Archive for the Working for a living Category

I *Heart* Crazy

Posted in Working for a living, WTF? with tags , on September 7, 2009 by JustJennyRebecca

I really do enjoy meeting new people every day. Most of them are weird in one way or another, but then who isn’t? People think I’m a little strange and it doesn’t really bother me. The hard part, for me, is getting through each of my appointments without letting my clients know that I think they are weird. Or stupid. Or crazy.

Take for instance the client who completely stopped her signing because she didn’t like the way I wrote my 5’s. Yes. My 5’s were too similar to an “S” and she wanted me to correct them all. Holy Shit Batman. If you thought my 5’s were bad, you should see my “1’s”. They’re horrible! They are so similar to an “L” or, dare I say, an “i” WITHOUT THE FUCKING DOT! It’s sick. I’m sick. I have no idea how I made it through school. And how in the name of all that is Holy did I make it into a Master’s program? With penmanship like that I should’ve been held back in fourth grade.

Another example of crazy is the little old lady in North North Scottsdale. If you are familiar with the Phoenix area you will understand that North Scottsdale and North North Scottsdale are two completely different animals. North Scottsdale = money. NN Scottsdale = OMG Shut The Fuck Up You Live Where? And therefore there is an expected level of class or culture or brains or something that inherently comes with the location. Unless of course you are me, because when I get called to NN Scottsdale I just get to meet the whack-jobs.

Little Old Lady (LOL) lives in a gated and 24 hour guarded community. I had to stop at the gate and check in, wait for the guard to record my car info and check to see that my name was on the list. When I got to the house I rang the bell and heard LOL unlock three separate locks. When she “opened” the door she did so with the chain still attached and she gave me the once over. After a few awkward moments she shut the door, took the chain off and led me into the kitchen. Okay, dicey start but I was in now, sitting at her kitchen table, with her loan documents in hand.

LOL seemed really uncomfortable with me, with her loan documents, with everything and then she had a question regarding some of the costs on her settlement statement and because I don’t work for the title company I cannot tell you why they charged you a bazillion dollars for this or that. So I pick up my cell to call her title rep and LOL freaked out!

LOL:            “You can’t use a cell phone from my house!”

Me:               “Why? I’m getting reception.”

LOL:            “NO! THEY can hear you. EVERYONE can hear you. You have
to use MY phone. They can’t hack into MY phone.”

Me:              “Are you kidding me? Is Ashton here?”

Sweet baby Jesus, she’s fucking crazy. And since I don’t like to touch other people’s stuff, like their virus-ridden phone, without sanitizing it first in a bleach bath, I gave her the number and made her call the title company on her fancy, hack proof Bat Phone. By the time she got off the phone with the title company LOL had freaked herself out so badly about a multitude of things that she made me follow her to a café down the street to finish the signing. It was all I could do to not tell her that I thought we were followed and that the café had cameras recording our every move. That probably would’ve launched her right off her rocker. But it would have been awesome.


How Not To Get Shanked By Your Client’s Gangster Daughter and More Ridiculous Tales From The Signing Table

Posted in Working for a living, WTF? with tags , , , , on August 16, 2009 by JustJennyRebecca

It has really been a rough week. I know the world is full of crazy people, but I didn’t realize that I would be meeting them all. Sometimes they are funny. Sometimes they are scary. Sometimes they are eccentric. More often than not they are just plain stupid.

Take for instance the client who works for a major, MAJOR lender. Not only does this client work for the lender, but he’s really high up the food chain. Client refinances house. I show up at house at specified time. Client doesn’t have any identification. Why does this keep happening? People: This is America-Post-9/11! My dog can’t take a piss in the local Bark Park without a god damned license so why the hell do you think you can refinance your house without one? I realize there are many reasons why some people don’t have drivers licenses, I get that. I, technically, didn’t know how to drive until I was 25. But you can bet your sweet ass I had an Arizona ID the day I turned 16. It’s common sense. How do you cash checks? Have any type of bank account? Have a job? Buy adult beverages? Cigarettes? How do you survive? And if you DO manage to get by without any of the above, then A) you most likely have a miserable life and B) you certainly do not own your home. No one in this country owns a home without having had some type of ID, authentic or otherwise, when they purchased said home. Fact.

My client thought that since he worked for the lender his employee ID would suffice. Sure, I can accept that. Or your library card, Costco card, Friends of Josh Groban membership card. Whatever, I’m easy. It’s just a job, after all. In the end the client ended up finding 2 witnesses to verify his identity. Unfortunately the witnesses came over with 6 untamed children, for a total of NINE untamed children, running around destroying the house while we completed the signing. That evening required heavy alcohol consumption. Thankfully I have an ID.

