I was in the middle of rolling a pork roulade when the phone rang. The caller I.D. flashed Robbie Tobbie. That’s my mom’s boyfriend. I had raw meat hands. I let it ring. I didn’t want to talk to him anyway. I should have never started being nice to him. Now he thinks we’re friends and gives me junk that he picks up at garage sales.
Whenever I try to visit with Mom, it’s always the same thing. Robbie Tobbie shows up drunk, and continues to drink cheap beer between shots of Jack. Every five minutes he is woohooing! High fiving. Shaking hands. Until he gets paranoid that we are conspiring against him. Then he goes to the garage to start up his the Nova that he’s had since he was 16. Revs the engine. He’s never actually had it on the road. Then he pulls the quad out and drives it around the loop of the driveway.
I placed the roulade in the fridge and washed my hands. He didn’t leave a message.
I called mom.
“So why is Robbie Tobbie calling me?”
“Oh must be he’s mad because you won’t let him bring his dog.”
I had respectfully asked him not bring his dog. His puppy that growls and chews on table legs and has no shots.
“Says if his dog’s not welcome, he’s not coming.”
Last Thanksgiving I sat at home and played video games, because Robbie Tobbie got mad and wouldn’t bring mom down. Mom has issues. She won’t drive outside the city
that she was born in. It was one of my best Thanksgivings.
“Do you need me to pick you up?”
“Well, I don’t know.”
I had pumpkin rolls in the freezer ready to thaw. Cranberry onion stuffing. Sautéed squash for the risotto.
“So you’re not coming?”
The whole point of having Thanksgiving at my house was so that I didn’t have to drive two hours there and two hours back. I had to work the next day. Nobody else had to work. Both Mom and Robbie had been unemployed for over 2 years. We had made these plans a month in advance. I bought all the ingredients and had almost finished prepping the entire feast. All they had to do was show up. But Mom couldn’t even do that.
“I don’t know Duesie. I’ll call you back at 7”
Of course she didn’t call. When I called her, she didn’t pick up. She probably rushed over to Robbie Tobbie’s house to tell him I was mad.
When I’m Up North, she pretends that they are not together. According to her she kicked him out months ago. Then she says that he won’t show up and acts surprised when he does. His picture still hangs on the wall in the living room.
After Robbie’s done riding the quad around the drive way, he passes out in her bed. But they’re not together. She’s mad that he owes her 2 years worth of rent. He just spent $6000 of is 401K on a gutted Nova. His unemployment runs out this month. No one’s going to hire him with his beer gut and missing teeth—not that he would ever pass as piss test.
Maybe she keeps him around as a chauffeur or to bring in firewood. She thinks she can control him, but she can’t. Robbie Tobbie does what he wants.
She called me back at 8:30.
“I don’t know, Duesie.”
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll bring dinner, but this is the last time.”
I carted a cooler full of Thanksgiving food 2 hours North. Mom apologized the entire dinner. Robbie Tobbie ate in silence and plopped himself on the couch afterwards. No compliments. No thank you.
“I would have come down on Wednesday no problem if everyone had their shit together,” Robbie said from his spot on the couch.
I can tell by his tone that we’re not friends anymore. And that’s just fine.
“I’m glad I didn’t inconvenience anyone,” I said.
I imagined next Thanksgiving like a scene from Fried Green Tomatoes--Robbie Tobbie mysteriously absent while we munch on the best BBQ ever.
I wheeled my empty cooler to the car.
“Aren’t you staying, Duesie?” Mom asked
“I have to work in the morning, remember?”
“I could come back down with you.”
Maybe I would be the only one eating BBQ next Thanksgiving.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Friday, November 27, 2009
Turkey Day, An American Tradition
Stuff a large bird with bread and bake it. Make gravy from the bird’s organs, but call them giblets, because that sounds more lighthearted. Make enough gravy to fill a cruise ship. Serve the bird with massive side dishes of mashed potatoes, corn, and green bean casserole. Don’t forget the warm rolls slathered in non-hydrogenated margarine, because butter is unhealthy.
Eat until it hurts. There’s not enough room for salad, but you think you can squeeze in another spoonful of casserole. Sit on the couch with the remote control and flip through the channels. Surf the internet during commercials. While the TV is blaring in the background, find something more interesting to watch on Hulu. Watch The Biggest Loser and be thankful that you’re not 400 pounds yet. Belch. Fart. You discover that there’s room for dessert. There’s a starving Ethiopian living in your left leg.
