anonymous asked:

What's wrong with foreclosures? I noticed you added 'bcuz fuck that' in your tags of your last ask.

read these:

Vincent found that wearing a suit, tie, and dark sunglasses gives him an air of legitimacy, while Angel finds that a brown shirt, brown pants, and a brown baseball cap lend credence to his not-inaccurate statement that he’s got a delivery.

Angel once worked for a woman who needed to serve divorce papers to her husband, but hit a little snag when the man went on vacation – with his mistress. The woman had reached the end of her already-frayed rope and, with Angel’s assistance, hatched a plan.

“I told her to let him know she was getting a car service for him to pick him up at the airport,” he says. “I got one of those costumes limo drivers wear, I got a big blank piece of paper, and I wrote his last name. Then I waited outside the terminal with the sign, and as soon as he came to me, I pulled out the papers, like, ‘Here, Mr. Smith. I advise you not to go home, because your wife’s not too happy with you on vacation with the mistress.’ And he had the mistress right there next to him, mind you. I just turned around, threw the sign away, and kept moving.”

We Can Legally Stalk You: Life As A Process Server

Embrace Your Inner Leprechaun with a Green Home Loan Pt. 1

Just because St. Patrick’s Day is over for 2013 doesn’t mean we can’t still “THINK GREEN” …  as in green loans.  And better still, one doesn’t need to be Irish to reap the rewards of a green loan. 

Never heard of a green loan?  You’re not the only one. 

Keep reading

“Well that lady shouldn’t have lived in such a deadbeat-ish house.”

4 Cases of Mistaken Address That Are Too Crazy For Reality

#2. Idiot Bank Repossesses The Wrong House

When Kate Barnett arrived home from a two-week vacation, she was dismayed to find that the First National Bank in Wellston, Ohio had repossessed her home. The locks were changed, and her belongings had been either sold or destroyed. This would be a stressful situation for anybody, but Barnett’s situation was extra-unique, as First National wasn’t even her bank.

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so yeah
my house is basically in limbo. money has been really really tight for the past few years and we are on the verge of losing my house. and my family needs some help. this is the house that my parents...

hey guys, i’m really sorry that i need to be posting something like this in contrast to what i normally post but it’s something that i’ve been putting off for a long time.

basically my family is about to become homeless because we cannot get any money coming in. more info is in the link, alongside a donation button on the sidebar of my blog. 

it would mean the world to me to check this out, even to reblog this. a donation would be phenomenal, even the small ones. thank you. 


Kathryn Clark isn’t exactly a folk artist but her quilts use a folk art medium to express crucial issues within local communities. Here are four of her beautiful but haunting “Foreclosure Quilts,” which depict the impact of the foreclosure crisis on neighborhoods across the US.

“My previous work as an urban planner made me acutely aware of how big an impact the foreclosure crisis would have on our cities and towns throughout the United States. However, very little was mentioned in the news.

It was important to me to present the whole story in a way that would captivate people’s attention and make a memorable statement. Making map quilts seemed an ironic solution. Quilts act as a functional memory, an historical record of difficult times.  It is during times of hardship that people have traditionally made quilts, often resorting to scraps of cloth when so poor they could not afford to waste a single thread of fabric.

The neighborhoods shown are not an anomaly; they are a recurring pattern seen from coast to coast, urban to suburban neighborhoods across the US. The problem has not been solved, it is still occurring, just changing shape, affecting more of us.”

-Kathryn Clark,

a tribute to working kids

When I was 12 my parents separated. I said good bye to my father for the last time – knowing that when and if we saw each other next, the interaction would be fleeting, not important enough to be recorded or remembered. When I was 12 we lost our home. The banks would tell you that they foreclosed on us, we would tell you that they robbed us. We couldn’t make rent after spending years scraping together enough to climb the ladder from working class to working not-so-middle-but-almost-there-class. The economy crashed and so did we. My single mother abandoned her bank accounts, over extended all of the limits on her cards for meals to feed us and herself so that she could go to work to get money to get gas so she could come home to feed us and herself so she could go back to work. And dollars were so hard to use. We learned how to define basic needs at their core.

 I remember one time going to the store to buy a carton of milk and some meat. I remember that we spent under $10. And I remember how my heart clenched up knowing that I had dropped the other $20 somewhere in the store. I remember wishing that we could buy more but then was grateful that we only got what we could afford when leaving the store.

 So when I was 12 I got a job, a paying job. I had just started middle school and I had a job. I remember starting off only working on Saturdays and being told that if anyone asked I was 16. And then fall semester would end and I would start off in January working almost every single day. I would get paid the day after my mother and it would feel nice to hand her a few dollars here and there to cover our meals for the rest of the month or to cover the meals that we had last month since there were people who were kind enough, generous enough, to keep a tab for us.

My friends would ask me what I was doing outside of school, they’d ask me where I was going every day when the bus dropped me off and I hopped into a car sitting in the fumes of its urgency. I would tell them that I was going to work with my mom. I wasn’t going to work with my mom. I was just going to work. I didn’t tell them that my not yet 4’5” body was answering to the demands of grown ups, ringing up checks, and closing shops. I was not sharing with them all that I was learning that was an extension of my early childhood as a caretaker, as a caregiver. I was not sharing the shame or the weight, the heaviness or the relief, the language or the confusion.

We learned that ‘make do with what you’ve got’ meant ‘make do with the body you’ve got.’ And I learned how to sacrifice before I had enough for myself. I learned that that was ok and made it a part of my being – even when it hurt, even when it would later take me years to open up about the violences of my childhood, the unnerving circumstances of my growing up.

 So this is my tribute to the kids who have worked, who are working, who will work,

This one’s for the kids who know what working poor and working hard and working class means

It’s for our (migrant) brown bodies who have held the fruit of labor, that have simultaneously laughed off instigations of getting paid under the table as we sat under very large tables, that have defended our parents, our mom, our dad form accusations of inadequacy because we knew that they were trying their best and we knew that when so far removed from home, our bodies were made to know what labor means.

 We knew that capitalism was evil before we were politicized and we carried it in white envelopes of crisp bills and loose change. It had it spelled out in the places where our names would be written because when you’re getting paid under the table it’s best that they knew how to summarize product and consumer before identifying who you were.

 We have been taught how to work through the pain because it meant that after the pain came meals or snacks to make up for them, sometimes heat, sometimes water, and sometimes Sunday cartoons, and sometimes if we were lucky enough it would be a car ride to the mall to window shop.

 You know that I know about what we know, about what working kids know.

 So this is my tribute to the kids who have worked, who are working, who will work,

 My body will catch the vulnerability of your sweat-stained brows when you ask me to. My melanin will recognize you as my sun birthed, moon raised sibling. My skin will wait to greet yours, will extend to love yours, and will be honored to feed yours. My eyes will see you, will see you with love, with honor your truths. If my heart could write songs it would play to the rhythm of your strength and resilience. And I will sing. I will remember to remind my voice to call out your name and your worth.

 We are strong. Today we will talk about our history and our liberation. We are strong. Today we will talk about our bodies and our beauty. We are strong. Today we will talk about us, we will talk about us and we will praise ourselves and we will find that we have come so far, we have survived so much and we will reach out to one another to recognize that our circumstances have taught us greatly – great humility, great pride, great dignity, great compassion, and great love. We do this without shame and we do this without the complexities of blame and ownership, divestment and rejection. We do this to heal, we are doing this to heal.