a squinchy little apartment that was not dog-conducive. Ky could see Lily whenever she wanted to, though, so she didn’t really get the chance to miss “owning” a dog.
Two days ago, when she went over to visit Lily, there was no Lily there. The cat was gone, too. They both just up and ran off. Together, apparently.
Yesterday afternoon, after I worked the first of several night-shifts and just got to sleep, the phone woke me up. It was Ky’s dad, calling to tell us that he had discovered Lily’s whereabouts.
She was at the pound. Of course.
It would cost $160 to bail her out.
Plus a fine because she hadn’t got her yearly registration.
Plus a fine because she’d wandered off possibly-rabid to spread infection throughout the neighbourhood. No, Sir and Madame, telling people that “the dog is friendly” does not protect her from rabies.
I knew damned well, too, that they wouldn’t let me take that dog out of there without proof of ownership, fines paid or not, and my name is not Terry Becker, is it? No, it is not. I would have to take him with me to pick Lily up.
He couldn’t come with me when we wanted to go, and Ky was in full “THEY’RE GOING TO DESTROY MY DOG!!!” mode.
So she and I went by ourselves, hoping that her freaky ability to talk anybody into (or out of) almost anything might spring the dog. And between Ky’s freaky ability and my $160, the dog was sprung. See…? “Evil Hypnotist”.
Although the Dog-Jailers didn’t want to give up the dog to anyone other than the registered owner, my child suggested that since he hadn’t registered Lily this year, he possibly hadn’t done so ever. Could they go back to the 2001 records to find the registered owner of the imprisoned? Please…? Pretty, pretty please…? Yep, they could. Turns out…
*I* own the dog. Which means *I* own eight years of fines. So said the lady at the pound with a wicked grin, just before telling me that they don’t generally pile fines on top of each other like that. And just after that, she told me that they would waive the non-registration fine altogether and just give me a warning. And if I could find a vet willing to spay a ten-year-old dog within 30 days, she would be happy to give me back $90. Again… “Evil Hypnotist”.
I called around… I can kiss my $90 goodbye.
Ky is painfully aware that we may not be able to keep her dog. We have no room. We have travel plans. I have my Big Dream Fund to continue funding. DOG was not part of my agenda.
We’re going to give it a month and then see where we’re at. If money/space/dog-hair concerns get to be too much, Ky will attempt to find a new owner for her Beloved Lily-Dawg. One that doesn’t let her out the door for the neighbours to call the dog-catcher on to come out and “pick up a stray off my lawn”.
So it seems that my lucrative days of Ends-Meeting-and-Even-Over-Lapping will temporarily come to a halt until I find out how much this animal is going to cost me in food, shots, fees, vet visits, and allergy meds. The meds are for the allergic kid. I thought cat hair was bad. Holy shit.
Anybody out there want a dog? Please…? Pretty, pretty please…?
Busy, wow! I’m loving the night shift, but will have to re-learn “day-shift mode” for the weekends until at least after the New Year, beginning this Sunday, when I start working days for Louie. That will only be on the weekends, mind you – I’m not sure yet how I’ll deal with working 7 days a week, let alone 16 hour days, so we’re going to leave that alone.
I still haven’t managed to fit writing into the schedule… believe it or not, I’m looking at an impending move of household coming up. We have the opportunity to move up two floors in the building. We’d be giving up a sauna, but we’d be gaining walls. Ky misses walls.
We would also be gaining a bedroom each. I haven’t had a bedroom of my own since… geez,
Winter of 1993. For about 3 months. My head is full of plans on what to do with it, since I will be starting out with an empty room.
I was offered my new Landlords’ apartment a couple of week’s ago. He lives on the top two floors of the building, and plans on moving out in January. Would I like the place?
The rent is more than my finances can currently bear, however, and I regretfully decline.
He drops the rent. Hmmmmmm….. Probably not as soon as January, I sez.
He gives me the lowdown: The third floor has its own bathroom and bedroom, and a small kitchenette, he tells me. It was once a bachelor apartment, and would be perfect for the Idiot Child and the Oogily Bay Girls to hang out in. Apparently, the New Landlord is perfectly aware that my home is the Clubhouse of Oogily Bay, more often than not: the main hangout of 7 teenagers (Oogily Bay + Ray), and not only has no problem with it, but is using it to pimp out this new apartment to me.
And it’s working.
And *I* would have a bathtub again! Oh. My. God.
What will I do with four walls and a closet of my very own, though…? I’m thinking of turning Japanese as far as decor goes. Ideas?
Tattered and worn is how Ky and I both feel about now. Our move of residence is imminent. As in, Today.
I hate moving. I wanted to space it all out over a period of a couple of weeks, and the plan was working for awhile, even. The J.O.B., though, has me worn out. When I’m there, I’m thinking of all the packing still left to do, and when I’m here, I’m too overwhelmed and “procrastinatey” to get much done.
I don’t have to be completely gone from this building until the 31st, but The Fly-Girl’s wedding reception is on the 30th, which requires an overnight… and nope- can’t book the following day off for the last little pickings involved in moving house, so I’m hoping I can get it done ahead of the celebrations. And that I’m not hungover at work the day after the dog bites me.
I hate moving. I said that already, didn’t I? Well, I hate it even more now, than two paragraphs ago.
