:: Injury, meet Insult ::

Remember this?

Of course you do - it was less than a month ago. And because it was only a week ago, it makes this story all the more hilarious.

Go read that (if you haven't already) and then come back. It's OK, I'll wait...... OK, you back now? Good. Here's the post-script to that story:

This week, my old strata council – the one that was rife with idiots, infighting, and low-income tenants – passed by majority vote to have the entire roof of the townhouse complex replaced. Yes, the very same roof that my $4,500 was being held in a contingency fund to help replace.

Since discovering that the roof needed to be replaced, the strata council had, approximately, 16 months – dating back to when I still lived there – to propose and vote on a special assessment to replace said roof.

Yes, 16 freaking months. Ten of which passed after I'd already moved out. And despite this extended period of time, when does this strata council finally get their act together enough to procure a "yes" vote?

Well, a mere 19 days after the deadline to spend my money had passed, of course.

One monthly strata meeting. Not even three weeks.

Ahh, what wonderful timing. Thanks for the cash, morons. Enjoy your new roof.

:: A long-winded post where first I get mad and then I get money ::

I thought for sure I mentioned it before on this blog, but a quick archive search turned up nothing, so lemme fill you in on something that I've probably already told everyone anyways: When I sold my townhouse last year - 11 months ago now - it sold very quickly (4 days), but there was, as there usually is, a caveat near the end.

You see, my place was 18 years old and - according to some - in need of a new roof. And as anyone who's ever lived in a strata building knows, that ain't cheap. The words "Special Assessment" are enough to make most condo/townhouse owners shit themselves. Because that usually means each owner is on the hook to write a big cheque.

Of course, at the time, this roof situation was relatively new and, I figured, months if not more than year, away. I really didn't think much of it, except to think that I was getting out at the perfect time.

Trouble was, the roof problem - and the announcement of said problem and a possible vote in the future - showed up in the strata meeting minutes. And any prospective buyer who is not mentally handicapped is, of course, gonna notice. But they made the offer, I accepted, and then handed over 2 years worth of minutes at once for them to read.

I knew it was a longshot, but I secretly hoped it would slip by them - I mean, really, one sentence in 24 months worth of meetings could sneak by ya. At first, as a day or two passed, I thought it actually had.

I was wrong, of course. The evening before subjects were to be removed - hours away, literally - they called my realtor with "concerns." They changed their offer and demanded that, though they would still pay the agreed-upon price, some of that money would be held in trust, and would be used to cover the special assessment that was surely on its way.

Now, I certainly don't begrudge them for asking for the holdback - it's common practice, and I would've done the same had I been in their shoes. (Either that, or I'd never buy the place at all, to be honest). So that wasn't what bothered me.

What bothered me were some other things. For starters, the way it was presented by their smarmy little realtor, who came into my home and gave us this "aw-shucks, they're tapped out and this is the absolute limit of their budget, they could never afford an assessment" speech. Total guilt trip.

Needless to say, I was not moved. (I'm sure you're shocked.)

If they couldn't afford it, then somebody else will, so get outta my house. I care not for sob stories.

And then, were their terms.

They wanted $8,000 in this hold-back account, and they wanted the holdback to last until the end of the calendar year, Dec. 31, 2010.

Yes, $8000.

Now, that amount was, to the penny, the exact amount that the special assessment was to be. (They called to chat with our strata prez, and this is what he told them. I called him and he said the same thing.)

So these assholes wanted me to pay every last dime of their brand new 30-year roof that they'd live under for, well, for as long as they damn well pleased.

Upon receiving this news, my realtor - a kindly, sweet, older guy who has probably never said a bad word in his life - turned to me and asked for my counter-offer.

"Tell 'em fuck you' - that's my counter offer," was my reply.

My nice, kindly realtor was taken aback, to say the least.

In the end, I lowballed 'em right back, and said they could have $1,000, and after some not-so-friendly back-and-forth, in the end we agreed on $4,500 because I just wanted it done. The end-of-year deadline also stuck.

And because that deadline was 10 months away, and I knew the roof was in need of repair, I basically kissed the money goodbye. My realtor suggested I do the same. And considering I was already making a good chunk of change on the house, I really wasn't that upset in the end.

I mean, I wasn't thrilled with how it went down - I felt like I got bent over a little bit, and didn't like the other realtor's smarmy ways, as I already mentioned, but still, it was done.

And then I moved to Cloverdale, and then finally into our new house, and had little to no contact with anyone who still lived at the old place, although the rumours trickled in. First, a few months later, my realtor called to say he'd spoken to a fellow realtor whose son lived in my old complex, and the money was gone. Assessment passed.

Then my day ran into the father of another guy who lived there - a guy I used to play ball with as a kid - and he said "Don't worry, you'll get it back. Nothing's happening."

And through it all, I just waited. Sort of hoped, but mostly didn't worry about it. The money's gone, I'd say, so stop thinking about it.

'Cept it wasn't.

First, there was a meeting that allegedly nearly ended in a fist fight, and a vote that got shot down as quick as it could be proposed.

(Funny sidenote: Apparently, the only pro-assessment person at the meeting - the only guy to really get up and give an impassioned "Let's just do it" speech, aside from council members, was the guy who bought my house. He, of course, was on the clock, although nobody else knew. He was, I was told, shouted down fast with cries of "Shutup, new guy!" which is truly fantastic.)

And then along came some more meetings, and after some research, it was decided the assessment would only be $4,500. Conveniently the exact amount they were holding back, which meant I was still out of luck.

