Here's what's supposed to happen: when a homeowner files the paperwork for a loan modification, everything is supposed to freeze in place. The mortgage holder is not supposed to do anything but consider the loan modification.
But our lender, First Horizon Home Loans, found a loophole. As long as our paperwork was sitting in a pile somewhere waiting to be processed, they could keep the clock ticking. And every time it reached the top of the pile, it was "too old."
Now, three months behind, we sent off two months' payment, just as the gum-cracking, nail-filing, neighbor-cackling, loose-shoulder-muscled, hair-styled woman had said we could.
But, as the TV program says, nothing could have prepared us for what happened next.
Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
We checked our bank account obsessively, but the check hadn't cleared. We called the mortgage company after a week.
"Yes, I can see that the payment is in process," we were assured. We had less than a week to go before we would be four months behind.
We called again on the 17th, the day after the fourth month had passed.
"Oh," said the woman, popping a bon bon into her mouth, "you're in foreclosure."
"But we sent payment, like you said we could!" I moaned.
"Oh, that was returned to you," she said, smacking her lips.
And indeed it was, a week later. We sent the check via overnight mail on the 28th of August. They returned it a month later. It was stamped as having been received on Sept. 15. But it was attached to a slip of paper that clearly indicated it had been received on Aug. 31, and marked for return then.
They had received our check in plenty of time, the check they said they would accept, and then they held it until they could bring foreclosure proceedings to a full boil.
"But we have filed for a loan modification," I whispered.
"I'm sorry, I can't talk to you about this any further," she said, a chocolate truffle into her mouth. "You have to talk to the foreclosure company."
I hung up the phone and looked out my office window. There, circling the little lake, was the osprey, the one who visited every day, looking for a tasty morsel to fish from the water.
For the first time, it looked dangerous to me.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Friday, October 15, 2010
Rinse well and repeat
It feels good to be current on our mortgage, even though we are technically even deeper in debt.
But we are soon reminded that we cannot sustain this pleasant state. Mortgage + credit card + loan from Mama + living = Not enough money.
I'm still driving the 1998 Toyota RAV I drove in Maine, and it's chugging along, but the body is starting to break down. My partner's car is 2004, and we hope we can get another five years out of it. We each sell a prized possession, which for me means three octaves of handbells. I cry when we take them to the shipping company to send to the buyer in California. But by themselves they pay more than one month of mortgage.
We're still in this ridiculous cycle of sending papers, them getting "too old," and us sending them again. Eventually, we fall a month behind. And then two months. And then three.
I call First Horizon Home Loans and we go through the usual dance. This time, the foot massage complete, it's her shoulders getting worked on, while she cackles to the woman in the next cubicle, plays Solitaire, finishes her nails, and has her hair styled.
"You must bring your loan current," she snarls.
"Loan modification?" I beseech, more of a prayer than a question.
"It's in our system."
"Will you accept one month?"
"No."
"Two?"
She puts me on hold. At first I think she has gone to ask someone, but then I realize that she has to sit under the hair dryer for a minute.
"All right," she says, "we will take two months."
I hang up and experience, just for a second, a flash of relief. I have staved off the dreaded four month enemy for now.
But we are soon reminded that we cannot sustain this pleasant state. Mortgage + credit card + loan from Mama + living = Not enough money.
I'm still driving the 1998 Toyota RAV I drove in Maine, and it's chugging along, but the body is starting to break down. My partner's car is 2004, and we hope we can get another five years out of it. We each sell a prized possession, which for me means three octaves of handbells. I cry when we take them to the shipping company to send to the buyer in California. But by themselves they pay more than one month of mortgage.
We're still in this ridiculous cycle of sending papers, them getting "too old," and us sending them again. Eventually, we fall a month behind. And then two months. And then three.
I call First Horizon Home Loans and we go through the usual dance. This time, the foot massage complete, it's her shoulders getting worked on, while she cackles to the woman in the next cubicle, plays Solitaire, finishes her nails, and has her hair styled.