Take notes on Black Friday deals. You might not even have to leave your chair this year. This delights you. Pull up another window on your screen. You watch a YouTube video about the 33 year old man who died in his recliner because he was morbidly obese. You’re thankful that you can get out of the chair with the greatest of ease. You unbutton your pants to let the turkey breathe in your belly.
This year you’re hoping to skip the smack down in the toy aisle over Twilight Dolls and Zhuzhu pets. Last year you camped out in the parking lot in a long line. Once you got into the store, some large black woman lost her wig to a white bitch. There was hair pulling and blood.
It’s important. You will be sacrificing your comfort to obtain family and friends items that they need to have by December 25. So you can exchange gifts between mouthfuls of ham and chocolate truffles. Aunt Doris would have died without The Clapper last year. And the Chia Pet that she gave you---well, you thanked her profusely and discreetly placed it on the Goodwill pile when you got home.
Eat until it hurts. There’s not enough room for salad, but you think you can squeeze in another spoonful of casserole. Sit on the couch with the remote control and flip through the channels. Surf the internet during commercials. While the TV is blaring in the background, find something more interesting to watch on Hulu. Watch The Biggest Loser and be thankful that you’re not 400 pounds yet. Belch. Fart. You discover that there’s room for dessert. There’s a starving Ethiopian living in your left leg.
Take notes on Black Friday deals. You might not even have to leave your chair this year. This delights you. Pull up another window on your screen. You watch a YouTube video about the 33 year old man who died in his recliner because he was morbidly obese. You’re thankful that you can get out of the chair with the greatest of ease. You unbutton your pants to let the turkey breathe in your belly.
This year you’re hoping to skip the smack down in the toy aisle over Twilight Dolls and Zhuzhu pets. Last year you camped out in the parking lot in a long line. Once you got into the store, some large black woman lost her wig to a white bitch. There was hair pulling and blood.
It’s important. You will be sacrificing your comfort to obtain family and friends items that they need to have by December 25. So you can exchange gifts between mouthfuls of ham and chocolate truffles. Aunt Doris would have died without The Clapper last year. And the Chia Pet that she gave you---well, you thanked her profusely and discreetly placed it on the Goodwill pile when you got home.
Friday, November 20, 2009
From the lesbian corner
Being neighbors in the city is quite the paradox. You come to know personal habits of complete strangers without ever learning their names—like witnessing a neighbor sitting on their toilet through an un-curtained window. Instead of introducing ourselves, we make up names for them and sometimes stories.
After two months of partying, Mr. Braid is moving. It seemed like partying anyway. The front yard was set up with two picnic tables and random furniture. And the grill was lit every night while the men sat around the picnic table smoking and drinking beer. But I’m starting to think that maybe it wasn’t a party. Maybe his house was too full, and there wasn’t room enough to cook and eat inside because he had taken in a less fortunate family.
But now it’s cold, and the party has ended. And Mr. Braid who was going to lead a crusade against dog owners who didn’t pick up their dog shit, has taken his picnic table elsewhere. He would always dream big when he was drinking and smoking at his picnic table. He’d call us over, Hey Honey. Hey Sweetie. He thought we were sisters. He’d tell us his next big plan. The neighborhood pig roast. The new park. Then he’d drive drunk in his Chevy truck. Now his house is dark and the Chevy is gone.
The only thing I ever saw of the neighbors that lived in the house before Mr. Braid was the constant glow of the big screen TV. For all I know, there might have been a corpse rotting on the couch. Mr. Braid was different. He’d actually come out of his house to plant tomatoes and play horse shoes. He even helped fix up the former crack house. Mr. Braid was the only neighbor who ever talked to us. Let us know when he’d be out of town. Invited us to his Pig roast. Returned our green bowl after the party. Offered to mow our lawn.
Maybe he’s the only neighbor that talked to us because he thought we were sisters instead of the scary lesbians on the corner.
The Catholics, our neighbors in the big black house, thought Mr. Braid was in a Mexican gang, because he had so many people over to his house. The Catholics come from New York—obviously not the city of. It’s not like he was flashing his colors and rolling up one pant leg. He doesn’t even have tattoos.
I don’t think they’re really Catholic, but they're in their late 30’s and on their 5th kid. They listen to Christian music and talk to their kids about God sometimes. I think they work or volunteer at some food pantry. They don’t seem to have real jobs. They’re home at odd times. For a while, they home-schooled their children. When she had their last child, they were gone for a month. Jacks said that they had to go to Jerusalem to have their baby.
