R, S, U, and Z are for UNDERWRITERS checking credit REPORTS for SECURED Credit Cards which are ZERO Risk!
When our finances got “behind”, we considered selling our children on the black market, but realized this would be an impossible crime to hide from authorities; also, we very much enjoy our children’s company, so we really didn’t consider selling our children in any way whatsoever.
Seriously. We didn’t. I’m being For Realz.
Some fairytales have big ovens for cooking children; others have wicked ogres.
This one has an economic depression which no one will just freaking admit to. Upon coming to terms with the sad and unfortunate knowledge that our finances were fucked, we sat down with our bills spread before us. We then tossed them into the air and laughed while the cat chased the balls of paper around the floor. For we knew the papers were bullshit, and only decent for litter box fodder.
Alas, the papers kept coming.
Mostly they were medical bills, which everyone knows is a load of crap since, really, who can afford to pay the amount that isn’t covered by the mystical, magical insurance companies?
Sitting down at the loan officer’s desk, we explained their plight. Deanna, the money lender in question, pulled up our checking account on her mystical, magical computer screen, and saw that we had money inside of it. So you would think that getting a SECURED credit card would be no issue. None at all. Right?
Which I don’t even understand, because, HELLO — what part of SECURED are you not understanding? As in, “Here is $500 for you to place on hold just in case I fuck this credit card thing up. Therefore, you will be taking ZERO risk on me. Please, won’t you take my money?”
What is so hard about that?
Deanna of the lengthy black fingernails explained that our rotten credit history, of which we are well aware, would have to be explained to the underwriters in order for them to “approve” the SECURED credit card.
I said, somewhat incredulous, “I didn’t even know that getting denied for a secured credit card was a possibility.”
Deanna, that icon of reassurance, responded, “They haven’t denied it YET.”
“Bitch, how the hellz are you going to DENY taking $500 from me?” I didn’t yell, for which my hubz was quite grateful. I merely pursed my lips and said, “mmm.” I thought that was very mature and responsible-like.
T, V, W, and X are for the VERY frustrating Big THREE WEBSITE which turned me into a XANTHIPPE
Assured they would receive a phone call that night, they ran straight home to pull up their lousy credit reports. Which wasn’t easy, I assure you. Research had to be done. And ink for the printer had to be purchased. And addresses and mortgage amounts from decades past had to be recalled. Also? Those stupid code-things (the ones where you type in whatever jumble of letters and/or numbers you see in the box to assure someone on the other end that you aren’t a spam-bot) had to be dealt with, cursed at, spat upon, and “NO MATCH. TRY AGAIN.”
I knew there were three BIG credit agencies.
And I sorta-kinda knew they were sorta-kinda together-ish now. In a “not really” fashion. God bless them old Googles, because I couldn’t find anything by myself anymore. Here’s what I learned.
From the FDIC, which is like some world of finance insurance-y organization or something:
“The amended Fair Credit Reporting Act permits consumers to request a free copy of their credit report once every 12 months from each of the three major credit reporting agencies (i.e., Equifax, Experian, Trans Union). You can order a free credit report on the Internet here: www.annualcreditreport.com. Do not contact the three nationwide consumer reporting companies individually.”
So we went to that website.
Seriously, if you have moved around a lot in your lifetime and kept lousy records of previous addresses, there is a distinct possibility that you are maybe fucked. Thank goodness I have lived in Ohio for well over ten years now; otherwise, I wouldn’t have a freaking clue. I don’t retain numbers, especially bullshit ones.
Obtain all three credit reports — CHECK.
Check for errors — CHECK. Oh, shit. There is crap on mine that is totally bogus. Not identity fraud or anything dire along those lines, just a couple accounts I paid off about 500 years ago which should no longer be appearing as open and naughty. Fuck me.
Dispute nonsense — CHECK. You bet your sweet ass I disputed that shit.
Y is for YOU don’t need credit until you need credit.
I have my credit report. I have my credit score — mine is an abysmal 465, while my hubz is in First Place with a really sad 517. But WTF am I supposed to do with this shit now? How can I increase my credit score if I can’t get any credit? Deanna says we have to pay some shit off. That’s nice, Deanna, but the problem is this:
(a) We don’t have any more money beyond that which we offered you.
(b) I’m not paying a dime for shit that I know I don’t owe.
And that pretty much sums up my report.
My hubz has some crap on his that we should definitely consider getting taken care of. I’m talking about shit from way back in his bachelor days. Dude never kept a checkbook register before we got together. I don’t know how he managed to take care of himself prior to marriage. But I like his eyes and he has a seriously infectious laugh, so there’s that.
Why do we even WANT good credit?
That question came to mind as I sat fuming over this fractured fairytale. I mean, we aren’t buying another house. And now we aren’t even moving into an apartment. We only purchase a vehicle if we can pay cash-in-full, because fuck car loans, if you know what I’m sayin’. And by “vehicle” I mean a junker that doesn’t cost more than $2000. So seriously. What do we need credit for, anyway?
My hubz pointed out that bad credit will impede his job hunt, should he finally decide to kiss his employer goodbye, “kiss” being code for “give them the middle finger”.
UPDATE: We went through a different bank and were able to obtain SECURED credit cards without a credit check, DNA draw, thumbprint, or pee test. It was awesome! And now we’re on our way to cleaning up our credit even more quickly. Because it’s the American Way, and that’s just what you do. Or something.