Of course, because my old complex was run by a terribly dysfunctional strata council (complete with warring factions, and wasting time and effort on important issues like "where is the community snowshovel?") and there are a number of older, fixed-income seniors who can't afford assessments, that revised plan didn't fly either.

And then Dec. 31 came and went, and I immediately started making calls to get my money. If the other side thought I'd wait, or thought I'd forget, or thought I'd be lenient and sympathetic and making agree to some kind of revised deal, well, they were wrong.

I wanted my money, I wanted it right fucking now, and I told them as much.

Of course - of course - the other side stalled. My notary called their lawyers, they stalled. Called again. Stalled some more. But today, I called for an update.

"Your money is ready, it's at the other side's lawyers. We can courier it over and you'll have it on Friday."

Victory.

So after all that bullshit, after their douchy realtor and their ridiculous demands, after the 10-month wait, and after meetings full of fistfights and leaky roofs, I get my money.

My only regret is that I can't pick it up from them personally. I would've liked them to see the little jig I would've danced in their courtyard outside their front door.

That'll learn ya, assholes.

:: Chris on Christmas ::

"You ever filled a stocking before? It feels like I just spent about $120 on absolutely nothing. I wish I was marrying a Jew." - text message I received today from my brother.

:: 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.

:: One more long-winded, house-related thought ::

I'm sure you're all getting sick of me blogging about the house and the move, but indulge me once more, alright?

I was thinking about money this morning. (Well, actually I was day-dreaming about Las Vegas, which led to me thinking about winning a lot of money, which led me to thinking about what it would be like to live in a solid gold house and have a rocket car).

But anyways... back to real life.

I remember eight years ago when I bought my Honda Civic (now Jenna's Honda Civic) from the dealership. I got a loan from the bank for about $18,000 or so, and how it worked then was the bank actually deposited that money in my account, and then I wrote a cheque to the dealership. I was 21 years old at the time, and I remember looking at my bank account online and thinking how amazing it was that I had that much money in my savings account.

Of course, this lasted all of 48 hours or so, as the money soon changed hands. But I was a college kid with only a part-time job delivering truck parts for barely above minimum wage, so for those two days, I felt like a king. Richer than astronauts. I remember actually taking a screenshot of my bank account to prove that I actually had that much money.

What a time to be alive.

So, you can imagine my confusion last April when I bought my truck. Having not purchased a vehicle since the day I bought the Honda, I just assumed the process was the same. And though $18,000 (or in the truck's case, a little more) isn't quite the same awe-inspiring amount it was when I was 21 (but it's still a helluva lot of money, don't get my wrong), I was disappointed to learn that the money would never, not for a second, be in my bank account. The bank instead just wrote a bank draft directly to the seller.

And on a much larger scale, it's the same way with mortgages. You never actually "have" the hundreds of thousands of dollars that you spend on a house. I mean, it would be pretty foolish for the bank to cut somebody a cheque for $500,000 and say "There ya go, Champ. Go buy something nice."

But the point I'm trying to make – you knew I'd get there eventually – is that in three days, when the sale of my house is finally final, I will actually have the money in my account.

Granted, it's temporary again – I have to pony up $20,00 immediately for a deposit, and the rest gets spent on the down payment in September – but still, it's exciting for the time being.

I am not a rich man, as you are no doubt aware (I just wrote a bunch of paragraphs about buying a Honda Civic for crissakes, not a Bentley). But for approximately six months, I will have in my account a substantial amount of money. Of course, I can't do anything with this money. I can't – or should I say, shouldn't – take this money with me to Las Vegas in April and put a five-digit figure down on black. I can't buy a Porsche. I can't develop a $1,000-a-day Faberge egg habit, either.

Really, there's only two things I can do. One, I can withdraw all the money in loonies, and fill Christene's parents' basement with them and swim around Scrooge McDuck-style or I can do what I did eight years ago, and log into my online bank account every day – even when I have no reason to – and look at it. Stare at it. Marvel at it. Maybe even take a screenshot.

I'm considering both.

:: Financial responsibility ::

Pretty much my whole life, I've been very responsible with my money. Even when I worked only a day or two a week while in high school and college, I still managed to save enough cash to do all the stuff I wanted to do - which was mostly drink and buy video games. As a result of my ability to save, very rarely in my life have I not been able to do something I wanted to do because of money, or lack thereof (within reason, of course. It's not like I could ever afford to jet off to Australia for 6 months, just 'cuz).

And the last few years, responsibility has reared it's ugly head again - the first thing I did with my money was pay off student loans, my car and bought a townhouse. Cristal, hookers and blow it ain't, but that's just me.

Such financial thriftyness would seem to come in handy right about now, because I have an expensive fall coming up - which is usually "save time" after an always-expensive summer. But I'm going to kamloops in 3 weeks to hang out, followed immediately by Vegas a week later. And closer to home, I am in need of purchasing a new mattress/box spring, as well as a new washer/dryer, as mine could explode at a moment's notice.

However, my money concerns were slightly abated last week when I discovered, tucked into my passport, $300 in traveller's cheques from trip to Vegas last April, which I thought I'd redeposited at the bank upon my return, but apparently not. Score.

So, what did I do? Reinvest that cash into my upcoming Vegas trip? Perhaps look into buying some new appliances before my current ones explode in a hail of metal, fire and Bounce sheets? Or hell, maybe live dangerously and just put it back into my savings account?

All good options, for sure. All smart ideas.

So I bought some new golf clubs instead.