My next fabulous signing was with a very lovely couple. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary at all. We sat down, everyone had ID, they understood their paperwork because, for a change, their loan officer had actually done his job correctly so there were no surprises. About halfway through the signing, I felt something brush my toes so I moved my foot a little, assuming it was a cat. Then something brushed BOTH my feet, but this time it was so startling that I actually kicked my foot a little. It was just a reaction, I didn’t do it to be vicious for god’s sake but allegedly I kicked a bunny rabbit across the kitchen. Allegedly. A bunny rabbit. Roaming the house all willy nilly. There were several rabbits. What the eff are bunnie rabbits doing roaming the house? And why in God’s name would you not alert your visitors to the potential threat of bunnies nibbling their toes? Maybe I’m allergic. Maybe I’m phobic. Maybe I was mauled by a vicious, bucktoothed jackrabbit as a child which would illicit the football punt reaction that occurred. This is exactly what the bunny looked like. I’m not kidding:

Vicious effing bunny

Vicious effing bunny

Needless to say my clients were mildly horrified and yet apologetic at the same time. I felt really, really bad, but cage your vicious bunnies. And your snakes, lizards and birds, too. Don’t even get me started on the birds…

My last unfortunate appointment of the week occurred Thursday. It was enough to make me want to never do another signing again. Ever. I arrived at an appointment, in a less than desirable neighborhood, and knocked on the door. I could hear girls/women talking and I could hear the TV. No one answered. I rang the bell. I knocked some more. I could still hear the TV and women talking and laughing. I called the number on my order sheet. I could hear the damn phone ringing from inside the house BUT NO ONE WOULD ANSWER IT. I am persistent though, so I waited in my car for a few minutes, in case my client wasn’t home and had just left the TV on, although I definitely heard talking and laughing. I went back to the door about 10 minutes later and continued ringing the bell, knocking, and calling.

After a total of 22 minutes, TWENTY TWO, the door swung open. Standing just beyond the swing area of the door was a girl. A woman? I don’t know – late teens or early 20’s. She looked like a gangster. She was standing like a soldier “at ease” with her hands behind her back, as if clutching something. Something like a shank. Or a gun. Or a meat cleaver. But what was even more strange was that she had her head cocked to one side and she was just staring at me, with a calm yet homicidal look on her face. Immediately I had a feeling that my client was stuffed in a freezer in the back of the house or bound and gagged and tied to a chair. I hate that feeling.

Gangster Girl continued to stare for what seemed a long time, saying nothing. So I asked if my client was home and said that I had a 5 pm appointment with her. Gangster Girl slowly, and I mean VERY slowly, cocked her head to the other side and STILL SAID NOTHING. Creepy effing bitch. She very much reminded me of Dollface in The Strangers. You know, this one:

Gemma Ward as Dollface in "The Strangers" aka My client's gangster daughter.

Gemma Ward as Dollface in "The Strangers" aka My client's gangster daughter.

After an insanely long time she said “No one is home” and slowly cocked her head to the other side again. Okay, so it was a little creepy because I had a very bad vibe the whole time and technically I should have given her my business card, etc., but there was no fucking way I was giving Gangster Dollface my personal information. Not a chance in hell! I walked quite swiftly to my car and left and do you know what? She still just stood there. I don’t even know if she was my client’s daughter, but if she WAS the daughter then she needs a serious, SER.I.OUS ass-whooping.

This is why I hate my job. And I certainly don’t get paid enough!

**disclaimer: Yes, I am still very thankful that I at least have a job.

More Ridiculous Tales from the Signing Table

Posted in Working for a living, WTF? on July 26, 2009 by JustJennyRebecca

People amaze me. Sometimes they shock me. And occasionally there’s just good old fashioned disgust. The things I have seen, heard and smelled while signing loans is just ridiculous. Here are some highlights:

1) Captain Underpants – I arrived at an appointment 3 weeks ago and a lovely young woman with a baby on her hip answered the door. She showed me to the kitchen table and out walked her octogenarian mother. Maybe her grandmother. I have no idea. All I could focus on was this old woman in a t-shirt and underpants. She sat down right next to me, in her underpants, and signed her loan. The lovely younger woman didn’t say a word. In fact, she left me there in the kitchen, alone, with a crazy lady in effing underpants! What is wrong with people? How about, “Hey granny, it’s a little chilly, how about a blanket?” Another approach would have been, “Holy Mother Mary Jesus Fucking Christ! Go back in your room and put some fucking pants on! There’s a stranger in the house!” The possibilities of what could have been said are quite endless.

2) The Maggot Kingdom – This was the day I realized that I was NOT, in fact, the worst housekeeper in the universe. It almost made me feel better about myself. Almost. It also made me want to vomit. I arrived at a client’s house on a Monday morning. The woman showed me to the kitchen table. I noticed a smell. Not a mildly funky what-died-in-the-fridge kind of smell. No, no, no, it was more like the stench-of-rotting-flesh-wafting-up-from-the-basement-where-all-the-corpses-were-being-kept kind of smell. I know that’s pretty specific, but this was a very specific smell.

I also noticed the woman’s daughter sweeping the far side of the kitchen. Sweeping feverishly. So feverishly in fact that I thought she was a little wacko. I would like to point out that I am vision impaired. Not blind just vain, so I don’t wear my glasses except in darkened movie theaters or while driving because I can’t afford any more tickets or accidents (see previous posts). Had I not been so vain I would have noticed the kitchen floor moving and the psycho-sweeping was due to the fact that the floor was covered with MAGGOTS. MAGGOTS. MAGGOTS.

