After a lifetime of fiscal responsibility, I couldn't charge a cruller and small coffee right now. My credit is so trashed; I wish a Boy Scout troop would adopt it, like a litter-strewn strip of barren highway.

I have two relatives to blame: my Uncle Sam and my dad.

It's been two years since it first came to light that my dad, for whom I co-signed a home loan, had gone delinquent on his mortgage. His story isn't unique: The monthly mortgage payment suddenly shot up for confusing, bank-related reasons, his roommate moved out, his hours got cut, and like many Americans who previously had never shorted or missed a payment, he went deep into the red.

Just months after the birth of my first child, I was convinced the bank could take my house or even garnish my wages. I remember calling lawyers and getting advice as I walked my sleeping infant around a dirt track at a local park. I remember sobbing from fear and frustration.

Turns out, the bank can't take my house. And even if they could, they would be too disorganized to do it.

Four months ago, my dad moved into a mobile home park and asked the bank to formally foreclose so that the seven-year clock on my credit restoration could begin. Still, the bank hasn't foreclosed. We tried short selling, we tried refinancing, we tried everything that involved faxing, sending registered letters and being stuck in endless voicemail jails or talking to detached and overwhelmed banker-bots. Finally, my dad just moved out, with the promise that once he was gone the bank would foreclose.

Nope.

My credit is still lingering in a no-man's land, waiting for some last piece of paper work to satisfy the bank, one last piece that always becomes another.

Part of me just accepts this new life. I can't buy a car, and I don't care. I'll drive my Honda into the ground. I can't buy a new house, but I'm pretty sure I never want anything to do with homeownership after this fiasco. If a potential employer wants to check my credit, I just attach a letter explaining the situation.

However, as this debacle plods into its third year, leaving hundreds of pages of documents (and a few pints of beer downed and tears shed) in its maddening wake, it's the emotional component that sometimes creeps up on me. I know my dad feels bad, but let's just say his attitude about fixing the situation remains a bit laissez-faire.

I can't let it go: My dad, whose job in this life is to protect me, opened me up to this liability when he asked me to co-sign. Then, he let me down.

It's only money. It's not life or death. And my dad is probably the closest person on this Earth to me, edging out my husband only because of time served. As a grandfather, he has traveled the 12-hour trip to visit his grandson countless times, babysitting like a champ each time. And when my child was born, my dad was right outside as they cut me open, terrified in the hospital corridor. According to my aunt, he wasn't crying only out of joy for his grandson's birth, but also out of relief that his baby, his only daughter, was OK.

I know my dad loves me. I know his inaction on behalf of my beloved and formerly pristine credit is nothing personal. The process of accepting our parents for exactly who they are — the good, the bad, the fiscally irresponsible — takes a lifetime. There are days when I'm able to let it go completely and even convince myself that bad credit is meaningless in the scope of things. But other days, out of nowhere, some little part of me wants to scream at my dad, "How could you? You were supposed to watch out for me."

When I think about the time and patience and emotional investment it takes to repair the broken hope that we can fix our parents, seven years doesn't seem so long. I just wish I could start that clock. Now.

Teresa Strasser is an Emmy-winning television writer, a two-time Los Angeles Press Club Columnist of the Year and a multimedia personality. She is the author of a new book, "Exploiting My Baby," the rights to which have been optioned by Sony Pictures. To find out more about Teresa Strasser and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate website at www.creators.com.