Sunday, March 19, 2017
Too Big, Too Small, Too Much
The Stay/Go Analysis
Option 1 (stay in current house) --
Plus
Personal long history, much loved place.
Appropriate size for two -- compact, comfortable.
Well maintained and attractive.
Nicely upgraded finishes and features.
Well landscaped, well-used yard spaces.
At tail-end of (still useful) mortgage.
Minus
Neighbors too near -- noise, lights, cars, rentals.
Two story -- only half-bath downstairs; no downstairs bedroom.
Stairs to all outside areas.
High maintenance exterior (roof, trees, yards).
Not easy to clean.
Furnace, water heater, appliances are aging out.
Older, less efficient in general.
Requires significant, ongoing, upgrading/replacement.
Option 2 (build proposed house) --
Plus
Designed specifically for us -- our preferences, tastes.
Beautiful lot, located in neighborhood we love.
Pulls (otherwise dormant) high equity out of current house.
Increased space, privacy, viewspace and quiet, natural surroundings.
Most living space on one story.
Higher efficiency and convenience overall.
All new appliances -- all new finishes.
Low maintenance exterior.
Easier to clean.
Desirable neighborhood, where equity should rebuild.
Minus
Go back into debt -- higher mortgage, long term.
Requires landscaping usable yard spaces from scratch.
One less bedroom (although more square footage).
Option 3 (don't build; just move) --
Plus
Costs are more fixed, predictable.
Presume buy/move process may be less stressful overall.
Market slightly up, to sell current house and the (difficult) build property.
Minus
May not be able to sell property for enough, or quickly.
Inventory is limited here -- leave area to find desirable/acceptable availability.
Might not find an existing house/property that meets our requirements.
Unknown costs (likely that any existing house would need improvements).
Costs may not, ultimately, be less than building new.
Requires leaving neighborhood we love.
Settling for Plan B.
Option 1 (stay in current house) --
Plus
Personal long history, much loved place.
Appropriate size for two -- compact, comfortable.
Well maintained and attractive.
Nicely upgraded finishes and features.
Well landscaped, well-used yard spaces.
At tail-end of (still useful) mortgage.
Minus
Neighbors too near -- noise, lights, cars, rentals.
Two story -- only half-bath downstairs; no downstairs bedroom.
Stairs to all outside areas.
High maintenance exterior (roof, trees, yards).
Not easy to clean.
Furnace, water heater, appliances are aging out.
Older, less efficient in general.
Requires significant, ongoing, upgrading/replacement.
Option 2 (build proposed house) --
Plus
Designed specifically for us -- our preferences, tastes.
Beautiful lot, located in neighborhood we love.
Pulls (otherwise dormant) high equity out of current house.
Increased space, privacy, viewspace and quiet, natural surroundings.
Most living space on one story.
Higher efficiency and convenience overall.
All new appliances -- all new finishes.
Low maintenance exterior.
Easier to clean.
Desirable neighborhood, where equity should rebuild.
Minus
Go back into debt -- higher mortgage, long term.
Requires landscaping usable yard spaces from scratch.
One less bedroom (although more square footage).
Option 3 (don't build; just move) --
Plus
Costs are more fixed, predictable.
Presume buy/move process may be less stressful overall.
Market slightly up, to sell current house and the (difficult) build property.
Minus
May not be able to sell property for enough, or quickly.
Inventory is limited here -- leave area to find desirable/acceptable availability.
Might not find an existing house/property that meets our requirements.
Unknown costs (likely that any existing house would need improvements).
Costs may not, ultimately, be less than building new.
Requires leaving neighborhood we love.
Settling for Plan B.
Thursday, March 16, 2017
Chasing Waterfalls
When did the bathrooms multiply? Here in America, where one-per-household used to be the norm.
Whole families once timed individual needs, lined up, allotted the hot water. It mattered who followed whom -- especially if dad enjoyed cigars with his morning occupations. All personal stuff got transported, never left out on a countertop. Scrubbing the tub, after every use, was duty. His and Hers towels kept order.
Shared bedrooms were a thing back when too, and that concept fell first. The thin edge of the wedge, as privacy begat privacy. What if ...? Masterbaths emerged. Dual sinks, personal shelves, no kids allowed. But the kids had their own rooms by now, so why not their own bathrooms? And (come to think of it) why not separate masterbaths? His and Hers, revisited.
