About nine months ago, Mark and I refinanced our mortgage. We did it to lock in a lower interest rate in an effort to save some money. It was a grueling, horrendous process culminating in the sale of our souls to the devil. A month later, the devil sold our mortgage to another company, a company I had never heard of before. A couple of months after that, the second company sold our mortgage to another no-name company. All along, we just kept paying the mortgage each month to whomever the current mortgage-holder claimed to be and kind of crossed our fingers. There have been some hiccups along the way, but no huge blunders.
Fast forward: this week has been challenging. The least of our problems is that we ran out of kitty money; we can’t even see the kitty money from where we ran. The money we spent this past week is laughing at our kitty money budget. Our much larger and more emotionally charged problem is finding a new preschool for Charlie because it turns out that not everyone thinks our energetic bundle of joy is such an asset to have in the classroom. It’s been tough. Two nights ago, I realized that I didn’t have a couple of the ingredients I needed for dinner, so Mark volunteered to go to the grocery store and while he was there, I sent him a text message that read, “Get some alcohol. We need it.” And, we did. I figured, if we’d already blown the kitty money, we might as well buy some alcohol to temporarily forget about the kitty money and everything else. Yup, I’m just that twisted.
Last night, however, I came home from work to a letter from our mortgage company. Enclosed was a check. A big check. A check for $807.09. The mortgage company is paying us, not the other way around. There was an accompanying brief note that said, “The enclosed check represents the overage from your escrow account. This amount was disclosed on your recent escrow analysis statement.” There are two things that concern me about this. First, we never got a “recent escrow analysis statement.” Nope. Definitely not. Second, and even more concerning, our property taxes went up this past fall by A LOT. In fact, I had been expecting to get a letter from the mortgage company at some point saying, “By the way, you know that obscene amount of money you give us each month? Not enough.” So, I have every reason to believe that there has been some kind of mistake, but the mortgage company’s office isn’t open until 8:30 Monday morning to sort everything out. So, until then, I’m choosing to believe there is no mistake. No, sir. That money is ours, and I’m going to spend the next 48 hours fantasizing about what we’re going to do with it. Maybe I’ll start by repaying our kitty.