"You must bring your loan current," she snarls.
"Loan modification?" I beseech, more of a prayer than a question.
"It's in our system."
"Will you accept one month?"
"No."
"Two?"
She puts me on hold. At first I think she has gone to ask someone, but then I realize that she has to sit under the hair dryer for a minute.
"All right," she says, "we will take two months."
I hang up and experience, just for a second, a flash of relief. I have staved off the dreaded four month enemy for now.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
All or nothing
Being three months behind on your mortgage is a different experience than being one or two months behind. That woman filing her nails, playing Solitaire, cackling with the woman in the next cubicle and getting a foot massage turns nasty.
No more polite questions such as, "Is there a reason?" "When can you send payment?" Now it's threats.
Sure, just let me click my heels together and poof! the money will appear. Better yet, give me 10 minutes to slip downstairs to my laboratory and print up some $1,000 bills. They bear the portrait of the president born in the town I grew up in. Oh wait, the treasury doesn't make 'em any more. Will you take hundreds of hundreds?
Nasty notes start to appear on our front door, with a phone number to call to "confirm" that we are still living here.
And no longer will the mortgage company (First Horizon Home Loans, in case you've forgotten) take a single payment. Nope, they return the check we send.
"You must bring the account up to date," sneers the woman. "We will not accept partial payment."
"How is our request for a loan modification going?" I ask.
"It's in the system. It will take at least 30 days." I know what that means.
Our monthly payment is somewhat north of $3,000. That includes our property tax and mortgage insurance, which First Horizon Home Loans forced on us. We have two weeks before we will go four months delinquent. We borrow some money from my partner's mother. Now that is embarrassing. But at least we bring the loan current.
And for now, the phone calls stop. The nasty notes left on our door stop.
We breathe.
No more polite questions such as, "Is there a reason?" "When can you send payment?" Now it's threats.
Sure, just let me click my heels together and poof! the money will appear. Better yet, give me 10 minutes to slip downstairs to my laboratory and print up some $1,000 bills. They bear the portrait of the president born in the town I grew up in. Oh wait, the treasury doesn't make 'em any more. Will you take hundreds of hundreds?
Nasty notes start to appear on our front door, with a phone number to call to "confirm" that we are still living here.
And no longer will the mortgage company (First Horizon Home Loans, in case you've forgotten) take a single payment. Nope, they return the check we send.
"You must bring the account up to date," sneers the woman. "We will not accept partial payment."
"How is our request for a loan modification going?" I ask.
"It's in the system. It will take at least 30 days." I know what that means.
Our monthly payment is somewhat north of $3,000. That includes our property tax and mortgage insurance, which First Horizon Home Loans forced on us. We have two weeks before we will go four months delinquent. We borrow some money from my partner's mother. Now that is embarrassing. But at least we bring the loan current.
And for now, the phone calls stop. The nasty notes left on our door stop.
We breathe.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
The new American dream
It's been a year since we started this modification process. We have tried very hard to play by their rules. Maybe we bit off too much when we bought this house, but who could have expected two floods (both declared disasters by FEMA) in an area that never flooded before? Who could foresee that the economy would tank so completely that millions found themselves out of work?
So we realized that this was nothing to be embarrassed about. We have always paid our bills. We have lived up to our obligations. We weren't trying to defraud anyone. We consider ourselves decent people.
And we have found that nearly everyone we tell about our situation knows someone else in the same boat. It's the new American dream! Work for 40 years and end up with nothing! No job, no house, no prospects!
But really, we are in much better shape than one would expect. My partner and I remain completely dedicated to each other (we each think the other is nuts for sticking around), our son is prospering (except for that nasty 12-year-old boy stuff), and we have four, count 'em four, 6-month-old kittens. But they're another story. And yes, we do expect someone to rent to us when the time comes, even though we have a dog and three birds in addition to the cats.
We are still optimists.
So we realized that this was nothing to be embarrassed about. We have always paid our bills. We have lived up to our obligations. We weren't trying to defraud anyone. We consider ourselves decent people.