When multiple bathrooms became standard, gentrification of these facilities was the next step: the indoor spa experience. Showers offer steam, overhead rain effects, a variety of fixtures and nozzles. Deep tubs have jacuzzi settings. Fireplace? Why not? High-end bathrooms may cost more than your car (whatever your car).
But for the past few decades, it seems the average newly-built American house has featured approximately two and-a-half nicely finished, not overly extravagant bathrooms. A masterbath, a family bath, and a half-bath (meaning it does not have a bath) accessible to common areas.
Would, say, my family of two ever need so many? Well, that's not the point! Most of my life I've inhabited older, one-bathroom houses; my current house has 2.5 and this seems exactly the right number. (I've also lived in numerous abodes with NO bathrooms, and do not recommend this option.)
My first two-bathroom experience was a fluke. We leased a house that had, previously, been an upstairs/downstairs duplex. So, double bathrooms -- also two kitchens, two of everything. For just two people. At first, the downstairs spaces remained auxiliary, but gradually, they served purpose. Bathroom #2 became laundry room, mud room, dog washing room. Fridge #2 definitely proved useful, and when the upstairs dishwasher went on the fritz, I actually hauled loads down to its twin.
Turns out, if you build it, they will come.
Whole families once timed individual needs, lined up, allotted the hot water. It mattered who followed whom -- especially if dad enjoyed cigars with his morning occupations. All personal stuff got transported, never left out on a countertop. Scrubbing the tub, after every use, was duty. His and Hers towels kept order.
Shared bedrooms were a thing back when too, and that concept fell first. The thin edge of the wedge, as privacy begat privacy. What if ...? Masterbaths emerged. Dual sinks, personal shelves, no kids allowed. But the kids had their own rooms by now, so why not their own bathrooms? And (come to think of it) why not separate masterbaths? His and Hers, revisited.
When multiple bathrooms became standard, gentrification of these facilities was the next step: the indoor spa experience. Showers offer steam, overhead rain effects, a variety of fixtures and nozzles. Deep tubs have jacuzzi settings. Fireplace? Why not? High-end bathrooms may cost more than your car (whatever your car).
But for the past few decades, it seems the average newly-built American house has featured approximately two and-a-half nicely finished, not overly extravagant bathrooms. A masterbath, a family bath, and a half-bath (meaning it does not have a bath) accessible to common areas.
Would, say, my family of two ever need so many? Well, that's not the point! Most of my life I've inhabited older, one-bathroom houses; my current house has 2.5 and this seems exactly the right number. (I've also lived in numerous abodes with NO bathrooms, and do not recommend this option.)
My first two-bathroom experience was a fluke. We leased a house that had, previously, been an upstairs/downstairs duplex. So, double bathrooms -- also two kitchens, two of everything. For just two people. At first, the downstairs spaces remained auxiliary, but gradually, they served purpose. Bathroom #2 became laundry room, mud room, dog washing room. Fridge #2 definitely proved useful, and when the upstairs dishwasher went on the fritz, I actually hauled loads down to its twin.
Turns out, if you build it, they will come.
Saturday, March 11, 2017
Rising Water House
Houses go underwater when markets drop. Remodels get out of hand, chewing up equity. The value of the nicest house in any given neighborhood typically regresses to the mean. Real estate is risky business, even when cautiously and reasonably approached.
Why though, would one choose, upfront, to finance the building of a house that will cost more than its estimated market worth? Is the dream of such a house justifiable? Will fulfillment of that dream make one happy, or even happier? Is happiness even part of a rational equation?
Most custom houses just boldly go. The expectation is for the beautifully finished abode to be worth (at least) every penny -- every detail, an investment.
Project into some alternate future: You, selling. Neither real estate agent nor assessor acknowledge your valuation of said fabulous home. Are they blind? See here! You protest, offering thick files, delineating all the many tweaks and overhauls, all the loving care. Fond memories and affection are beyond official scope, but from where you stand, top market price is a starting point.
The Endowment Effect dictates that we value what we have more than others do.
Such a simple concept, and it buggers us all.
Project again: Would you be willing to pay the righteously ambitious asking price (for your beloved house) if you were the buyer?