Mrs. Catholic dresses in organic, hippy clothes. Mr. Catholic looks like Dean Kane. I’ve rescued their runaway dog Scout a few times. We’ve given them a Christmas wreath and Christmas cookies. Now they have a homeless man living with them--the same man I called a bum. I think I may have offended them. But he was hanging out between our yard and their yard, drinking beer. Then he tried to climb our fence and threatened my dog. Mrs. Catholic hasn’t talked to me since I called the man a bum. He wasn’t particularly friendly. So I’m not up on my PC. But they thought Mr. Braid was a thug. So whatever.
We are sandwiched in between the Catholics and the Volvo drivers. They are buddies. They made a special door in their fence, so they could share yards. Mr.& Mrs. Volvo are renting from the Christian Republican Dyke that moved back out West. She looked like a Dyke. Only ever had women friends over. Women friends that drove Chevy trucks and also looked like dykes. She was 40 and single with an old dog. She had spiky hair and stovepipe legs. But she flew Easter flags and had a Bush Cheney sticker on her front door.
The new neighbors drive a Volvo and have 2 children. It seems like they might actually work. They keep their curtains wide open so you can see inside. They have a Tibetan peace flag hanging in their house just like the Catholics. Their living room is the same color as ours. Jacks said they copied our color scheme.
Mr. Nascar Roofer Man lives across from the Catholics. He drives a white work truck. Mrs. Catholic said he’s a recovering Drug addict. The Catholics and Mr. Nascar used to be friends, but they aren’t that close anymore. I don’t think the Catholics wanted their kids mixing with the other kids in the neighborhood. His wife yells at the kids a lot. The bums hang out on his stoop. He re-roofed his house last summer.
While he was on his roof, he had a conversation with Amelio’s Mom a block away. I call her that because she is always yelling for AMELIO in her deep, throaty smoker’s voice. Her yelling doesn’t help any. Amelio is all of 5 years old and always plays in the street. I almost hit him once. There doesn’t seem to be any problem with abductions in this neighborhood. The kids just keep coming back, walking through our lawn as if the sidewalk is an incidental piece of cement.
I have lived in this house for 4 years. Just last month, Amelio’s mom introduced herself as our neighbor. Well, no shit. We can only hear you yelling every fucking day of our lives. Wish she’d fucking shut up for once. It wasn’t a social call. She was looking for some rakes that her sons had lifted. Those rakes lay on our lawn for 2 weeks. Like I know where they’re at now.
Amelio’s Mom drinks beer with the Mexican family at the former crack house. There’s a lot of people living in that house. My favorite is the Alzheimer’s Grandpa. He’s always walking, pushing an unwilling child in a stroller. The teenage boys wear skinny jeans and skateboard. They watch Univision all day with the door open in the summer. Sometimes I can smell corn tortillas.
There used to be an African family in the former meth lab house, but they had to move. Apparently, the landlord lost the place, because the renters on top weren’t paying. Foreclosure takes a long time. The non-paying family still lives on top. Non-descript mixed couple with a new baby. Makes me angry that they are still there and the Africans are gone. They were quiet and kept to themselves and kept their lawn nice.
The obsessive compulsive lady on the other side of the Volvo neighbors drives a red minivan and rakes her leaves into the street every autumn even though everyone else pays for yard waste pick-up. She constantly sweeps her driveway. Sweep sweep sweep.
Every once in a while the little old lady that wears purple and drives a purple truck and lives in a purple house walks by. Not always in purple. But it’s always a 1 color outfit. Her house has been for sale as long as I have lived here. I suppose nobody wants to buy a purple house. I feel bad for her, having to live in this neighborhood and not being able to sell her house.
I’ve thought about making Christmas cookies this year to give to the neighbors. I don’t want to be friends or anything--just friendly. I want a neighbor that watches my shit while I’m out of town--a neighbor that would call the police if someone was sneaking through my window instead of filming it for Youtube. But I wonder if it’s really worth the effort. They might be worried that the lesbians are trying to poison them. After all, I’m sure we’re known as the lesbians on the corner. Because I’ve never introduced myself and nobody has ever asked. Even Mr. Braid only knew us as Honey and Sweetie. And I only referred to him as Mr. Braid, because of the braid in his hair--even though I think his real name is Al.