And we have found that nearly everyone we tell about our situation knows someone else in the same boat. It's the new American dream! Work for 40 years and end up with nothing! No job, no house, no prospects!
But really, we are in much better shape than one would expect. My partner and I remain completely dedicated to each other (we each think the other is nuts for sticking around), our son is prospering (except for that nasty 12-year-old boy stuff), and we have four, count 'em four, 6-month-old kittens. But they're another story. And yes, we do expect someone to rent to us when the time comes, even though we have a dog and three birds in addition to the cats.
We are still optimists.
Monday, October 11, 2010
Three's a crowd
For the first time, we are three months behind. The state imposed ten "furlough" days on its employees, which means that my partner loses two weeks' income. And the woman I have worked for since 2002 decides that she too wants to take the work I am doing "in house." I am reassigned to develop subsidiary programs while someone in the Florida office takes over the main program. Of course, first I have to train her.
This reassignment gives my boss the chance to trim back my hours. After all, I'm only a contractor. My income is sputtering, trying to stay alive.
We call about our loan modification every week to 10 days. "In process...." they always say. Until about 60 days had passed. Then they suddenly need us to submit the paperwork again, because the stuff they have is too old.
We dutifully send it in again. Phone calls every week to 10 days. Oops, paperwork is too old. Please send it again.
We send it a third time. Phone calls. Oops, too old. Send it again.
A fourth time. Phone calls. Oh, sorry, the latest round of paperwork didn't get here soon enough. We closed your request for a modification. Start over.
How much do we spend on food every week? Electricity? Gasoline? Health care? I feel guilty buying new socks for my son.
The woman who plays Solitaire and files her nails while she talks to me is sitting in a big, comfy chair somewhere in Texas, cackling to the woman in the half-wall cubicle next to her: "You won't believe this loser's story! Two floods! Lost her job! Hah! Watch me lose her paperwork again!"
This reassignment gives my boss the chance to trim back my hours. After all, I'm only a contractor. My income is sputtering, trying to stay alive.
We call about our loan modification every week to 10 days. "In process...." they always say. Until about 60 days had passed. Then they suddenly need us to submit the paperwork again, because the stuff they have is too old.
We dutifully send it in again. Phone calls every week to 10 days. Oops, paperwork is too old. Please send it again.
We send it a third time. Phone calls. Oops, too old. Send it again.
A fourth time. Phone calls. Oh, sorry, the latest round of paperwork didn't get here soon enough. We closed your request for a modification. Start over.
How much do we spend on food every week? Electricity? Gasoline? Health care? I feel guilty buying new socks for my son.
The woman who plays Solitaire and files her nails while she talks to me is sitting in a big, comfy chair somewhere in Texas, cackling to the woman in the half-wall cubicle next to her: "You won't believe this loser's story! Two floods! Lost her job! Hah! Watch me lose her paperwork again!"
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Double the pleasure, double the fun?
Double, as in two payments behind. As in double trouble. My partner's dad, 83, is diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor. He is going downhill very fast. Her mom is severely disabled by a stroke she had 11 years ago while traveling in Ireland, which, surprisingly, has a Third World health care system. No treatment at all for stroke patients, except aspirin. Her dad has been her mom's caretaker ever since, and now he can't do it. All financial problems drop away as we scramble to cope with the situation.
His death is very hard on everyone. We wake up from the nightmare to a huge pile of bills. We realize that we have to start negotiating with our lender, First Horizon Home Loans, for a loan modification.
Remember that name: First Horizon Home Loans. If they are your lender, refinance immediately with someone else. They are no-good, inefficient, lazy, and duplicitous. If you don't believe me, Google them.
We confidently send off the paperwork, knowing that we fall well within the parameters to qualify for a modification. We feel good about this.
A week later, I call to make sure everything is in order.
"Oh," says the woman who plays Solitaire and files her nails as she talks to me, "you have to give us at least 30 days to get that into our system."
