Tuesday, October 5, 2010

...and Your Mattress Is Better than Your Bank

I was told this morning that another friend is losing her house to foreclosure.  The auction is next week.

What would happen if the banks changed their policies and said yes to every short sale offer that was within $10,000 of the asking price?  I know, I know.  Everyone would offer $10,000 less, but SO WHAT?  Didn't they get bailed out? 

Of course, I take this personally - I lost my house last year.  Not an easy sentence to write for me.  Pride is a Clyburn trait, which is funny considering...well, never mind that.  We're also stubborn, so it took me a long time to just give up on keeping the money pit. Every repair was twice the mortgage payment.  Duct tape held that place together like bumper stickers keep the miracle van in one piece.  We got two offers that were turned down by the bank.  After the foreclosure, they sold it for $7500 less than the highest offer...

I get it. I do.  They make money.  Got it.  Fuckers.

I bought Pooka three goldfish last night and ended up talking with the petstore worker about the state of the union.  It was like he was a bartender, standing on the other side of that aquarium, listening to me talk about my week.  Then he started talking.  He was articulate, well-read, and wearing a Petco apron.  I shook his hand, and he walked us to the cash register to collect our 28 cents. 

We talked more about the legacy we're leaving our kids - how we're trying to make sure they end up closer to that 1% than to the place we're at today - what I call "upper lower-class."  The conversation was brief, but it reassured me that I'm in good company.

Why is it that the smartest people are doling out goldfish for a living?

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