My Banker Sucks

I hate my banker.  Is that okay to say in a public forum?

When I first bought my house back in 2005, I was a newbie to the whole home ownership thing.  Like a lot of other freshly divorced females, I had no idea what my buying power was and thus, when I applied for and received some creative financing for my home, I signed the papers without a second thought.  I was dumb and as I've come to find out, not nearly as desperate as I thought I was.

The loan was structured so that the first mortgage was for 85% of the value of the home and the second mortgage was for 15% to avoid paying PMI, as advised by my intrepid banker.  The first two years, I paid interest only on the first mortgage, as was the rage at the time.  We were all pretty excited about housing values and annual appreciation.  Well, you know how that turned out.

After the first three years, the first mortgage converted into an ARM with a cap increase/decrease of no more than 2%.  That's actually worked in my favour the last couple of years as interest rates have remained very low.  The second mortgage was a renewable, 2 year balloon note amortized over 12 years.  My latest maturity date on that one is October 10th.  I've been working with the banker to get that note renewed and I cannot believe the information that he wants from me for a relatively small amount of money.  I've sent tax returns, W2's to verify income, an application, etc and now he wants the tax returns from my company, as well.  I've sort of had it with him.

To date and encompassing the last seven years since buying the house, he has collected nearly $100,000 IN INTEREST from me.  That figure just slays me.

I've never missed or been late on a payment.  I make one extra principle payment every year and extra payments on the second mortgage every month.  My credit report is exemplary.  I just don't understand why the process is so laborious.

On the second mortgage, I have allowed them to charge me too much interest because of the hassle and costs involved in finding another lender who will accept a 2nd mortgage application in the current economic climate.  Lazy and complacent? Probably but my point is that they've had all of my business plus loans for cars and motorcycles that were paid off early and still, this guy is giving me grief, which leads me to believe that at the end of the day, he will present me with paperwork with yet another outrageous interest rate citing this circumstance or that circumstance.  I understand profit.  I think profit is good and necessary.  I don't begrudge anyone profit.  However, there is a difference between profit and greed and considering the fact that this bank just happened to be one of those institutions that accepted government bail out funds, their greed is especially repugnant to me. 

Because of our situation, the home is classified an investment income and thus, can only be considered for a total mortgage of 75% loan to value of the home.  We aren't there yet but we're getting close and the second I am able to refinance, I will. 

In the meantime, I await the next email missive from my unconscionable banker and count down the days until I can take my business elsewhere.

Trippin'

This morning, I woke up with the familiar paddle soreness in my delts and lats, which made me happy, happy, happy.  Last night, after missing three trainings, I returned to the water with shiny new blade in hand and paddled 10km.  My god, how I love the sport. It is intimately intertwined with the love I feel for New Zealand. It's awesome to be home. 

My trip to the US was a good one although there were a few bumps in the road.  

I arrived in Los Angeles, checked into the hotel, had authentic Mexican food for dinner and was nearly creamed trying to cross the street.   You see, somewhere between my last trip in July and this one, my brain had firmly made the switch in traffic laws.  I looked right to see if there was a car coming, then looked left to see if I was clear in the opposite lane and then promptly stepped out into the path of an oncoming car, which happened to be barreling towards me on my left.  My brain took a nanosecond to realize that I'd made a mistake but not before another pedestrian grabbed the neck of my shirt and yanked me backwards.  I'm chalking it up to jet lag.  It scared the tar out of me.

The following morning, I flew to Arkansas and spent the next three days sweltering in inhumane temperatures.  "It's so much cooler this week than last," I was told.  Jesus.  I can't believe I lived through those summers for twelve years.  Don't even get me started on the grasshoppers which were everywhere.  These things looked like they were the product of a nuclear spill.  They were large, fleshy, things that were, surprisingly, able to hold onto the windshield wipers while I did 60 mph on the freeway.  I kept waiting for the skies to darken, the moon to turn blood red and four horsemen to appear. 

Driving proved to be slightly challenging, which is just ridiculous considering 28 years of my life were spent driving on the right hand side of the road and just 11 MONTHS have been invested motoring on the left.  However, that didn't stop me from flicking on the windshield wipers instead of the blinkers and it didn't seem to matter as I sat at a few "T" junctures and parking lots having to really think about which way to turn.  While in Los Angeles, I was terrified by the sheer number of lanes and the speeds at which people flew from their auditions to their restaurant jobs.  I barely drove the speed limit because my car in New Zealand does not have any cruise control so I've developed a pretty good feel for 100km/h (60 mph).  I'd look down at my speedometer as cars zoomed by me on both right and left to realize that I had become THAT driver...the one that people who need to BE SOMEWHERE despise.  And the biggest takeaway from the whole driving thing is that I now park like a complete asshole in both countries.  

