FRAT BOY MORTGAGE GUY STRIKES BACK

***Disclaimer:  this post contains Adult Content, including language like ‘mortgage’, ‘insurance’, and ‘escrow’.  I’ll try to keep it amusing, regardless.  Reader discretion is advised.***

I’ve owned my house for a little over a year, and those of you who were around back then probably remember that the reason it hasn’t been longer than that was my mortgage guy, who was, by my conservative estimate, The Worst.

I called him Frat Boy Mortgage Guy, for reasons that should quickly become apparent.  His real name was Brad.

Apart from the fact that he seemed completely clueless about how his job actually worked, and repeatedly lost my information and documents, his communication skills were epically bad.  Countless times, I would leave him frantic voice mails that went something like this:  “Brad!  HELP!  The loan officer says she needs a DNA sample, my preschool transcripts, and a live female goat slathered in hollandaise sauce!  Where am I supposed to get a goat?  I don’t even remember preschool!  PLEASE CALL ME BACK!!!”

Then I’d sit and wait anxiously for his response, which would come roughly an hour later and consist of a text message that said, “lol ur all good 😉 “.

My closing was delayed six weeks because of him.  But that was all in the past, and I’m long done with him now…or so I thought.

Okay, this is where the Adult Content is probably necessary:  Frat Boy Mortgage Guy was a broker, so after the loan was set up he transferred it to a real bank.  Then the bank does this thing called escrow, where they charge me a little bit of extra money every month, put it aside, and use it to pay my taxes and homeowner’s insurance for me every six months.

Yesterday was the first evening in months that I wasn’t rushing immediately off to rehearsal.  I planned to use it for some desperately needed yardwork.  Instead, I found this letter in my mailbox:

“Dear homeowner:  we were unable to renew your homeowner’s insurance because the address on the policy does not match the address of your house.”

Huh.  Weird.  As far as know, neither of those things had changed.  Just in case, I checked my roof for oversized bundles of balloons, but it would seem my house was in the same spot it always was.

I called the bank and told them about the weird letter.

“Huh,” the chipper customer service person said, “that’s weird, because we do have an insurance policy on file for you.  A State Farm policy for 5336 Austin Avenue–”

That’s not my address.  “WHERE THE HELL IS THAT?”  I interrupted her.

“I, um, can’t actually tell.  I can’t access the whole policy from my screen, the insurance department will have to do that.”

“From your screen,” I asked as calmly as I could muster, “can you tell that that’s not my house?”

“Yes, I can,” she said apologetically, “I can see that’s not your address.  I’ve never seen anything like this before.”  She got a sudden idea, and said hopefully, “maybe when State Farm sent over the policy information they just sent the wrong one?”

“That would be logical,” I said, definitely losing my cool now, “except that STATE FARM IS NOT MY INSURANCE COMPANY.”

“Well,” she continued sheepishly, “we’ve already paid it…”

“WHAT?”  I sputtered.  “WITH MY MONEY?  That’s not even my policy!  Whose name is even on that?  It can’t be mine!”

“Like I said, I can’t tell from this screen,” she said.  “I’m sorry, this is insane.  I’ve never run into this before.  I’m putting in a work order right now for the insurance department to investigate this immediately.”

“Well, what about my real insurance?  Don’t you have that on record?”

“Sorry, but no.  This is the only policy we have for you.”

“Really?”  By this point, I was frantically pulling up my insurance account online.  “Because according to their records, they’ve sent you at least two notices.”

“Sorry, I don’t know what to tell you.  Apparently we haven’t gotten them.”

Then, scanning through all the information on the site, I saw why.

The mortgagee’s name–the person who was receiving all correspondence, despite having handed the whole mess off to the real bank nearly a year ago–was Frat Boy Mortgage Guy’s.

“Sorry…I’ll have to call back,” I said in a growl worthy of Christian Bale in a Christopher Nolan film.  Hastily, I called my insurance company and had Frat Boy Mortgage Guy’s information replaced with the information of my real bank–then I had them send proof of insurance over via mail, e-mail, and even fax.

“Okay, so tell me,” I asked the very nice insurance lady after she painstakingly copied down the bank’s information, “was I supposed to be the one that told you guys that my mortgage was being transferred to this bank?  I’m trying to figure out who dropped the ball, here.”

“Nnooooo..” the nice insurance lady said, thinking hard.  “I’m not sure which side is supposed to tell us, but I’m pretty sure it’s one of the banks.  I’m certain the customer usually isn’t involved at all.”

With the various forms of communication en route, I called the bank back, and learned that it would be at least 48 hours before my proof of (real, live) insurance was officially in the system and properly paid for out of my escrow.  All involved parties were still mystified how–and I can’t repeat this enough–how the bank wound up using my money to pay for what was clearly someone else’s homeowner’s insurance, but I have a strong suspicion who to blame.

“Out of curiosity,” I asked, as the customer service rep swore up and down that the phantom insurance policy would be erased from my record before my next statement, “whose responsibility was it to let my insurance company know when my mortgage was transferred to you?  Was I supposed to do that?”

“No,” the rep said, sounding surprised.  “The broker usually handles that.  The insurer usually knows even before we do.”

ALL ROADS LEAD TO YOU, FRAT BOY MORTGAGE GUY.