After two months of partying, Mr. Braid is moving. It seemed like partying anyway. The front yard was set up with two picnic tables and random furniture. And the grill was lit every night while the men sat around the picnic table smoking and drinking beer. But I’m starting to think that maybe it wasn’t a party. Maybe his house was too full, and there wasn’t room enough to cook and eat inside because he had taken in a less fortunate family.
But now it’s cold, and the party has ended. And Mr. Braid who was going to lead a crusade against dog owners who didn’t pick up their dog shit, has taken his picnic table elsewhere. He would always dream big when he was drinking and smoking at his picnic table. He’d call us over, Hey Honey. Hey Sweetie. He thought we were sisters. He’d tell us his next big plan. The neighborhood pig roast. The new park. Then he’d drive drunk in his Chevy truck. Now his house is dark and the Chevy is gone.
The only thing I ever saw of the neighbors that lived in the house before Mr. Braid was the constant glow of the big screen TV. For all I know, there might have been a corpse rotting on the couch. Mr. Braid was different. He’d actually come out of his house to plant tomatoes and play horse shoes. He even helped fix up the former crack house. Mr. Braid was the only neighbor who ever talked to us. Let us know when he’d be out of town. Invited us to his Pig roast. Returned our green bowl after the party. Offered to mow our lawn.
Maybe he’s the only neighbor that talked to us because he thought we were sisters instead of the scary lesbians on the corner.
The Catholics, our neighbors in the big black house, thought Mr. Braid was in a Mexican gang, because he had so many people over to his house. The Catholics come from New York—obviously not the city of. It’s not like he was flashing his colors and rolling up one pant leg. He doesn’t even have tattoos.
I don’t think they’re really Catholic, but they're in their late 30’s and on their 5th kid. They listen to Christian music and talk to their kids about God sometimes. I think they work or volunteer at some food pantry. They don’t seem to have real jobs. They’re home at odd times. For a while, they home-schooled their children. When she had their last child, they were gone for a month. Jacks said that they had to go to Jerusalem to have their baby.
Mrs. Catholic dresses in organic, hippy clothes. Mr. Catholic looks like Dean Kane. I’ve rescued their runaway dog Scout a few times. We’ve given them a Christmas wreath and Christmas cookies. Now they have a homeless man living with them--the same man I called a bum. I think I may have offended them. But he was hanging out between our yard and their yard, drinking beer. Then he tried to climb our fence and threatened my dog. Mrs. Catholic hasn’t talked to me since I called the man a bum. He wasn’t particularly friendly. So I’m not up on my PC. But they thought Mr. Braid was a thug. So whatever.
We are sandwiched in between the Catholics and the Volvo drivers. They are buddies. They made a special door in their fence, so they could share yards. Mr.& Mrs. Volvo are renting from the Christian Republican Dyke that moved back out West. She looked like a Dyke. Only ever had women friends over. Women friends that drove Chevy trucks and also looked like dykes. She was 40 and single with an old dog. She had spiky hair and stovepipe legs. But she flew Easter flags and had a Bush Cheney sticker on her front door.
The new neighbors drive a Volvo and have 2 children. It seems like they might actually work. They keep their curtains wide open so you can see inside. They have a Tibetan peace flag hanging in their house just like the Catholics. Their living room is the same color as ours. Jacks said they copied our color scheme.
Mr. Nascar Roofer Man lives across from the Catholics. He drives a white work truck. Mrs. Catholic said he’s a recovering Drug addict. The Catholics and Mr. Nascar used to be friends, but they aren’t that close anymore. I don’t think the Catholics wanted their kids mixing with the other kids in the neighborhood. His wife yells at the kids a lot. The bums hang out on his stoop. He re-roofed his house last summer.
While he was on his roof, he had a conversation with Amelio’s Mom a block away. I call her that because she is always yelling for AMELIO in her deep, throaty smoker’s voice. Her yelling doesn’t help any. Amelio is all of 5 years old and always plays in the street. I almost hit him once. There doesn’t seem to be any problem with abductions in this neighborhood. The kids just keep coming back, walking through our lawn as if the sidewalk is an incidental piece of cement.
I have lived in this house for 4 years. Just last month, Amelio’s mom introduced herself as our neighbor. Well, no shit. We can only hear you yelling every fucking day of our lives. Wish she’d fucking shut up for once. It wasn’t a social call. She was looking for some rakes that her sons had lifted. Those rakes lay on our lawn for 2 weeks. Like I know where they’re at now.
