Oh the Wells Fargo Wagon is a Coming ...

For those of you who knew my dearly departed mother, you know her life was a song (and the song was exciting) and you know for every occasion she had a song and you know how much...muchier...her soundtrack made your life. For those of us who are her children, whether by genetics or tutelage, we - all nine of us (although I probably shouldn't speak for Ben, as he's been gone for forever and a day) to varying degrees - find ourselves compelled to belt out a chorus inspired by or meant as accompaniment to the moments of our lives. In my humble opinion (OK not so humble) I have received the lion's share of this talent. Not only do I have a song for every occasion, and a mental lyric set off by nearly every word I hear, but the song is always the perfect song.

This week, all I can hear is (with GUSTO) "Oh the Wells Fargo Wagon is a Comin' down the street..." over and over interrupting and overwhelming my inner monologue. This, in turn, sets off the entire soundtrack from the 1962 musical "The Music Man." On so many levels, several of them unconscious, this is dreadfully en pointe. Because, OH we got trouble, right here in (or just out side of - and that's an important distinction) Los Angeles City.

Why is the Wells Fargo Wagon coming down my street? I'll tell you why. My family has been renting the home that we currently occupy for three and a half years. We have been paying rent to a landlord who has seen fit to NOT fulfill their financial obligation to Wells Fargo Mortgage for the past two years. Through hook or by crook they managed to stay out of the foreclosure process for quite some time, despite their non-payment of their mortgage. Now, don't get me wrong, I am in no way innocent of failing to keep current on some of my financial obligations. I do intend to fix that problem. And don't get me wrong, I am not oblivious to the nationwide financial crisis that has beset all of us, similar to how my mother's song and dance routine has visited itself upon all of her children. But these landlords were purposefully running a scam on both tenant and Wells Fargo bank to turn a profit on a home they had long since financially abandoned.

Several quitclaim deeds and quid pro se bankruptcies later, Wells Fargo had, sensibly enough, had enough. The property at last, despite assurances from the landlord that it wouldn't, sold at auction. Or, more properly, the property was repossessed by the bank. O-ho the Wells Fargo Wagon is a Comin down the street, I hope it has something for MEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!

Indeed it did. A week after the foreclosure sale occurred and the house transferred ownership from my landlord to the mortgagee a sweet-seeming young real estate agent appeared at my door. He informed me that Wells Fargo Bank wanted to know what date we would be willing to vacate the property, essentially forfeiting our right to 90 days notice to quit the premises, and a dollar amount associated with that willingness. President Obama has afforded me the right ot live in this home for 90 dyas, rent free, until I can find appropriate replacement arrangements for my family of SIX! I know, if Wells Fargo, or my former landlord had wanted me to have these four kids they would have issued them to me. But as this gent informed me that I could come up with any date I wanted "like August 15th" and any HUGE dollar amount I wanted "you could ask for $4000 and the bank might come back with $2500" panic mixed with white hot RAGE set in. For Brett (names have been changed to protect the identity of "the Man") I was willing to play the silly, stupid, somewhat desperate housewife. I informed him that I would take all this information to my husband and he would ultimately make the decision.

I am not a shy, retiring, submissive or uninformed person, but I can play that part. *I kinda stole this from Richard Russo, and I discuss my new penchant for stealing from him in my last blog entry - which I have yet to finish or publish.*

I shut the door on Brett, went to the pool with my four kids, my sister-in-law and her daughter, met some good girlfriends and spent the next three hours discussing with myself, inside my mind, what I might suggest the bank ought to offer to me for my quiet forfeiture of my rights. Thanks to all these ladies for allowing me to be totally insanely self-centered and thereby a bad friend.

That night my husband and I came up with what 90 days meant to us. "Seventy six trombones led the big parade, with one hundred and ten coronets close at hand." Thank you, muth, only our litany read more like: first and last month rent, our lost security deposit, short order movers, the aggravation of moving out of the neighborhood and the emotional toll switching schools may have on my boys. Wells Fargo Wagon, if you aren't bringing a bleep-load of benjamins, we are going to have to take our 90 days and save what we need to run.


"Pick a little, talk a little, pick a little, talk a little
Cheep cheep cheep cheep cheep cheep cheep cheep"

Our former landlord called and left a message saying that we were given wrong information and the home had not sold at auction to the lender and because of this we needed to discuss rent payment options. I called the real estate agent who represents the lender and asked him for proof of the transaction. Upon hanging up the phone, I visited the trustee's website where I procured these documents: Notice to Sale and Trustee's Deed Upon Sale which proved the persons with whom we had signed a lease were no longer the legal owners of our residence. My husband provided the so-called landlord with copies of these documents. The BALLS on this guy - he is lucky we don't sue him for our security deposit.

