I'm lying in bed yesterday morning, still half awake and fantasizing about Daniel Craig making me his sex slave, when I hear someone digging in my front yard. I put on a wrap and go outside. A stocky little man is digging a hole in the lawn, and a "for sale" leans on the retaining wall beside him.

Our landlord has said nothing about selling the house, so I assume this must be some kind of mistake. The stocky little man speaks about five words of English, which he mumbles to my tits, but does show me a work order with my address on it. There are five numbers in our street address, so I assume they were transposed and the sign should be installed at another house. I memorize the number on the sign and go inside to call the realty company.

I call the number, and a voicemail recording picks up. "This is Blah Blah Realty Company, your foreclosure specialists..."

The word "foreclosure" makes me a little nervous. I don't leave a message and hang up. I hunt down the landlord's number and call him.

His number has been disconnected and there is no forwarding number. I call the operator and manage to weasel out of her that the phone was disconnected for lack of payment.

Now I'm starting to get more anxious. I fire up the computer and try to find an address for Blah Blah Realty Company on the Internet. The only thing I can locate is the same number I called. I shower and dress, then try the number again. I get the recording once more. I decide to leave a message this time but don't say anything about the sign, which I'm now worrying hasn't been put into the wrong yard.

I call a friend who knows about real estate, and he calls someone who can check things at the courthouse. Twenty minutes later, the phone rings. Yes, the house went into foreclosure. It's now owned by a division of Washington Mutual.

I'm increasingly worried because I know several people here in Las Vegas who were renting properties that went into foreclosure and things ended very badly.

To find out what's happening, I try to call the local branch of Washington Mutual, which is impossible, because they use the same toll free number for all their branches and that's answered by clueless morons in India. They have no idea who I can contact to find out about foreclosed property. They suggest I visit a local branch of their bank. I drive over to the closest one, and the zomboids there don't know anything about foreclosed properties. All they have is the number for Blah Blah Realty Company, which is the same number I have.

I drive back home again and am more than a little disturbed when I see a sheriff's squadcar sitting at the curb. I see a very hunky deputy taping something to the door, and I have a very ominous feeling. (Even in a moment of impending crisis, I do notice him.) I park in the driveway and, with the car still running, I race across the lawn to see what it is.

An eviction notice.

I am ashamed to admit at this point I burst into tears. I rarely do that, and hate it when women sob all the time, but I can't help myself at this moment. Deputy Hunk is very understanding when I explain our plight: that we're renters, we had no idea the house went into foreclosure, etc. He says this is very common and has some advice about how we can extend the process and get a little more time before we have to move out. I can't even read the notice because my eyes are a mess, so I ask him how long we have before we'll be put out on the street.

"Five days."

I tell him the rent is paid through the end of the month, plus we prepaid the last month's rent, so that means we're paid up through October 1.

He explains that doesn't matter when a property has gone into foreclosure. He suggests I speak to a lawyer, who probably can get us an extra week before we have to move out. He again apologizes and leaves.

At this point, rage is beginning to replace anxiety.

I go inside and search the Internet for Washington Mutual's corporate headquarters. (They now call themselves "Wamu," which I guess they think is endlessly cute, but as my experience on the telephone will prove, they should instead use "WaMoron.")

After calling a whole shitload of numbers and being transferred endless times, I finally speak to the Assistant Vice President of Something who oversees foreclosures in Nevada.

"I'm sorry, miss, our policy is that all foreclosed property must be vacant as soon as possible."

"But we're perfectly willing to pay rent until you sell the house."

"I'm sorry but that's against our policy."

"You would make a lot more money if you rented out your properties instead of having them sit vacant. Every third house here in Las Vegas is for sale. You won't sell this house for at least a year or two. So why not continue to rent to us? We both have good jobs and always pay our rent on time."

"I'm sorry but that's against our policy."

"I hear on the news how your bank is losing billions of dollars and is in danger of collapsing. Don't you think you might actually try to make some money and rent out houses like this instead of losing so many billions?"

"I'm sorry but that's against our policy."

This is getting nowhere, so I just hang up on the fool.

So I hope you do collapse, Washington Mutual. I hope you end up in bankruptcy. Because you're a fucking clueless monolith and your management couldn't find their collective asses if they were sitting on their hands.

You deserve to fail and to fail miserably.

I spoke to a lawyer who will try to get an extension on the eviction. My flight attendant roommate isn't even in town now and isn't due back until Saturday. She, of course, is beside herself because most of the stuff in the house is hers. I have no time to find another place to live, so I'll have to move my stuff into storage and stay in a hotel until I find another house. I figure I'll move all the small stuff first, so that way if we don't get everything out by zero hour, the sheriff's deputies will move all the big stuff onto the sidewalk and save us some labor.

And one more time: fuck you, Washington Mutual. Fuck you in a great big painful way.

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