:: Kill 'em with kindness... or cancer ::

I've been dealing with a lot of banks, lately. Too many, in fact. 

I'm currently in the process of switching banks from Coast Capital to TD, and then a third, RBC, is handling our upcoming mortgage. So, that's three banks with the ability to piss me off at once. And as everyone knows, banks have a way of pissing people off.

Also, and perhaps this is the most important point, anybody who knows me is well aware that it does not take much to get on my last nerve (See previous post, titled 'The Complaint Department, for further proof).

Anyways, the reason I'm leaving Coast – my main bank since I was eight or nine years old – is because they kept screwing me around and giving me the round-around when I tried to get the loan for my truck a year and a half ago. But secondly – and most importantly – they really jerked us around with the mortgage we almost had with them. I may have written about this before – it's probable, actually – but here's the Cole's notes of it: 

They approved our mortgage without problems about six weeks before the closing date of the deal. Then, four days before the deal was set to close, they said, "Oh, sorry, we finally got around to actually checking out the details, and we can't do it (for one pretty lame reason, but a reason nonetheless). I was furious not because they rejected it – there's lots of banks out there, after all – but because they waited 'til the last second and left us scrambling like idiots. 

So today, as I attempt to move my accounts, I went to Coast Capital – albeit a different branch than the one I'm mad at – to get some void cheques/banking info, which are necessary to make the transfer. 

The teller asked me, out of curiosity more than anything else, why I needed the forms. I said it was because I was closing all my accounts. 

"Oh, do you mind if I ask why?" she asked.

Oh boy, this was the moment I was waiting for. The chance for me to tell the bank – loudly – just how badly they had fucked me around, and that they could all go to hell. I didn't even care that it was a different branch, I was gonna let 'er rip.

I explained my reasons (politely, I may add. I was working up to the anger). And then, the real piss-off: the overly-polite teller agreed with me. 

"I don't have much dealings with the mortgage end of things, but you're right – they should've told you way sooner than that. I don't blame you for being upset," she said.

"No! You're supposed to disagree! I need ammo here! I want a fight!!!!" my angry brain screamed.

But I got nothing but pleasantries – a "sorry to see you leave" and a "have a nice day." Talk about taking the wind from my sails.

Anyways, with that out of the way – and more bottled-up rage than ever – I focused my attention on RBC. We need to finalize the mortgage and sign papers in a week or so, and my mortgage specialist – who had already previously disappeared for three months due to some type of medical leave – was, again, nowhere to be found.

I emailed. I called and left a message on her cell. I emailed again - this time a little more tersely, explaining that I couldn't wait forever, and that her lack of a response was unnerving, to say the least. Then I called again. And then one more time for good measure.

But still nothing. To quote noted philosopher Homer Simpson: "Urge to kill rising."

Finally, exasperated, I called the branch itself and complained. The woman on the phone apologized and said she'd get right on it. She said not to worry about it – she'd do all the legwork, get me an appointment and call me back when I had one. 

Not even 10 minutes later, I had an email from the formerly MIA mortgage woman. (What a coincidence.)

Again, I was ready to be angry. I opened the email.

"Hi there, sorry for the delay in getting back to you...." it read.

Damn right you should be sorry! 

"... but I just found out that my dad has been diagnosed with a very serious form of cancer, so I had to take a few days off in the last week."

God dammit. So much for being angry. I mean, I was still within my rights to wonder where the hell she'd been, but how can you possibly stay pissed off when that's the reason given? 

Now, the worst part – aside from the fact that some poor guy out there has a serious medical issue to deal with – is that I've still got all this pent-up anger and nowhere to unleash it.

Thankfully, we've got the first two games of our fall slo-pitch season tonight. The umpire at diamond 4 is probably gonna get an earful.

:: Just business ::

There is a scene in one of my favourite movies, The Wedding Singer, in which Adam Sandler's would-be wife visits him a day after standing him up at the altar. In her explanation for her actions she says, among other reasons, something to the effect of "I just don't love you anymore." Pretty boilerplate stuff. But it's Sandler's reaction that I've always loved – an agitated calm that quickly boils over. "These are all things that could have been brought to my attention YESTERDAY!!" he yells.

I could have screamed that same line at my bank today, when they called to inform me that, after finally getting around to looking in-depth at the purchase agreement for the new rowhouse (which I had faxed over, as part of the mortgage process), they realized that they will not – cannot – give me a mortgage, no matter how sparkling our finances may be.

Apparently it just dawned on them that this rowhouse is strata-free despite having common property (not common property in the legal/real estate mumbojumbo sense, but simply that there is a shared roof and the appearance of a shared interior wall. In reality, each house has its own walls, but the exterior facade makes them appear as one).

And apparently, because of this situation, these rowhouses are too risky to give mortgages to. ("What if you need to fix the roof and your neighbour doesn't agree?" the bank lady asked, despite me explaining that the roof warranty actually outlives the mortgage ammortization.)