"Professor, her kind of woman doesn't belong on any committee.
Of course, I shouldn't tell you this but she advocates dirty books.

Dirty books!

Chaucer!
Rabelais!
Balzac!"

Here's the thing, our landlords have been preying on and banking on the tendency for the people they deal with to be less educated, less informed with respect to the law than they are. Which isn't saying much, as they are no legal eagles themselves. (BTW So are the banks and the real estate agents who represent them, but at least they have formal documents and attorneys whose legalese makes them seem like there might be something behind all that bullying. But it's still just bravura.)

"And the worst thing
Of course, I shouldn't tell you this but-
I'll tell.
The man lived on my street, let me tell.
Stop! I'll tell.
She made brazen overtures to a man who never had a friend
In this town till she came here."

Despite this they called again and asserted we still owed them.
The real estate agent for the bank chided us for having paid them rent at all, despite the legal fact that their failure to pay on their obligations has no bearing on our obligation to make good on our contract with the landlord.

"Oh, yes, that woman made brazen overtures
With a gilt-edged guarantee
She had a golden glint in her eye
And a silver voice with a counterfeit ring
Just melt her down and you'll reveal
A lump of lead as cold as steel
Here, where a woman's heart should be!

He left River City the library building
But he left all the books to her
Chaucer!
Rabelais!
Balzac!

{Refrain}

Pick a little, talk a little, pick a little, talk a little
Goodnight ladies
Cheep cheep cheep, talk a lot, pick a little more
Pick a little, talk a little, pick a little, talk a little
Goodnight ladies
Cheep cheep cheep, talk a lot, pick a little more
Pick a little, talk a little, pick a little, talk a little
Goodnight ladies
Cheep cheep cheep, talk a lot, pick a little more
Pick a little, talk a little, pick a little, talk a little
We're going to leave you now
Cheep cheep cheep cheep cheep cheep cheep cheep

Pick a little, talk a little, pick a little, talk a little
Farewell ladies
Cheep cheep cheep, talk a lot, pick a little more
Pick a little, talk a little, pick a little, talk a little
Farewell ladies
Cheep cheep cheep, talk a lot, pick a little more
Pick a little, talk a little, pick a little, talk a little
Farewell ladies
Cheep cheep cheep, talk a lot, pick a little more
Pick a little, talk a little, pick a little, talk a little
We're going to leave you now
Pick a little, talk a little, pick a little, talk a little
Cheep cheep cheep cheep cheep cheep cheep cheep
Cheep cheep cheep cheep cheep cheep cheep cheep
Cheep cheep cheep cheep cheep cheep cheep cheep
Pick a little, talk a little, Cheep!"




Au revoir les enfents! Today an attorney representing Wells Fargo served our family with a three day notice to quit the premises or PROVE we are the bona fide tenants of this property. THESE MUTHA F_____S just attempted to play hardball with the wrong woman. THEY DON'T KNOW 'BOUT ME, I'm Jessica D. I'm FROM NEW YAWK (yep I sorta stole that from my nephew johnny d.). I will leave here the day Obama says it is lawful for me to do so, and not a day sooner. I have abided by the law and now the law will stand by and for me.

Oh the Wells Fargo Wagon it a came down the street and it had NOTHING of interest for me.

AKA My Stalker

Let me pick up where we left off. Halfway through my glass of honeysuckle wine, which had been preceded by a share of the bottle of red that the five of us split, the alcohol in combination with my penchant for telling (or at least attempting to tell) a hilarious (and by hilarious I often mean horrible) story led me to tell the Moms who were there to celebrate another year of Moms' Club and discuss their memories of the past year about my stalker. Lane change.

Across the street, four houses down from where I live, there lives a sixty year old man. On any given day you may find his fire engine red, Ford F-One Billion, complete with hydraulics and contractor rack (though it appears to never have been used to do a lick of work in its life) parked on the street. He is there, air lat's and leathery fake-n-bake tan in full effect, clad in nothing but euro-shorts (too short, but not quite short enough to be daisy dukes) the same blue wife-beater, as ever (does he have a closet full of these uniform items?) gently, lovingly, painstakingly washing, drying, waxing and inspecting "big red". On the off-chance "big red" has already passed inspection, he may instead be giving his boat or jet skis or even his driveway a spa day.