I politely picked up my bag and my purse, checked them for MOTHER FUCKING MAGGOTS and set them on the table. I also politely stomped my feet a couple times and rested them on the bar that ran between my chair legs. The mother explained to me that they had a family emergency on Friday and left the house without taking out the garbage. When they arrived home Sunday the MOTHER FUCKING MAGGOTS had taken over the kitchen. I was certainly in no position to CSI her story, but I can Google “life cycle of a fly” as good as the next person and I’m pretty sure that since the MFM’s (I affectionately call them that now) were no longer moving around in a mass, they were just going willy-nilly in all directions, they were at least 4, probably 5 or 6 days old… I could be wrong, but don’t contradict or correct me because this is my MFM story!

3) Crazy Cat Man – It’s usually a “crazy cat lady”. I don’t know why that is, but stereotypically it’s always a woman so I was shocked when the single man I was signing opened the door and immediately my eyes began to water and burn and my nose started to run. The stench of multiple cats is unmistakable. It smelled like 87 cats trapped in a garage with no ventilation. It looked like it smelled and the man was a pack-rat. There were no chairs, no table to sign the papers on, no counter available. Every square inch of space had something on it and that something was then covered in cat hair and feces. All the shit was covered in, well, shit. And urine. And hair. In his defense, I did arrive 10 whole minutes early. Maybe he was just about to clean when I knocked on the door. Bah ha ha ha ha!!! By the time I left that house I was covered in hives, coughing, sneezing and continued to itch for the rest of the day.

Have I said that I love my job? No? Well, I’m thankful I have a job. How’s that?

Tales from the Signing Table

Posted in Working for a living, WTF? on June 12, 2009 by JustJennyRebecca

I am a Certified Signing Agent. That’s fancy talk for “mobile notary” – très passionnant! As a notary, the most important aspect of my job is verifying someone’s identity. That’s all I do. Secondary to that, I am hired to close loans, mostly refi’s, but sometimes sales, purchases or other random legal crap that requires notarization. Now I realize that there are some people that don’t know what a notary does, but I’m pretty sure that most people have needed something notarized at least once in their adult life and should therefore understand that in order for your signature to be notarized you need valid ID. Valid, United States issued identification. Like a Drivers License or a State ID card, a US Passport or military ID. Your Costco card doesn’t work. Neither does your AAA card, Mexican ID or a Passport issued in China. What are the effing chances that I read Chinese? Pretty slim…

Recently I was hired to notarize some legal crap. When I called to confirm the appointment with the client, I reminded her that she would need her drivers license.

Client: I don’t have a drivers license.
Me: Do you have a state ID, military ID, passport?
Client: Oh, I have a passport!
Me: Perfect! I’ll see you at 8.

So I continued on with my day and showed up at the clients house at 8 p.m. on the button. We sat down at her table, she handed me the documents that needed to be signed, and I asked to see her passport.


Client: Oh, it’s at my mom’s house.
Me: Where does your mom live?
Client: Alabama…

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME???? At this point I’m having a Mean Girls moment… In my head I just lept across the table, wrapped my hands around her scrawny neck and successfully choked her.

Did she think that I asked if she had a Passport so we could bond over it? As if I would walk up to a random person and ask “Hey, soooo, uh, do you have a Passport?” Random person says “Why yes, I do…” Crazy freak me says “OMG no way! So do I!!! Wanna be Besties?”

Are you kidding me? It’s in Alabama? WTF you effing eff-tard!
Stupid but true. Love my job…

The First Day of the Rest of My Life

Posted in Working for a living on September 3, 2008 by JustJennyRebecca

Today I started my new job. I am a glorified secretary again, but I am pleased to report that this company seems to value their employees. They promote from within and they certainly don’t trap women in traditional roles. It’s commercial construction. It still happens.

I’m very excited about this place. Everyone is nice, laid back and casual. I stick out like a sore thumb. Today for instance, I wore a typical work ensemble. This would include a 3½” suede heel, cheetah print of course, and a cute skirt/shirt combo. Everyone else wears jeans and flats. Jeans and tennis shoes. I don’t have those. I own a pair of running shoes. They are for running. Not for wearing with jeans. I don’t understand. And my jeans are “bar” jeans. They are skin tight, low-rise, booty jeans. And they get worn with heels. High heels. Stiletto. Big Girl Shoes. Fuck Me Pumps.

Whatever. I can work out the wardrobe. I can deal. And aren’t you supposed to dress for the position you want, not the position you have? I want Business Development (PR, marketing) so I guess it’s OK that I’m a tad over-dressed. I decided.

So back to the first day of the rest of my life… I think the best part of the day came at about 7:15. This would be just 15 minutes after sitting down in my new chair at my new desk in my new office at my new job wearing my brand new shoes and my new gorgeous, delicate, white lace thong that just made me feel good, damnit! Apparently I didn’t get the memo from Mother Nature that my period would be starting exactly one week early with no warning, no fanfare, and no “save the date” card.

Seriously, can’t I have just one day? One day without trauma? Guess not.