I calculate in my mind and realize that we will be three months behind by then.
"OK," I say, "we'll send you a month's payment by overnight mail."
"Oh, no," she says, "we can't take a partial payment. You have to send the entire amount."
We send one payment anyway. They accept it, and we wait for the month to pass.
His death is very hard on everyone. We wake up from the nightmare to a huge pile of bills. We realize that we have to start negotiating with our lender, First Horizon Home Loans, for a loan modification.
Remember that name: First Horizon Home Loans. If they are your lender, refinance immediately with someone else. They are no-good, inefficient, lazy, and duplicitous. If you don't believe me, Google them.
We confidently send off the paperwork, knowing that we fall well within the parameters to qualify for a modification. We feel good about this.
A week later, I call to make sure everything is in order.
"Oh," says the woman who plays Solitaire and files her nails as she talks to me, "you have to give us at least 30 days to get that into our system."
I calculate in my mind and realize that we will be three months behind by then.
"OK," I say, "we'll send you a month's payment by overnight mail."
"Oh, no," she says, "we can't take a partial payment. You have to send the entire amount."
We send one payment anyway. They accept it, and we wait for the month to pass.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Halfway to foreclosure
For those of you lucky enough to be current on your mortgage, you might not know that you have to fall four payments behind before the mortgage holder can start cooking up a foreclosure. But when you get two months behind, they turn on the burners.
The phone calls start. The caller is always someone different, someone I picture sitting in a cubicle with half-walls somewhere, headset phone in place, playing Solitaire as they talk to me.
"Do you know that you are two payments behind on your mortgage?" they ask. "When can we expect payment?"
I stammer out a reply and promise to pay online within a few days.
"All right," they say, "I'll note that in your file." I assume they do.
And we make a payment, just one, because that's all we have. This lets us breathe until we are once again two months behind.
"Do you know you are two payments behind...? Is there a reason....? When can we expect payment...?"
Caller ID is a wondrous thing. I start to duck the calls. And if I happen to answer accidentally, I can tell right away who it is, because they always mispronounce my partner's last name, with a long "e" instead of a short one ("keen" instead of "ken," although that's not her last name, but it's the same sound that is mispronounced).
If I don't answer the phone, I think, somewhat magically, I don't have to tell my partner they called. And if they didn't call, then things are just fine.
And I check the job postings again, and answer a few ads, sending a resume that I hope cleverly disguises how old I am. I try not to count up the number of highly skilled people I know who are unemployed...three...four...five...just in my little circle here in Olywa.
I try not to think about my dear, dear friend in Massachusetts who is about to lose her condo, whose 19-year relationship is ruined because of it, who is out of work herself.
I try not to think about the wonderful family whose child plays baseball with mine, who can't afford the house they built for themselves, who has been trying to get their loan modified for nearly a year.
Trying not to think unfortunately just makes me think.
The phone calls start. The caller is always someone different, someone I picture sitting in a cubicle with half-walls somewhere, headset phone in place, playing Solitaire as they talk to me.
"Do you know that you are two payments behind on your mortgage?" they ask. "When can we expect payment?"
I stammer out a reply and promise to pay online within a few days.
"All right," they say, "I'll note that in your file." I assume they do.
And we make a payment, just one, because that's all we have. This lets us breathe until we are once again two months behind.
"Do you know you are two payments behind...? Is there a reason....? When can we expect payment...?"
Caller ID is a wondrous thing. I start to duck the calls. And if I happen to answer accidentally, I can tell right away who it is, because they always mispronounce my partner's last name, with a long "e" instead of a short one ("keen" instead of "ken," although that's not her last name, but it's the same sound that is mispronounced).
If I don't answer the phone, I think, somewhat magically, I don't have to tell my partner they called. And if they didn't call, then things are just fine.
And I check the job postings again, and answer a few ads, sending a resume that I hope cleverly disguises how old I am. I try not to count up the number of highly skilled people I know who are unemployed...three...four...five...just in my little circle here in Olywa.
