28 days remain until my house is foreclosed upon.  The lack of communication on the part of my lender, Bank of America, in regards to a predictable timetable for this calamity causes me to wander around the house with a certain sense of paranoia.  “They’re comin’ for ya when you least expect it,” is the thought circling inside my head on a daily basis.  When I hear a car on the street I immediately think it’s someone the bank sent to serve a foreclosure notice… or worse, the sheriff.  It’s not just the sound of an approaching automobile that contributes to my auditory delusions.  Almost any noise gets me going gonzo.  The whir of a lawnmower can easily be mistaken for the growl of an approaching bulldozer intent on removing my house from its foundation.  Birds chirping in the trees are actually a platoon of covert bank appraisers calling out signals to one another as they surround the house for a survey of its value.  I’ve even hooked my cat to a lie detector on two occasions because in my unstable mind he must be a turncoat.  Both polygraphs prove he’s either an expert pathological liar or I didn’t shave him down enough to get accurate skin conductivity readings.  

A few months ago this paranoia hit what I thought to be an all-time-high.  It’s 3AM when the sound of someone diving into my backyard pool startles me from a fitful slumber.  Rather than hunker down and assess the situation logically I decide to spring from the bed, select an appropriate self-defense weapon (a goofy, red lap-desk from Target) and throw open the back door to face the trespassers.  A lap-desk might be the most cumbersome of pressed wood weaponry but in my case it's within arm’s reach and therefore an ideal candidate.  The only other choice is a pillow and while prone to miscalculated reactions to poor decision-making, I am aware that a 3AM pillow fight with an intruder is not the anwer to this situation.  By the time I reach the backyard the perpetrator is gone leaving nothing but a series of wet footprints.  The audacity of someone finding amusement from leaping into the swimming pool of an already-paranoid foreclosee in the middle of the night gets under my skin like nothing else.  I know if I act quickly there’s still time to track down this prankster or pranksters and give them a good… lecture.  I rush back inside and quickly sort through my closet for an appropriate outfit.  Wasting time getting dressed is a calculated risk I’m more than willing to make.  If anything I was about to do resulted in the arrival of local law enforcement I do not want to be mistaken as the perpetrator.  Careful color coordination is an important part of the calculation.  Furthermore, I’ve seen COPS enough times to know even the most intelligent human being looks like a dumbass wearing nothing but a t-shirt and underwear in the middle of the street while hurling obscenities toward peace officers. 

As I make my way out the front door I notice a set of wet footprints leading from my side gate and across the street toward the neighbor’s house where I’m certain I’ll find a group of teenagers huddling in the bushes having a good laugh at my expense.  Following the footprints I find myself staring under my neighbor’s car.  Something doesn’t add up. In that moment I can choose to accept one of two realities: either a raccoon just took a dip in my pool or teenagers are really short in stature these days.  I choose the latter because the raccoons I know would ask me to turn on the pool heater before they take a dip and because blaming the youth for adult problems is a lot more fun than solving my own.  Little do I realize this won't be the last surprise to drag my butt out of bed.

It’s December 5th, 2009 (Saturday morning this past weekend).  An incessant knocking at my front door awakens me.  I’m groggy and startled at the same time.  Friends do not show up unannounced early in the morning.  If they do, they knock three times.  Unfriendlies who want you to answer the door knock at least five times.  KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK… again.  I sneak quietly into my living room thinking, “Shit, this is it.  The bank is pulling a sneak attack.”  My foreclosure was postponed the week prior but I possess no official documentation attesting to this fact.  Bank of America could technically foreclose anytime they see fit.  Does Saturday morning at 8AM fit? 

KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK… again.  I stand frozen with fear.  This knock belongs to either a process server from the lender or the sheriff who has come to boot me out.  The process server will eventually give up and go away.  The sheriff will not.  He’ll have a locksmith with him who, on cue will drill a hole through the door lock right in front of all my neighbors.  I wish I had my 3/4" drill handy so I could start drilling from the other side of the lock just to freak them out.  That little fantasy should be enough to land me in my next place of residence with free rent: the county jail.

Another five frantic knocks at the door force me to carefully peer through the kitchen curtains.  Lying motionless in the middle of the street is my good Buddy.  Oh no…  Not my best Buddy.  Now why would the Sheriff have to go and pick on an innocent bystander for my mortgage transgressions when he has nothing to do with this foreclosure?  I should clarify my misleading terminology:  When I say “Buddy” I’m referring to my Genuine Buddy Scooter – not an actual friend.  While this inanimate nerd-mobile reliably gets me from point A to point B, it is not counted amongst my trusted circle of confidants. 

The person knocking at my door is a watchful, caring neighbor who wants to inform me of what I am now already aware of.  I answer the door and pretend to be surprised at the site of my scooter overturned in the middle of the street.  She doesn’t need to know I was hiding out on the other side of the door she’s been knocking on for the past ten minutes.  With shock and dismay I thank her for alerting me and shut the door so I can let out a huge sigh of relief.  An attempt was just made to either steal my mode of transport or vandalize it and all I can think about is how grateful I am to spend another night in my house.

As I picked my scooter up off the street I felt beaten in so many ways.  I’m in foreclosure and I drive a scooter.  Isn’t that enough humiliation for one lifetime?  It’s like getting the tar beat out of you in front of the entire school and following up the embarrassment by peeing in your unfashionable brown, tweed pants.  Whomever did this to my scooter is just… ruthless.  I want to really own the humiliation outright so I’m considering attaching a tall pole with a bright orange safety flag on the back of the scooter and riding around town wearing ass-less chaps.  Unfortunately winter has arrived and I fear my butt will get cold. 

Word to the wise if you have a friend in foreclosure:  When they're at the height of paranoia over the impending loss of their abode show up on the doorstep at odd hours and knock loudly at least five times.  Some might call this cruelty but I call it exposure therapy for the foreclosed. Don't worry, your friend won't be angry once they answer the door and see it's you.  In fact, there will be the oddest appearance of happiness and relief on their face - one you probably haven't seen from them in months.