Amelio’s Mom drinks beer with the Mexican family at the former crack house. There’s a lot of people living in that house. My favorite is the Alzheimer’s Grandpa. He’s always walking, pushing an unwilling child in a stroller. The teenage boys wear skinny jeans and skateboard. They watch Univision all day with the door open in the summer. Sometimes I can smell corn tortillas.
There used to be an African family in the former meth lab house, but they had to move. Apparently, the landlord lost the place, because the renters on top weren’t paying. Foreclosure takes a long time. The non-paying family still lives on top. Non-descript mixed couple with a new baby. Makes me angry that they are still there and the Africans are gone. They were quiet and kept to themselves and kept their lawn nice.
The obsessive compulsive lady on the other side of the Volvo neighbors drives a red minivan and rakes her leaves into the street every autumn even though everyone else pays for yard waste pick-up. She constantly sweeps her driveway. Sweep sweep sweep.
Every once in a while the little old lady that wears purple and drives a purple truck and lives in a purple house walks by. Not always in purple. But it’s always a 1 color outfit. Her house has been for sale as long as I have lived here. I suppose nobody wants to buy a purple house. I feel bad for her, having to live in this neighborhood and not being able to sell her house.
I’ve thought about making Christmas cookies this year to give to the neighbors. I don’t want to be friends or anything--just friendly. I want a neighbor that watches my shit while I’m out of town--a neighbor that would call the police if someone was sneaking through my window instead of filming it for Youtube. But I wonder if it’s really worth the effort. They might be worried that the lesbians are trying to poison them. After all, I’m sure we’re known as the lesbians on the corner. Because I’ve never introduced myself and nobody has ever asked. Even Mr. Braid only knew us as Honey and Sweetie. And I only referred to him as Mr. Braid, because of the braid in his hair--even though I think his real name is Al.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Is Gary Dop God?
The Michigan lottery was just hanging out on the corner of Butternut and 144th with their trailer of lotto cash. The bills were part of a large sheet of perforated cardboard. Each rectangle was worth $1000. It was on a first come first serve basis. Magically, I was the first to arrive and emptied the trailer except for a few bills. I took the sheets rather than trying to separate the bills. It seemed the only logical thing to do. Before I could count my $1000 pieces of cardboard, I woke up.
But if you look up dreams about money, it’s never about money. Freudian thought views money as a symbol for excrement. Isn’t it obvious that a pile of cash is really just a pile of shit? I most certainly wouldn’t want to spend it or pay my bills. It’s really that I have a problem with anal fixation, and I’m mentally damaged from strict toilet training as a child. What the fuck? Everything is about sex or shit with Freud.
I played the lotto on Friday the 13th. I didn’t win. This isn’t some happy fairy story. But Jacks won $20 on a scratch off. Maybe her luck was my luck by proximity. Really, I have been more fortunate lately. In September, I was offered and accepted a new job in ICU/TU when the odds of finding a new job in this economy are 5%. I’m not sure who came up with that number, but it makes a good story. The 1st day that I worked in ICU on my own, I had a seriously critically ill patient on a ventilator with an ART line, CVP line and about 7 IV solutions all working to keep this patient alive. I would not have been surprised if this patient had died, but the patient lived that night and the next night. My new boss sent me an e-mail congratulating me on my good work! Me, who was scared shitless to work in ICU.
Last week I received an acceptance letter from Vagabondage Press. They accepted “The Key Collector” for The Battered Suitcase for the Spring 2010 issue. http://www.vagabondagepress.com/
It’s not just me either. Some of my MFA buddies have reported prize nominations and acceptances for their writings. My MFA buddies say that this new fortune should be attributed to Gary Dop. http://www.garydop.com/index.html Gary Dop is God, they say. He is also a University of Nebraska MFA graduate. It’s rumored that his poetry gets published every month. In fact, he might even get paid to write. So they follow the Commandments of Dop, hoping that they too can receive publishing blessings. #1 Send out multiple submissions. #2 Snail mail has a better chance of being accepted than e-mail. #3 Keep sending out multiple submissions. Okay, so I don’t really know the commandments, because I don’t believe in Gary Dop. I believe that he exists. I just don’t believe in his supernatural powers. And then I took his name in vain. Gary Dop Damn it! My MFA buddies chastised me. Maybe if I believed in Gary Dop, I’d win the lotto. Maybe I could make a Gary Dop shrine and pray to his mother. Maybe I could hang a painting of him over my bed, so he could look down upon me while I sleep peacefully in my bed and dream about winning the lotto and getting published.