Well, let's say yes. Done deal! Now, how long will your acquisition high last? Six months from buy-in, will gazing up at the warm, wood ceilings still spark an inner glow? Will those soapstone countertops (with integrated sinks!) brighten every trip into the (awesome) kitchen? Will waking up in the private shelter of redwoods (tucked away from sound or sight of neighbors) invite you deeply into presence and gratitude?
Alrighty then! I hear you.
Why though, would one choose, upfront, to finance the building of a house that will cost more than its estimated market worth? Is the dream of such a house justifiable? Will fulfillment of that dream make one happy, or even happier? Is happiness even part of a rational equation?
Most custom houses just boldly go. The expectation is for the beautifully finished abode to be worth (at least) every penny -- every detail, an investment.
Project into some alternate future: You, selling. Neither real estate agent nor assessor acknowledge your valuation of said fabulous home. Are they blind? See here! You protest, offering thick files, delineating all the many tweaks and overhauls, all the loving care. Fond memories and affection are beyond official scope, but from where you stand, top market price is a starting point.
The Endowment Effect dictates that we value what we have more than others do.
Such a simple concept, and it buggers us all.
Project again: Would you be willing to pay the righteously ambitious asking price (for your beloved house) if you were the buyer?
Well, let's say yes. Done deal! Now, how long will your acquisition high last? Six months from buy-in, will gazing up at the warm, wood ceilings still spark an inner glow? Will those soapstone countertops (with integrated sinks!) brighten every trip into the (awesome) kitchen? Will waking up in the private shelter of redwoods (tucked away from sound or sight of neighbors) invite you deeply into presence and gratitude?
Alrighty then! I hear you.
Monday, March 6, 2017
It's The Money
The prime directive my dad handed down was simple: "Don't touch the capital." I'm not sure if he ever said those exact words, so maybe it's in my DNA -- where it long lay dormant, while I didn't have capital to spend. Anyway, I didn't put money in the impregnable fortress my dad required. It came in; it went out. My main thing, for equilibrium, has just been avoiding debt. Paying bills on time, (often the nick of time) even when that priority dictated deft balancing. Saving also felt imperative, if only a thin margin of safety.
Our house project has slowly been shifting the numbers. So far, each incremental expense -- designing, surveying, engineering, permitting -- has been paid in full, up front; but once the digger shows up, everything escalates. There's no telling how long we'll be paying out, before we can move into (new) house A and sell (current) house B. Should we bite into the sacred capital? There are other ways. Strategies. Leverage. In theory, it all sounds quite do-able. Logical. Smart, even.
The trick is, trust. Trusting myself, that is -- my own ability to suck it up and sleep at night, despite mounting bills and interest payments. Timing is vague; pricing moves indelibly upwards.
How much bald-faced uncertainty are we talking about? We have estimates. They are not iron-clad. Even a fixed bid would be vulnerable to any change order, kicking in at "time & materials." So, don't change anything, right? This should be easy! After two years of planning, I mean.
Oh, but are still some grey areas. More than a few. Lots of decisions/purchases that cannot be made in advance. Choose a refrigerator model in 2014 and it likely won't be available in 2017, much less at the same price. (Buying it 3 years ahead of schedule, also not a great option.)
We are steadfastly treading a lovely looking, if hazy, path that may end abruptly at the edge of a cliff. Over a deep abyss.
Our house project has slowly been shifting the numbers. So far, each incremental expense -- designing, surveying, engineering, permitting -- has been paid in full, up front; but once the digger shows up, everything escalates. There's no telling how long we'll be paying out, before we can move into (new) house A and sell (current) house B. Should we bite into the sacred capital? There are other ways. Strategies. Leverage. In theory, it all sounds quite do-able. Logical. Smart, even.
The trick is, trust. Trusting myself, that is -- my own ability to suck it up and sleep at night, despite mounting bills and interest payments. Timing is vague; pricing moves indelibly upwards.
How much bald-faced uncertainty are we talking about? We have estimates. They are not iron-clad. Even a fixed bid would be vulnerable to any change order, kicking in at "time & materials." So, don't change anything, right? This should be easy! After two years of planning, I mean.