We’ve been chauffering little stuff in boxes over since the 15th, with much of it going the opposite direction to the charity drop. I’m forced to abandon items that I would have clung to fiercely a year ago, and I’m surprisingly at peace doing so. There is no room for more than is absolutely necessary, and no storage space. At. All. The place we’re moving into is even smaller than the one we’re leaving. I wouldn’t have thought that to be possible, but…
I took the place sight unseen (or is that site unseen? Whatever.), because every apartment I did look at was filthy. And expensive. And filthy. I considered buying a small house. Even looked at a couple. They were filthy, too.
And then Ruby suggested I check into an apartment above a store, right around the corner from her. She figured that even if they didn’t have anything available, they might know who owned the really well-kept up, retrofitted house next to them. Turns out “they” own both buildings, and a basement apartment would be available in the retro just in time for me.
It was small, they said. Very small. Newly renovated, though, with new fixtures, and floors, and appliances, and cupboards, and a sauna. Convincing Ky to take an unseen apartment (with a sauna) was actually a simple procedure: “Want a sauna?” “Duh! YES!!!”
I stood outside the building, not being able to see the place, yet, because of the squatter that refused to leave it, and pictured a full basement. I convinced myself that if it wasn’t bigger than the place we were leaving, it at least had to be close to the same size.
I paid a deposit. And the landlord hit me with another zinger.
We have no walls.
Hmmmm…. Okay, so it will be a Basement Loft with Sauna, then, won’t it? I signed a contract, and wrote out a bunch of post-dated checks. Accepted a key, and signed for that.
On the 15th, we went to see it.
It’s about this big.
Well, the new landlord tried to warn me, didn’t he? I’m taking it anyway, though. I can’t imagine looking at any more filthy, little expensive places…
There are all those pluses, too… I could spit and hit Ruby’s door… security parking for Prissy, behind a chain-link fence, complete with barbed-wire ruffles at the top… cheap rent, all inclusive… decent landlord…. the new everything he put in the place… Oh and did I mention
And I’ll be glad to get out of this place, finally. It’s not the same without Ruby at the helm, and about the only things I’ll miss are the considerable whack-jobs populating the block.. like Captain Underpants, who moved in across the street last winter, and introduced himself to the neighbourhood by walking around barefoot in the snow, wearing nothing but his green boxers, beer in hand, yelling “Howdy!” to everybody he saw. Every day.
Now that the snow is gone, he yells from his kitchen window. I don’t think Captain Underpants likes heat. At least I know I won’t find him in my sauna some day.
I spent years not giving a damn about money. It’s true, I did. I couldn’t care less, as long as I was “getting by”, and it never took much for me to “get by”. Still doesn’t.
The difference now, is that I look at “getting by” a little differently. I was in and out of debt, for years. I’d finally get out, and I’d be right back in up to my ears again. I was one step ahead of bankruptcy, and I called that “getting by”.
For the past year, I’ve been out of debt (well, I now have a small amount of debt again, but it’s been to move toward a dream, so I’m going to forgive myself. Ahem…*) and in control of my bills, but I’ve also been concentrating on things other than accumulating money. I’ve still not really cared about money, per se, as long as I could “get by”.
I’m changing the way I think about that, now. I want money. So that I can leverage it, and get those dreams into the here and now instead of the future.
Sounds real bright coming from The Great Unemployed One, doesn’t it? LOL! Yeah.
I had a different kind of dream last night, the kind that embeds itself in your psyche while you sleep (thank you, Patch-on-My-Arm). I dreamed I had won the lottery. Millions.
And I couldn’t decide whether to take the “pay-by-the-month” option, or take a lesser amount all in one lump sum. It was a huge problem deciding, in the middle of my dream, but when I woke up, all I could think of was, “That’s the kind of problem I’d like to have, right now.”
It got me thinking about how I’d deal with it if I did win millions, so I decided to google some answers.
I figured, since I’ve heard of bzillion-dollar lottery winners burning through their money because they don’t know what they’re doing, and it feels like they have a never-ending supply, suddenly, that it would be wise to take the “pay-me-by-the-month” option.
Turns out, the smart money is on the lump sum payout, since there’s no guarantee I’d live long enough to pull in all my installment payments. Studies tend to show, too, that the average lottery winner is more likely to blow through that money faster, rather than do the smart thing and invest or save the bulk of it. Good intentions tend to fall by the wayside without a plan.
Yeah, but what if you already won the lottery and took the monthly payout instead of the lump-sum option? Are you regretting that one? No problem! I found out that there are companies that will buy your future payments from you.
You can do the same with settlement payments if you sued and won for an injury, too. Me, I don’t intend to want money enough to stoop that low, but, then again….
The bottom line (ha ha) is, though, that I don’t know enough yet, about how to handle a large amount of money once I do have it. Yeah, yeah, I haven’t won the lottery (yet), and the chances are slim that I ever will… maybe, I’d be better off getting into real estate, and learning about mortgage notes? Hmmmmm.
I think I’ll keep dreaming for awhile, before I make any decisions. I’ve still got seven weeks worth of patches left to dream on, after all.
Yes, folks, I am in my second week of Smoke-free Success. I have traded my tar-filled lungs for wicked weird, Patch-induced sleepy-time entertainment.
So far, the dreams are the biggest pay-off, but I think the money I’m saving may hit me soon. I’ll let you know.