Mr. Potter Lives

And he is refinancing our home.

I am not talking about Mr. Potter, as in Harry.

Remember the cranky old banker from Jimmy Stewart's movie, ‘Its A Wonderful Life’?

It's him of whom I speak.  He’s back and he has taken over the banking system of today.

Wonderful Guy and I decided it made sense to refi the loan on our home. The decision has to do with lowering the interest rate and the monthly payment, not with providing us cash out of the equity.  You know, just in case one of us ceases to bring in a regular income. It has happened to each of us once. And my position holds that dern temporary label like the sword of Damocles over my head.

So we move forward, with our good standing, all our paperwork in order, our i’s dotted and t’s crossed.

Or so we thought.

We apparently had some 'splaining to do.

We of the never having missed a payment, of the wanting only 60% of what the property appraised at, and of the attractive credit rating?

We had letters of explanation to write!
Additional documentation to provide!
More verification to make! (about my income that ‘wasn’t going to be needed anyway'…)
Wet signatures were required! (after all documentation were e-signed.  E-signed!!) (and sick of that term I am.)

I know it wasn’t the broker’s assistant’s fault, but I got so tired of seeing her name in my email and on my caller ID. Seriously fatigued I was of that chipper little voice, I might say.

It is a crazy circle whose ends do not meet in my mind. The housing market finds itself spanked for loaning willy-nilly to people who didn’t deserve credit. The economy teetered on the brink as a result, so dollars were pumped into the credit market which was meant to unfreeze those tightfisted bankers that suddenly were all panicky. Now having lots of money lining the vaults, and showing some profits, and making some tidy bonuses to boot, those who would borrow, who will pay the payments, who are worthy risks…

Well, it was not a warm fuzzy feeling, folks. And it plain didn’t seem to make sense.

But hey, I am a scientist, albeit not a rocket scientist, and certainly not an economist.

And we close today, and there will be no more chipper little voice telling me what I must do next…

Except...could we please come early today...so we could over the something or other one last time... (this after we made the closing appointment 4 weeks ago, knowingly for immediately after work, expressly with no time to spare.)

The sound you hear is my head hitting my desk.