I try not to think about my dear, dear friend in Massachusetts who is about to lose her condo, whose 19-year relationship is ruined because of it, who is out of work herself.
I try not to think about the wonderful family whose child plays baseball with mine, who can't afford the house they built for themselves, who has been trying to get their loan modified for nearly a year.
Trying not to think unfortunately just makes me think.
Friday, October 8, 2010
The trouble begins
About a year ago, my second-biggest client decided to take their work "in-house," that is, have one of the employees do the work rather than contract with me to do it. This contract was the easiest, most lucrative work I had. They paid me for my time every day, whether or not they sent me any work. I had automated nearly the entire process, so it took me about 10 minutes to complete. That job accounted for about 25% of my income.
Despite months of slogging through job boards, nothing has turned up. Nearly every job is full time, in an office park somewhere. It's not that I don't want that kind of job, it's that I can't do it. Health issues prevent me from working that way. I need to be able to take breaks, take a nap, take a walk, and work max 30 hours a week. Even then, I am utterly exhausted by Friday and spend the weekend trying to recharge.
At first, the loss of this income didn't impact us much. But as the months went by, money got tighter and tighter. We started to fall behind a month here and a month there, always catching up when I picked up some editing work from two places in Maine I still work for occasionally.
Then I got a gig proofreading educational materials for the state of Washington. It promised to be steady work. Things were looking up. I was a subcontractor through a company based north of Seattle. Three of us were to work on this project.
But all of a sudden the state pulled the plug on the project.
For the first time we fell behind two months. We asked our mortgage holders to make a "loan modification"--that's what they call it. Not renegotiate, modify.
And then the fun really began.
Despite months of slogging through job boards, nothing has turned up. Nearly every job is full time, in an office park somewhere. It's not that I don't want that kind of job, it's that I can't do it. Health issues prevent me from working that way. I need to be able to take breaks, take a nap, take a walk, and work max 30 hours a week. Even then, I am utterly exhausted by Friday and spend the weekend trying to recharge.
At first, the loss of this income didn't impact us much. But as the months went by, money got tighter and tighter. We started to fall behind a month here and a month there, always catching up when I picked up some editing work from two places in Maine I still work for occasionally.
Then I got a gig proofreading educational materials for the state of Washington. It promised to be steady work. Things were looking up. I was a subcontractor through a company based north of Seattle. Three of us were to work on this project.
But all of a sudden the state pulled the plug on the project.
For the first time we fell behind two months. We asked our mortgage holders to make a "loan modification"--that's what they call it. Not renegotiate, modify.
And then the fun really began.
In the beginning...
When we moved to Olympia, Wash., from Maine six years ago, we rented a house a few doors away from the house we now own. We would walk by this house every day and dream about living here. Five years ago, it came on the market and we were the first and only people to see it. We bought it immediately.
The house needed a lot of work. No one had so much as vacuumed for 20 years, we think, and the former owners were both smokers and let their little dogs piddle everywhere. We ripped up carpet, put in new light fixtures, redid most of the floors, knocked out a wall, and built a bathroom.
It was worth it.
But now, five years later, after suffering through two "storms of the century" that flooded the lower level (all bedrooms are down there), after losing 75% of my income, we are facing foreclosure.
The process has been stressful, embarrassing, painful, ridiculous, and at times hilarious. I'll try to tell you why in these posts. Learn from me, laugh with me, gnash your teeth with me.
The house needed a lot of work. No one had so much as vacuumed for 20 years, we think, and the former owners were both smokers and let their little dogs piddle everywhere. We ripped up carpet, put in new light fixtures, redid most of the floors, knocked out a wall, and built a bathroom.
It was worth it.
But now, five years later, after suffering through two "storms of the century" that flooded the lower level (all bedrooms are down there), after losing 75% of my income, we are facing foreclosure.
The process has been stressful, embarrassing, painful, ridiculous, and at times hilarious. I'll try to tell you why in these posts. Learn from me, laugh with me, gnash your teeth with me.
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