Oh, but are still some grey areas. More than a few. Lots of decisions/purchases that cannot be made in advance. Choose a refrigerator model in 2014 and it likely won't be available in 2017, much less at the same price. (Buying it 3 years ahead of schedule, also not a great option.)
We are steadfastly treading a lovely looking, if hazy, path that may end abruptly at the edge of a cliff. Over a deep abyss.
Friday, March 3, 2017
Real Estate
A forested stretch of land (somewhat bigger than a football field) has long remained wild, a survivor within city limits. Two decades of home builders gradually developed the surrounding neighborhood -- and the neighbors got used to that last bushy bit of hillside property being left that way. "I figured it was, like, our park," one commented. Not intentionally sly, just candid. Because it isn't a park. It is where our house will be.
For any undeveloped land, such an undertaking demands extraordinary consideration. Although ours is not extra virgin (having been logged, long ago) this place will be forever changed by our plans. Even though most of the property is designated natural area and won't appear any different, at one end of the lot some trees will come down, a house will be inserted. Disrupted creatures will move on.
Why do it? Aren't there enough houses? Maybe not what we had in mind, but adoptable -- why not rescue one of them? It's a fair question.
Where I grew up, there was an old estate nearby. I don't know acreage, but it was quite a spread -- big enough to be developed into a subdivision of fifteen-or-so large homes on spacious lots. Which amounted to a major loss for young me, because that land was my world apart. Forbidden territory (accessed through a hole in the fence) that once inside, unfolded magically.
An expansive, central meadow fanned out into memorable niches. One prominent outcropping (AKA: Starved Rock) was a gathering spot for games. Behind it, a sticky stand of pine trees was the forest. In a far corner, an old log cabin still stood -- the original estate dwelling -- tucked away from the mansion that once housed the estate owners. Their mansion had eventually become a convent; a statue of Mary guarded its neglected garden. There was a fort, a big hole really, hidden by tall meadow grass, outfitted with a ladder, some salvaged pots, detritus. Just once, I ventured over a shaded, side embankment, to discover a tiny valley, spectacularly covered in wild, blooming Black-Eyed Susans.
And then it was all gone.
Cleared and leveled, paved, it then became the series of construction sites that were my next fascination. Gradually, those homes were finished, families moved into them, and all traces of the land's original nature were erased. The Estate Homes (so christened) may still be there. Perhaps some have been razed and replaced with McMansions and tinier yards, but residences, for sure, because there are no "vacant lots" in that locale today.
These days, build-able, undeveloped land is harder to find anywhere.
So precious.
Irreplaceable.
For any undeveloped land, such an undertaking demands extraordinary consideration. Although ours is not extra virgin (having been logged, long ago) this place will be forever changed by our plans. Even though most of the property is designated natural area and won't appear any different, at one end of the lot some trees will come down, a house will be inserted. Disrupted creatures will move on.
Why do it? Aren't there enough houses? Maybe not what we had in mind, but adoptable -- why not rescue one of them? It's a fair question.
Where I grew up, there was an old estate nearby. I don't know acreage, but it was quite a spread -- big enough to be developed into a subdivision of fifteen-or-so large homes on spacious lots. Which amounted to a major loss for young me, because that land was my world apart. Forbidden territory (accessed through a hole in the fence) that once inside, unfolded magically.
An expansive, central meadow fanned out into memorable niches. One prominent outcropping (AKA: Starved Rock) was a gathering spot for games. Behind it, a sticky stand of pine trees was the forest. In a far corner, an old log cabin still stood -- the original estate dwelling -- tucked away from the mansion that once housed the estate owners. Their mansion had eventually become a convent; a statue of Mary guarded its neglected garden. There was a fort, a big hole really, hidden by tall meadow grass, outfitted with a ladder, some salvaged pots, detritus. Just once, I ventured over a shaded, side embankment, to discover a tiny valley, spectacularly covered in wild, blooming Black-Eyed Susans.
And then it was all gone.
Cleared and leveled, paved, it then became the series of construction sites that were my next fascination. Gradually, those homes were finished, families moved into them, and all traces of the land's original nature were erased. The Estate Homes (so christened) may still be there. Perhaps some have been razed and replaced with McMansions and tinier yards, but residences, for sure, because there are no "vacant lots" in that locale today.
These days, build-able, undeveloped land is harder to find anywhere.
So precious.
Irreplaceable.
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