But if you look up dreams about money, it’s never about money. Freudian thought views money as a symbol for excrement. Isn’t it obvious that a pile of cash is really just a pile of shit? I most certainly wouldn’t want to spend it or pay my bills. It’s really that I have a problem with anal fixation, and I’m mentally damaged from strict toilet training as a child. What the fuck? Everything is about sex or shit with Freud.
I played the lotto on Friday the 13th. I didn’t win. This isn’t some happy fairy story. But Jacks won $20 on a scratch off. Maybe her luck was my luck by proximity. Really, I have been more fortunate lately. In September, I was offered and accepted a new job in ICU/TU when the odds of finding a new job in this economy are 5%. I’m not sure who came up with that number, but it makes a good story. The 1st day that I worked in ICU on my own, I had a seriously critically ill patient on a ventilator with an ART line, CVP line and about 7 IV solutions all working to keep this patient alive. I would not have been surprised if this patient had died, but the patient lived that night and the next night. My new boss sent me an e-mail congratulating me on my good work! Me, who was scared shitless to work in ICU.
Last week I received an acceptance letter from Vagabondage Press. They accepted “The Key Collector” for The Battered Suitcase for the Spring 2010 issue. http://www.vagabondagepress.com/
It’s not just me either. Some of my MFA buddies have reported prize nominations and acceptances for their writings. My MFA buddies say that this new fortune should be attributed to Gary Dop. http://www.garydop.com/index.html Gary Dop is God, they say. He is also a University of Nebraska MFA graduate. It’s rumored that his poetry gets published every month. In fact, he might even get paid to write. So they follow the Commandments of Dop, hoping that they too can receive publishing blessings. #1 Send out multiple submissions. #2 Snail mail has a better chance of being accepted than e-mail. #3 Keep sending out multiple submissions. Okay, so I don’t really know the commandments, because I don’t believe in Gary Dop. I believe that he exists. I just don’t believe in his supernatural powers. And then I took his name in vain. Gary Dop Damn it! My MFA buddies chastised me. Maybe if I believed in Gary Dop, I’d win the lotto. Maybe I could make a Gary Dop shrine and pray to his mother. Maybe I could hang a painting of him over my bed, so he could look down upon me while I sleep peacefully in my bed and dream about winning the lotto and getting published.
Friday, November 6, 2009
Fuck You Chase!
I received a phone call from Chase Mortgage Company. They hold my mortgage. Some new person was handling my loan modification. I was confused. As far as I knew the account had been closed. I had not qualified. Two months after submitting my application, I had called to check on the status. I talked to some woman an accent. I was being down-staffed a shift a week. Student loans were looming in the future. But she said that she didn’t see the problem.
The woman suggested that I try to refinance instead. I had tried to refinance in 2008. After I was told that I would most certainly be refinanced and paid $400, I was denied. They kept the $400. Yet, Chase granted me another $5000 credit card. Gee, thanks.
I was all set to call this Chase representative back and tell him to fuck off, I don’t need your help anymore. But I’m a pussy. And he’s not Chase, just a worker for the man who has his own bills to pay. He congratulated me on my new job. He wasn’t like the woman.
If I can help it, I will never finance anything through Chase again. I will not recommend them. BOYCOTT CHASE! I realize that Chase is a corporate-conglomeration and my opinion, happiness and well-being means very little to them. The feeling is mutual.
I will continue to pay my payments on-time and look eagerly to the future when I can sell this house and not owe Chase anything.
The woman suggested that I try to refinance instead. I had tried to refinance in 2008. After I was told that I would most certainly be refinanced and paid $400, I was denied. They kept the $400. Yet, Chase granted me another $5000 credit card. Gee, thanks.
I was all set to call this Chase representative back and tell him to fuck off, I don’t need your help anymore. But I’m a pussy. And he’s not Chase, just a worker for the man who has his own bills to pay. He congratulated me on my new job. He wasn’t like the woman.
If I can help it, I will never finance anything through Chase again. I will not recommend them. BOYCOTT CHASE! I realize that Chase is a corporate-conglomeration and my opinion, happiness and well-being means very little to them. The feeling is mutual.
I will continue to pay my payments on-time and look eagerly to the future when I can sell this house and not owe Chase anything.
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