Rethinking Home Ownership

Lately, I have been having a home ownership crisis.

Here are the (many) issues with my house:

• It is worth two pennies: I bought a house in Baltimore City at the top of the housing bubble. I didn't know at the time that it was the top of the housing bubble, but I found out pretty quickly that it was the tippy-tippy-top. Five years later, which is the timeframe I told myself I'd be looking to sell and move on, the house is worth $40,000 less than I paid for it. And that's being generous. Some estimates put it at $50-$60,000 less. But I try not to linger too long at those estimates, for fear of breaking out in hives.

• It is in a crappy neighborhood: When I moved, I bought in a neighborhood that was squarely in the city, so near a busy, bedraggled street with lots of liquor stores and carry-outs. But it was also very near a huge, green park, a city golf course and a man-made lake. I thought to myself, "This neighborhood has such great amenities. It is either on its way up or its way down." Now I know, based on the plummeting home values (see the first bullet) that it is on its way to hell, apparently.

And it's not just the home values. The neighborhood is just not ideal. It's safe, which is good, and still relatively nice-looking, with (mostly) well-kept homes. But consider just one 13-hour period, from last night to this morning:  A neighbor was sitting on the porch smoking cigarettes around 6 p.m., prompting me to have to close the windows in the living room, despite the fact that our air conditioner died on Sunday (more on that later). Teenagers were lighting loud fireworks around 9 p.m., when I was putting Clair to sleep, prompting me to call the police non-emergency-number [yes, I am that neighbor]. There were people arguing loudly on my street last night around 2 a.m., which woke me up. And around 7:15 a.m., a neighbor came home from his night job, pulled up in front of his house, and proceeded to sit there in his car, dozing, with his radio BLASTING.  God only knows why. This does not even begin to get into the trash that blows from the end of the street and settles in front of my front steps each day. Or the teenagers who hang out at the top of the block, scowling. Or the stinky alley with the incessantly-barking dogs. Or the lack of any good retail establishments, aside from the bookstore/cafe' where I take the boys from time to time.Or a public school where I would venture to send even my worst enemy's kid.

• It is too small: I had no way of knowing when I bought the house as a single woman that I would be married the same year (well, I knew I'd be married to Lester, but not that same year) and that just a short time later, we'd have three children within the span of two years. But all those things happened. And so the 3-bedroom rowhouse that was perfect for just me and him is now, in every way, too small. I fantasize about closets, a family room, a kitchen we can eat in, storage space, a bathroom just for us (not littered with toys), an office and a real backyard for the kids to play in. My kingdom for a 1st-floor powder room, oh gods of house-buying. My soul for a walk-in closet.

• It is old: I really liked the charm of the 1950s rowhouse when I bought it: The archways on the first level, the wood floors, the old-fashioned bathroom tiles, the chandelier in the dining room. But now, I'm paying for all that charm with the upkeep and maintenance that comes with owning an older home. So many small things are breaking, broken or falling apart I can't even list them. The wood floors are no match for the children and their toys. The plumbing - OY! And just this week, the 40-year-old AC compressor conked out. Bit the big one. To the tune of thousands of dollars. Please note summer started just four days before. Of course.

Anyway, because of all these things, I have now decided that the snakeoil salesman who sold me the line that home ownership was an "investment," sold me a bill of goods. I will never again go into buying a house with the idea that I am buying an investment. I will warn my kids that there is no such thing as a starter home.

Instead of buying my little Baltimore rowhouse, thinking I'd sell it in  5 years, I should have waited until Lester and I were married, so we could pool our money and buy a bigger, better  home in a better neighborhood -- a home we could imagine living in with a gang of small children. A home with neighbors we liked, and schools that were excellent.  In other words, we should have gone into our first home thinking it could be our forever home.

This:

Or this!

Or even this:

Instead of this:

Me in 2007. This sign should say, "I am an idiot."

Oh well. Live and learn, right? That's what I keep telling myself.

That, and "buy a lottery ticket on your way home from work." (Now THERE's a surer investment. :-) )