I learned a very important lesson today: I don’t play well with others. Apparently, what sex you are is irrelevant also; I disqualify people equally. I’m an only child, I don’t share, I don’t like you – get the hell out of my sandbox!
It’s Friday and I’m feeling pretty good about things on the whole. I have a little bit of money in my account, gas in my tank and food in my refrigerator. I am looking pretty svelte in a little blue number and some Italian heels; haven’t tripped once and it’s nearly 1pm. Life doesn’t suck. I’m still getting zero love on Twitter, but I’m not political, I’m not a feminist and my profile photo doesn’t show tits; so Zuckerberg is stuck with me. Think it would be creepy if I sent him a teddy bear for Christmas and a sweatshirt with our photos on it? I post more in one day than most families do in a month. Too bad there isn’t some type of reward system other than that surge in endorphins when someone I barely know hits that little ‘like’ button. Sploosh! If there was a reward system in place, I’d have enough points amassed to trade in for a Japanese knife set or a Vitamix blender. You hear that Zuckerberg?!?! I want my rewards points!!!
Around 12:45pm I get the phone call that would end all of my merriment and Friday musings from a woman I am certain hasn’t had sex since the Clinton administration. Now let’s be cool and change her name to protect her identity, and call her Anna from Oceanside [actual name]. Anna [actual name in case you missed it the first time] calls in to our office and wants to speak to the appraiser who worked on her file. There’s a shit ton of bureaucratic red tape around why we aren’t allowed to speak directly to the clients; proper channels and all that jargon. ‘All requests for revisions and reconsiderations of value must be submitted in writing’…yada..yada..yada. All that shit has to go to the Lender, and then that shit comes down the pipe to us. There is a trickle down. It trickles down - right onto our heads. Follow me? Cool. Anna was not cool. Here’s how this shit went down.
Anna starts getting heated when I tell her that any requests for revisions will absolutely be addressed but need to go through her loan officer. She starts yelling at me (YELLING) that her loan officer has done his job and documented all of my appraisers mistakes and it’s my turn to start fixing things because this affects her financial future. First off: Good for you for getting yourself a loan officer that does his job. Hate to break it you sister, but if he was doing his job, that reconsideration of value you’re talking about would be something that I’m having someone work on and not just something your crabby ass is bitching about. Second: Oh, I’m sorry your financial future is uncertain. JOIN THE REST OF US AND QUIT BLAMING OTHERS. Put your big girl panties on [or maybe they already are, maybe that’s the problem] and start acting like an adult. Yelling at me will get you nowhere real fucking fast. If I’m the front lines, it would behoove you to stop being a cunt, right?
I’m really good at staying calm so instead of saying “Hey Anna, take the dick out of your ear for a second and listen to me, honey. You’re being a condescending snatch and it’s not helping. I understand you’re upset and I want to help you – really, I do. In spite of you talking down to me and generally walking all over me, I’d like to help you, but first you have to shut the fuck up and let me talk.” I think I said something more along the lines of “I understand you’re upset, but I’m not sure how else I can help you. My hands are tied in situations such as these” If I were to loosely translate this in office speak it would sound like this: “For fuck sake, what do I have to do to get you off the phone?” My resolve is diminishing. Mayday!! Mayday!! I put Anna [still that hoes name] on hold while she was still talking/yelling; finally telling the appraiser he needs to handle this. I don’t get hazard pay and I am not going to jail. I have this woman’s address in front of me. Don’t underestimate me.
Here’s where it gets fucked up – as if it weren’t already. This woman who has been yelling at me for the last 3 minutes and trying [like, really trying] to make me feel ignorant and unimportant [nice try hoe bag, I do that well enough on my own] is now able to speak to the appraiser and once she is on the phone with him; her demeanor completely changes. HOLD THE FUCK UP! No way lady! You do NOT get to change tunes and start singing sweet, sweet songs because Mike has a penis. Do you think you owe him some debt of respect? Do you think that he is in a position that commands more respect, more dignity? Mike doesn’t change the toilet paper roll, has NEVER fixed ANY of our office equipment, wouldn’t know a PDF, TXT or XML file if it slapped him and you are going to roll over and show him your belly? Fuck you! I don’t need to go stomping through the weeds in the Summer time burning our bras together, but I do expect a little bit more camaraderie amongst women. Sociocultural bomb dropping. Bullshit is what it was. I might as well have been mopping the floor at McDonalds.
The absolute best part and finale to this rant: She’s talking to Mike about what her issues are with the report he submitted and she flat out tells him that she submitted all of her concerns to her loan officer and her lender as well. The lender seems to be in agreement with Mikes report. We’re supposed to change the data and the comparable home prices in her area though because the value isn’t what she wanted to see and her financial is uncertain? Hey Anna, if everyone thinks the report is ok except for you…maybe it’s ok…maybe you have the problem. Might wanna see someone about your issues. You need some referrals? Give me another call, I fucking dare you!