I tried to plead my case a little bit, but to no avail. It's just company policy, and nothing personal, I was assured. Of course, my answer was to call the situation "horseshit" and declare my intention to pull my accounts entirely. (I'm so full of tact it's frightening).

But I quickly realized why I was so angry. It wasn't just because my house was deemed to be un-mortgageable by this particular bank (after all, two other banks today are quite pleased to give me a mortgage, I discovered after some phone calls), but it was the timing of the situation that pisses me off.

The subjects are to be removed on our new purchase in five days. This is when the bank decided to drop this bombshell on us. Not six weeks ago when we originally went in to inquire about a mortgage – at which time we specifically said what we were looking at buying. And not a week ago, when I contact with the bank's mortgage person again. And not even two days ago, when I first faxed them the contract.

No, any of those days would have been superior to today, which is when they finally decided to call and say, "Sorry, I know you only have five days, but how about starting from square 1 again?

"Don't be mad, it's nothing personal."

But considering that today has been stressful solely on account of their procrastination, I don't think a little personal consideration would've been too much to ask for.

(As an aside, this is the second time I've had to use the anti-Coast Capital label in the past 10 months. I think that speaks volumes. And isn't it credit unions that tout their 'personal touches' make them better than big, faceless, corporate banks? Hmmm.....)

:: The desert calls ::

I worked a 14-hour day today, in three different cities. It started at 8 a.m. at my office, doing my usual job. Now, this wasn't too bad to begin with - minus the fact that we had to skip our usual walk to get coffee because it was too fucking cold out - but it got worse.

I won't bore you with the details, but just say this: budget cuts have made a certain part of my job a living hell. I spent three-quarters of my day today talking to colleagues on the phone about said problem, trying to find a solution, dealing with complainers, then complaining myself when no solution could be found. Good times.

In between these phone calls, I did a minimal amount of real work, and also traded phone calls back-and-forth with my bank, as I am in the process of trying to secure a car loan. This was the worst part of my day, but again I won't bore you with details. I'll just break it down quick:

- I own my own place. It is assessed at $244,000. I could sell it for 260.

- My credit is perfect. So perfect, in fact, that last Saturday a car dealership approved me for financing - for an amount far greater than I needed, as a matter of fact - in less than fifteen minutes.

- I make a good annual salary, and have a second job which in theory would cover the entire cost of a monthly car payment, were I to get one.

- I have no other real debts, except for my mortgage (which many people driving nice new cars despite modest salaries have and can easily afford) and a few hundred bucks on one credit card.

- I asked for $32,000 (Whether I need this much or not is debatable, but considering all the above points, I thought it was more than a reasonable request).

- The bank said I could only have $25,000.

- Then the following things happened: I got really mad, and yelled at the bank folks, calling their offer "insulting." Then said I was taking all my money out and going to a different bank. Then I hung up. Then they called me back four times, all of which I sent straight to voicemail. In the messages they left, they said they'd "try to work something out." Their second "offer" was pretty much the exact same thing. I called back and yelled some more.

- I still have no new truck.

I don't know what else to say about this really, except that it really, really pisses me off. When I was 20-years-old and jobless, I got a $21,000 loan from the same bank with no questions asked. Why they've now decided that a stable person with a good job and a house is not to be trusted with anything more than a $400/month loan is beyond me. But whatever.

Sorry, I know I said I wasn't going to bore you with details and then went ahead and did exactly that, but I do that sometimes... stories just get away from me.

So where was I? Oh right, my stupid long day. After bitching at the bank for another little while, eventually I had to drive downtown to cover a basketball game, which just happened to overlap with two other things I normally would have covered. I watched the game, took pictures - even got hit in the side of the face by a ball on its way out of bounds. I was sitting courtside on the floor, camera to my eye.

With four minutes left in the game, I had to race back to Langley, grab some dinner en route, and then watch the Canucks game, so I could write about it and file a story by 10:15 p.m. In between stoppages in play, and in the intermission, I worked on my basketball story, and did interviews over the phone from the dining room.

Then the game went into overtime, which meant I had even less time to file a story. I made it on time though, like I always manage to do, and now I'm sitting here, way past when I should've gone to sleep, especially because I have two more nights like this between now and Saturday.

The only thing currently bringing a smile to my face is the Bud Light Lime that is sitting in front of me, ice cold and half-full. It is the last of the Lime beers I brought back from Vegas when I was there in the fall. Somehow I made 24 of them last five months.

This particular beer is making me happy because it reminds me of sitting at the Stratosphere Las Vegas, playing Super Jackpot Party for about three hours straight, getting fucking bombed off this particular beer. Then, at about 3 a.m., I stopped by the hotel gift shop/store and bought three more for the elevator ride to my room.

I woke up hungover with one unopened beer in my bed next to me, and an empty bottle still in my hand.

And in a little over a week, I'll get the chance to do that very same thing again, only this time with the addition of four days watching spring training baseball in Arizona.

Can't come quick enough.