Appraise The Lord

I got a call from a mortgage appraiser.

What it is, is that I carry a line of credit on my house in case anything hits the fan and I need cash in a hurry or can’t work for a few weeks, and in the process of rolling it over into a new line (they only live for ten years or so, like Rottweilers) the bank has to make at least a superficial appraisal of the property, just in case I razed the house and replaced it with a Bucky Bubble, or cut it up into apartments or something.

A lady from downstate Virginia rang my home phone, didn’t leave a message, rang my cell (which I never use), left her message there, and was lucky enough for me to hear the beep before the week was over. I called her back. She was clearly working from home. “Aw, scuse me honey, lemme go turn down the ray-de-o! Okay, now I can hear ya.”

Her job was to verify details about the house over the phone. I could have told her anything but probably they have ways of catching you. I actually know the lot number off the platt in my original deed, which is in a file that I went right to anyhow, to check. Appraiser Lady was gobsmacked. “I usually have folks ask me, oh, give me a couple days to get back to you, and they’re folks who bought a couple years ago, not back in the nineties like you,” she said. “And here we are twenty eLEVen! Just can’t think what the new year could bring! One day at a time, I guess,” she bubbled. “Now let’s see, I need your square footage, you know, hon, this don’t look right, I think they just doubled the first floor number…” “I have the appraisal from the last refi on my browser,” I said.

And so on, through the price of the HVAC system I bought three years ago, make and model, and outstanding repairs (“my handyman blocked out a date in spring to replace some of the fascia board.” “Flashing?” “No, fascia.” “Oh – soffits.” Whatever.) When we were done I wasn’t sure we were, at first, because she kept rambling. “I think I can get this back to them by close of business today, I really appreciate you bein’ organized like that. I hope you have some children that you taught those values to,” she said. Why would a nice lady wish such a thing on me? I wondered, but managed, “I have cats and they’re very organized… know right when dinner is due…” “Well you just have a blessed day, now,” she concluded.

Downstate Virginia. It isn’t like here. Or anywhere else.

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16 thoughts on “Appraise The Lord

  1. Our cats say they’re ready to eat all the time, just like our children did, just to make us feel bad. Hence weakness leads to obesity . Round your way they clearly already know who’s boss.

    You bowled out that nice lady on the phone (or whatever the baseball equivalent is). Next time she’ll know you’re boss.

    All to the world’s benefit, of course.

  2. Anytime I hear “bless” or “blessed” south of Pennsylvania, my danger alarm goes off because it’s southern passive-aggressive code. In this case it likely meant “Oh, so you don’t believe in the outdated idea that spawning is the pinnacle of womanhood like my Momma taught me? Well, have fun in hell.” But my translation could be off.

  3. I have a small annuity, 96,47$Can., paid monthly by SunLife. Every two years or so I get a letter asking me to tell them if I am dead or alive. Most amusing and it costs them more than what they pay me.

  4. I’m somehow reassured that people like this, with accents like that, actually exist outside American films. I keep meaning to come over to the Deep South to check, but haven’t quite got around to it yet. So, you know, good that its not too late yet.

    People who end conversations with ‘The Lord bless you’ or variants thereof are in short supply over here. Luckily for them, since they’d be in imminent danger of a response such as ‘And may Beelzebub crown you with glory’.

    • Oh, honey, you have no idea. I am related to people (I hope they have forgotten I exist) who speak in accents that would perplex the Angel of Pentecost.

      When my Albino Ex was first working for the US Department of Justice, in the 90’s, he was sent to a location in Georgia for some reason. He found himself in a hotel cafe at breakfast time, presented with a plate of grits and absolutely no idea what to do with them. As he told the story: “I poke em with the fork. They wiggle. I poke em again. They wiggle again. Finally I pick up the pitcher of syrup, and just then a big guy in a plaid lumberjack shirt slows down passing by my table and says, “You bes’ be puttin’ butter on them grits, boy.”

      He had a jacket with Northeastern University printed on it, which he probably should have left at home.

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