I have lived here for over three years. He has lived there for at least that long. Whether for exercise or for lack of other transportation, I frequently walk around the neighborhood. A girl's got to get to Starbucks, the parks, the pool, after all, and sometimes the only way to properly tire out your four sons is to make them walk a few miles a day. So, as you can imagine, I walk right past this guy on many an occasion. At first he gave an appropriately timid, yet neighborly, "hi" as I strolled my then three children along the sidewalk. But my craze-dar is always on, and he pegged that meter all the way to eleven from the get-go. There was just something not quite right about him. Initially, I couldn't decide if it was scary creepy or just socially awkward euro-trash weird. As time went on I tended to think he was just socially awkward, definitely a loner (what with his only companions being the four wheeled variety) and certainly without the understanding of traditional American suburban boundaries: specifically the one that says don't hit on the mom of young children, especially not when she is ten months pregnant.

Yes, as time went on "hi" turned into "you look pretty today" along with its less polite cousins and while I like to think of myself as relatively hot stuff, I don't want THAT old dude (any old dude, really, but in particular THAT ONE, on this occasion) telling me about it. I wanted to shout at him, "WHAT about being 40 weeks pregnant and attempting to walk myself into labor for the fourth time, as if you CAN'T see the three children under 6 walking along with me says hot to you? Or is this some sort of testosterone fueled vestige of animal instinct at work here. What I look fertile? Might as well plant in that field as well?" I know it sounds vulgar, but given my pregnant mind, raging hormones and short fuse for old lecherous neighbors that was the PG version of what I was ACTUALLY thinking.

None of that, as annoying as it was, had yet catapulted him to stalker status. He gained that illustrious title only a few weeks ago. I was on my way home from Starbucks, with a pit stop at the little park, when I saw him doing a new chore-sweeping the sidewalk. I was tempted to give him high marks for cleanliness and diligence, when I realized - a moment too late- this was only a prop to give him an excuse to be on the sidewalk concurrently with my little group.

As he blocked our passage with his "sweeping" he asked, "You going to the pool today?" "No, not today," I replied. "Oh, really, I was hoping you were." He said it as if in saying it he might convince me to reconsider and go to the pool so that his hopes would not have been in vain. Preying on the human tendency to desire to be liked, to be perceived as nice, pleasant, pleasing...that tendency which is all too often far too present and prominent in women.

"Not going, got to get ALL these tired KIDS home." I started walking again, and while it was hard to get the double-wide MacLaren past his air lat's and broom, I managed to walk by with only one set of stroller wheels on the sidewalk - the other set suspended in air. He followed. "Are they both going to go sleep?" BOTH!!!!! DO YOU NOT SEE FOUR CHILDREN HERE? ARE YOUR THOUGHTS SO COMPLETELY EMANATING FROM YOUR little head THAT YOU CANNOT COUNT?????!!!!!!!!!!!!

I said goodbye out loud and walked faster but was stopped by my kids who have picked the wrong time to exercise safety first and were looking both ways for cars. "Is anyone else at your house? Are you alone?" came the friendly, Johnny Depp as Willy Wonka voice from behind me. And sheer dread swept after me. "I have to get home, I am expecting friends!!!"

I ran home, hoping that in the last three years he had not yet ascertained my specific address, ran in via the back terrace and called two girlfriends and begged them to come over. They did. We played outside with the neighborhood kids, making plenty of noise. At least it felt like we had strength in numbers. To this day I will not go to the pool unless I know another mom will be there, so he can't catch me all on my own.

Just as I finished telling this hilariously horrible story some guy we didn't know approached our group, informed us he was depressed because his team had just been eliminated from the World Cup, and asked if he could buy us a drink. Never the ones to turn down a free drink, we did not tell the waitress to return the drinks to the bar when she came out with a full tray. What we didn't suspect was that he was about to sit down, call his two self-important, auto-texting friends over and hijack our evening. But that is a story for another day.

The moral of this story arrives by way of my friend whose radar may be broken (and I say that in as loving a way as is possible, because she truly is super sweet and a wonderful friend). She was in a bible study with him some years back, and by her recollection he was just a sweet, genuinely nice older man. And the "nice" voice inside me begged me to stop being such a judgmental b-i. Despite knowing better, and in the face of this story I JUST TOLD, despite the fact that my instincts have never been wrong about anyone, I hear my outside voice saying something intended to paint me into a nice corner. Something like, "yeah, I guess he could just be a nice old weirdo." Coincidentally his ex-wife, who is one of this friend's good friends, came over her house the following day. Ex for a good reason as it turns out. He is a serious creep. A serious danger. Not to be underestimated as a threat. So ... for the record, sometimes nice is just overrated. Way overrated.