That's what I'm going to title my Real Estate book. I've just been working all night at two of my properties. Nothing went right. Somehow these kind of nights don't come to mind when you're reading those books. I'm either going to be rich some day or bankrupt, but the in-between really sucks sometimes.
I've been working on a real-estate deal for a few months now. Many people respond negatively to my decision to pursue real estate as an investment. One such family member, upon hearing about the property asked, "have you considered the cost of replacing a shower or something if it breaks?" How stupid does he think I am not to have counted the expenses of running a multi-unit property? Sometimes people can say very rude things out of their own fear.
I was at the bank today, working with the lender on the property. His office was plain except for pictures of his grandkids and one motivational poster on the wall. The poster had a picture of a white guy dunking (which struck me as odd that a white guy could actually dunk a b-ball) and read, "If it were easy, everyone would be doing it." Of course, it's cheesy, but it struck a chord in me. The very fact that the natural response to real estate ventures is "I don't want to be fixing toilets" makes it lucrative. If everyone bought the houses they live in, then how could I be making money of rental properties? I'd be competing with every sensible person for good properties. As it stands, most the nation is content to give their money to someone else to invest for them. Someone who has no personal interest in growing their portfolio.
Are there other areas in my own life where I am taking the easy way out? Perhaps I'm missing out on the greatest joys in life by seeking comfort above all else?
I bought a duplex in May. You may remember a posting about the Bannock St. Witch Project. Well the witch turned out to be quite nice (maybe she's not a witch, maybe she's just really in to skulls). The other tennants turned out to be the worst nightmare for a landlord.
After finally getting the family out I, then, began to try and rid the house of the filth, smell, and overall funk. I hired a professional cleaner to take the front lines who said it was the nastiness house she's ever had to clean. She can't say I didn't warn her. I came in next to do the next wave of cleaning. In addition to the layer of sunflower seed shells, I found over 50 used Q-tips on the floor. I can't even imagine sitting in bed spitting my shells on the ground, having enough hygene sense to clean out my ears, but then throwing the nasty, used Q-tip on the ground.
Cleaning out the fridge was eye-opening. I found rotted tomatoes, unwrapped meat that looked like it had been there for a year, and a bag full of blood (I think there might have been a liver sitting in the blood).
I won't go on. I'm not trying to win the most disgusting tenant award. As I was cleaning I began to wonder what chance their children will have in life. There's no sense blaming society, poverty, or racism in this case. The family paid a pretty hefty rent for the place, lived in a decent neighborhood, and gets all the financial assistance the state and federal government can give because of their skin color. Those children were simply born to losers. No, it's not politically correct to say but there are plenty of losers in the world who will go nowhere and, unfortunately, will bear children who will follow in their footsteps until someone can help them out in a meaningfull way. Meanwhile, the government keeps throwing money at people who spend it on drugs, cheap beer, and Q-tips.
I heard a quote from Kofi Annan on NPR this morning saying that we won't start helping poor countries until we give $100 billion in aid. That's right, just keep giving money to loser governments who have no idea how to (or the desire to) improve the life of their people.
Analysis: We have forgotten that truly helping people is an essential part of being successful. We've traded the hard work of education, charity, and helping the poor and disadvantaged for contributions with a tax write-off. Until we truly help people in need, the rich will get richer and the poor will get poorer.
After an hour and a half of washing dishes, I must take a break before my hands shrivel up. "Why does it take so long?" You ask. Well, apparrently, I haven't, yet, caught up to the 50's and purchased a dishwasher. Not that I could even if I did have the money. You see, I rent. I pay extra money so my landlord can tell me that I can't modify the house in any way (this includes installing modern conveniences). So here I slave, serving my pennance for not making wiser fiscal decisions early on.
I've learned my lesson, though. This week I will buy my first house (provided nothing else goes wrong with the closing process). Actually, figuring I need to make up for valuable lost house investment time, I am buying a duplex. Not only am I leaving the drones of lowly renters, but I am being ushered into the Brahman state of Landlord. I aspire to be the world's greatet slum-lord. My subjects will love me and hate me. Their livelihood will depend on me and I will protect them for their subservient loyalty. Let them grumble and toil as long as their check is in my mailbox the first of every month.
There seems to be one thing standing between me and rental income bliss: The Witch. The Witch is the tennant who lives in the half of the duplex that Megan and I won't occupy. She seems to have a problem with people coming into her house. She attempted to refuse entry to the Inspector and I. She successfully barred the apraiser from seeing whatever it was she didn't want him to see. When I finally got in, the place was empty. I saw a room with a bare mattress on the floor, no paintings on the wall. The only decor was some skulls on the mantleplace. A few days ago I found out that she's so psycho that she changed all the locks in the house so no one else would trespass. Not even the owner (and my landlord won't even let me put in a dishwasher). Feeling bad, the current owner has offered to evict her. This is an opportunity that I jumped at. Not that I'm scared of her, I just don't want some kind of eviction curse put on me. The kind where I can't find a new tenant for a year afterwards. All that's left is to find some young, idealistic, urban-loving dapper who has no idea what it's like to wash dishes for longer than it takes to eat a meal. For that matter, longer than it takes to eat 5 meals.
Oh how I wish I could just put my dishes in the little drawer and make them disappear. At least I could hide them for a while. Back I go to serfdom...