Miss Doxeh. Somebody really ought to get this hilarious chick out of that law firm and pay her ginormous bucks to write funny for a living.
What I do not heart right now: my working days. As I ranted in a late afternoon meeting that added a half hour to my already long commute, today was extra special, because I was seriously pissed off and disgusted by 10 a.m. Normally that doesn't hit before mid-afternoon.
I have a decades-long, firmly held belief that title company people are usually one step up from plankton on the cerebral sophistication scale, and I am always pleasantly surprised when I run across one that is both nice and competent and really knows his/her shit, and can think and solve problems and not just follow checklists. They are out there, and I adore them, the way I love the occasional sighting of a rainbow or a cute little bunny. I was pleasantly surprised by a smart, capable title company person last week, and we navigated some issues, and that deal closed, and whoo. She renewed my faith in humanity, at least the humanity in the form of title officers.
Today, the universe righted itself. I discovered a replat of a property by the very sneaky and devious and secret-decoder-ring woo-woo arcane method of checking the fucking public record via a county recorder's website. A replat showed up in the public record, a replat NOT, repeat not shown on the fucking title report in front of me. (If this is too real estate jargon-y, a title report shows stuff recorded in the public record affecting a piece of real estate, like plats and easements and other things, and a replat of said piece of real estate would most certainly be one of those things worth mentioning.)
So, "Hello, title company?" A deranged conversation ensued, in which, you can be very proud of me, I never used the word fuck, even when it was so truly, richly deserved.
Like when Title Person asked me where I'd found this alleged plat, with her tone dripping in condescending skepticism? Oh, how cute, you think you understand real estate? Like maybe it was scribbled on the back of a cocktail napkin, or a draft in someone's desk drawer, and I was such a dummy I somehow thought it was real? Count to ten, slow, deep breath. Put on pleasant voice: "On the county recorder's site," I tell her. She still didn't believe it existed. So I emailed a copy to her. She examined it, and then proceeded to argue with me that it couldn't possibly affect the property. Even though it says "a replat of..." and describes the property at issue, and is of record in the county, she proceeded to tell me it didn't affect the property at issue. Further deranged "Oh Christ are you KIDDING ME?"level discussion ensued. The entire conversation probably took a year off my life.
I don't know what I want to do next in my working life, but if I never have to talk to another goddamn title company, that would be a damn fine start.