Excellent. 

The unrivaled highlight of my trip was (*gasp*) Las Vegas.  We arrived in the morning, checked into the newly refurbed suites at the MGM Grand and hustled over to a trade show, which was much larger and much better put together than we had anticipated.  That night, we met with our customer and had dinner at Tom Colicchio's Craftsteak.  The meal was among the top five restaurant experiences I've had in my 45 years on the planet.  The waygu tartare was sublime.  The lobster bisque, one of their signature dishes, was something that I could happily consume every, single, day for the rest of my life.  The wine flowed and the conversation was easy.  After dinner, we hit the craps table, which was not an especially good decision.  At about midnight, we put our customer into a cab and then my colleague and I did the worst thing imaginable.  We went to a bar and (both of us former nicotine heads) bought cigarettes.  Not good.  We continued to drink and smoke until we realized that our flight to Los Angeles was leaving in less than five hours.  The next day was a painful mix of dehydration, sleep deprivation, blinding sun and cigarette hangover.  I spent the next two days sounding like the Marlboro Man.

All in all, the trip was a success, which is great but the best thing to come out of it was a deeper understanding of my husband and the emotional conflict he experienced living in America while his heart remained in New Zealand.  This trip, I got it, loud and clear.  While I appreciate everything that the US has to offer, I was pretty excited to return home to the shores of Aotearoa. 

Boeing or Bust

I'm leaving tomorrow for an overseas business trip and like EVERY other time I cross the Pacific, I find myself paralyzed by the number of tasks that I must accomplish before leaving.

Of course, it is vitally important that I clean every square inch of the house. Why?  I'm not sure but somewhere, there must exist a bible for good wives and mothers that ranks a spotless home as top among those identity-affirming characteristics.

Bedsheets must be changed.  This is essential because I'm not interested in arriving back in Auckland in two weeks time to be greeted by both my family and their sheets, which will have sprung forth from the bed screaming, "For Chrissakes, WASH ME!"

Speaking of laundry...

It all has to be done because the last time I went away, Dallas text asking me to send directions on how to operate the washing machine.

True story.

I love my mother in law and if I don't do the laundry, I will be able to go on Google Earth and see my husband's jeans flapping in the wind on the clothesline at her house because he still thinks it's perfectly ok to have his mum clean his clothes.

Of course, there are also all of those last minute business issues that need to be tied up before leaving.  I do have better than half a day on an airplane but I won't be working there.  I will be drinking bubbles, popping controlled medicine and (hopefully), sleeping most of the way over the Pacific.  You see, tomorrow morning, I will be out on the water with my teammates, paddling just over 25km.  This journey takes a little under three hours to accomplish.  Many, many calories will be expended.  Muscles will scream.  By the time I board the plane tomorrow night, I expect to be shattered.  I'll probably snore, which is when I am my most attractive.  Bottom line, the presentations have to be finished before I go.  

Finally, there looms the job of packing.  It takes me hours to decide what stay and what goes.  There is nothing I like less.  I am the quintessential, "what if" girl.  What if the weather in Vegas suddenly turns cold?  What if I get an opportunity to swim when there is not a single other person around?  What if I find the perfect, sleeveless, dress in Santa Monica that begs for a wrap to keep my shoulders warm? What if we get a freak snowstorm in Arkansas? So, I will find myself standing over a suitcase packed for every imaginable contingency and I will end up wearing exactly 1/16th of it.  And I will forget something essential...like a toothbrush or underpants.  Guaranteed.

In the past, when embarking upon extended trips abroad, I have prepared meals in advance and frozen them with the idea that they were to be pulled out in the morning to thaw and tossed in the oven at night.  I am so not that wife anymore.  Gratefully, she died and fucked off to Stepford although today, I have to admit that I toyed with the idea of making pie.

Why pie?

I'm not sure except that my pie is really quite good and if anything awful, tragic or otherwise newsworthy, should ever happen, it would be nice to know that my family's last memory of me included a clean house, fresh sheets and a perfectly baked pie.

I do realize how much I need therapy.