Helping J-Fed get into a new house was no small feat. You see, the king baby still believes that when he says "jump," the rest of the world should say "how high?" Apparently, that includes accountants, bookkeepers, loan processors and real estate agents. It was almost like he believed they were all part of his staff, only they weren't.
That’s right, J-Fed. They ain’t on your payroll so prepare to play the waiting game.
I can't count the number of times J-Fed would call me seething. It was always something.
The agent didn't call him right back. The loan guy hadn't gotten the numbers.
The inspector hadn't shown up. Of course, I had to tread lightly. Initially, I would
shove it up his ass and explain to him that believe it or not the world didn't revolve
around him. And yes, there were actually other people out there buying a house besides himself.
He'd usually get pissed and respond, "I don't know why the hell I call you."
Then he would promptly slam the phone down in my ear, but only after threatening to call
the whole thing off if progress wasn't made within 24 hours. I felt like somebody
facing a kidnapping deadline, except the only thing being held hostage was my freaking
soul. Honestly, I shouldn't have cared that much, but I really wanted the kids in
a better environment and much closer to me. I knew it would help me sleep better at night.
For almost four months, I went through this fire drill on a weekly, make that daily, basis.
Being his own worst enemy, it occurred to me that J-Fed could very well screw this sweet
deal up by simply running his fat trap. With that in mind, I took precautions. In other words,
I stepped in as the middle man and cut him out of the loop. Instead of having him deal with
the loan officer, the real estate agent and any other parties involved, I did the
dirty work. And I was fine with that.
And then the day arrived. Closing time, and not the kind that bar-hopping bastard was used to. I was so happy I wanted to cry. My hard work had come to fruition. It was a done deal. All pencilhead had to do was go to the closing, put pen to the papers and keep his moneymaker shut. Could he do it? I had my doubts.
But he did it. Yes, there was a God and he was looking at for all creatures great (me) and small (J-Fed).
Of course, this entire process reaffirmed my belief that you can bring a jackass, er horse, to water, but you can't make it drink.
J-Fed was well aware that the purchase of his new home entitled him to a tax break. And when it comes to money in his pocket, J-Fed is on the case like a fly on shit. In what I hoped would be his last request, J-Fed asked me to contact the accountant we use and ask him what he needed to do to get the credit. Simple enough. The accountant just needed a copy of the HUD statement. Shit, I thought to myself, it doesn't get any easier than that. Well, apparently, it does.
Thirty minutes later, J-Fed called me in a tizzy.
"This is bullshit. I can't fax the HUD statement. It's too long," he yelled.
"Okay, so go buy some legal paper, copy the HUD and drop it in the mail," I said rationally.
"No, I don't have time for that," he sulked.
"Then drop by Kinko’s and pay them to fax it," I offered another solution.
"Kiki, I don't have time for this shit. It's ridiculous. I'm just going to mail the HUD statement from the closing papers to him. Screw it," he pouted.
"Um, J-FED. You can't mail the ORIGINAL! Are you out of your mind?" I said incredulously.
"Why can't I? What do I need it for?" he asked.
"Oh, I don't know. How about to turn on your water for starters? You don't ever send an original. Come on. Common sense J-Fed," I said, shaking my head.
"Whatever, I'll figure it out myself." With that, he hung up on me.
It wasn't long before he called back and informed me that he got the job done all on his own. Well, wonders never cease. I put away the roll of toilet paper figuring that king baby wasn't going to need me to wipe his ass after all. The happy homeowner was a big boy now... at least until the next thing that needed to be done.