In October 2010, I became the luckiest girl in the world when I married my best friend on a beautiful fall evening in a garden full of family and friends. I was nearly as fortunate the next morning to jet off on a honeymoon in paradise (St. Thomas, to be exact). After a week soaking up the sun; sipping on the local drink of choice, the Painkiller (there’s a reason they call it that. I couldn’t feel my lips after number three); and being terrified of the 5-foot barracuda that lurked underneath the ships in the harbor, we headed home to the best sunsets I have ever witnessed – right here in Oklahoma.
Some abide by the old saying “the honeymoon’s over”, but after 7 months of wedded happiness, I was still basking in the afterglow. However blissful we were about our new marriage in the coming months had no match for the feeling that we were missing something in our lives. And no, I am not talking about the “We-Want-a-Baby-After-a-Mere-5-Months-of-Marriage” sort of missing. I am referring to the rather nauseating realization that our monthly 4-digit check we handed over to our landlord (a rather easygoing oriental man who unassumingly didn’t require a pet deposit for our 85 pound German Shepherd) was giving us no financial benefit in return.
We knew we were spending as much on rent each month as we would be on a mortgage. It didn’t help matters any that I work for a financial and retirement planning firm and hear EVERY. SINGLE. DAY. how one should invest their money in a home because it’s an appreciating asset. Pretty sure for the first 6 months at my job I didn’t even know what an appreciating asset was. Also contributing to the homeowner mentality is my husband’s career as an accountant – a self-proclaimed (and dead-on description, may I add) ‘numbers man’. He understands the ins and outs, ups, downs, and dismal abyss so known as the world of finance. We both fully comprehended the benefits of home ownership, but the question was, could we afford the upfront costs of owning one now?
After mentioning the idea to family and friends, we received mixed reactions. Our parents were utterly supportive, saying things like, “I would have KILLED to own my first home at 23!” and, ‘You go, girl!” (that was my mom). Friends, however, gave us that weird ‘I-Somehow-Don’t-Think-You-Can-Afford-This’ look. Very depressing considering they have no clue whatsoever about our personal finances. I fought the urge several times to wave my bank statements in their cynical little faces and shout, “HA! TOLD YOU!” at the top of my lungs. But worse than that were the subtle comments like, “Wow, I don’t know that I could test my new marriage with something as intense as building a house…” Long pause. At this point, I had given up trying to respond to people’s reactions --- and leaving me speechless is no easy feat, let me tell you. It was only after talking with my husband that he made me realize it didn’t matter what anyone else thought. If we knew we could afford it and were comfortable with the numbers, that was all that counted. He’s definitely my calmer (and more rational) half.
As we started to truly embrace the fact that we may be able to afford this so-called ultimate marriage test, we needed a place to begin. Lucky for me, I work for a man who dabbles in all sorts of businesses and just so happens to own one of the premier home building companies in the area and who has a stake in the bank lending those mortgages. Welp, luck be a lady…or in our case, luck be my boss on whose shoulders our financial future currently teetered. After talking with his assistant, we slowly saw the light. She told us interesting facts such as for every $1,000 you put down on a home you save a paltry $7 per month. 7 bucks?! Are you kidding me?! This HAD to be a joke. But it wasn’t. Suddenly our future home seemed more of a painting than a mirage. After budgeting, reconsidering, and budgeting again (there may have been a third time in there), we came up with a final number with which we were comfortable. I use the term “comfortable” loosely. When you’re handing over a check that forces you to write the numbers in the box far smaller than normal so they all fit, ‘comfortable’ seems a bit inappropriate.
After inhaling into a paper sack later that night and calming our nerves with some much needed wine, excitement started to set in. We were getting our very own house! Now, the task was choosing where we were going to put our humble abode. Lot pick was the first step, and luckily a choice came fairly easily. We had the pick of the litter, so to speak - a brand new section with construction to begin in the early weeks of June. Only 4 lots had been reserved at this point, with 26 left for us to stake our claim, but they were moving fast. As we stood on the red Oklahoma dirt analyzing various lots, we considered things like slope of the land, elevation, and whether or not a utility box would be in our backyard (my husband’s concern). After a few hours of hemming and hawing in the insane wind, I had the urge to simply plow a flag into the nearest ground that signified “Wentroth Territory – all trespassers will be shot on sight”. It felt very Land-Run-esque (although being out there alone with first pick made me feel like a Sooner - a horror I never want to actually experience. Crimson is NOT my color). Finally, we reached a decision among the few we had narrowed it to. A beautiful semi-pie shaped lot. It was one of the largest in the new section, with most of the backyard sitting against a greenbelt beyond our currently imaginary fence line – perfect for our dog who loves to play catch and run everywhere.
When we made our way back to the office with our decision, we were informed that we had chosen a premium lot. I didn’t know what that meant. Did we win a prize for picking the so-called ‘premium’ lot?? I wanted a prize at this point. A fire pit? Storage shed? Toothpick holder? None of the above. It meant we had chosen one of the lots that was more expensive than the ones not backing up to the greenbelt. The wind flew out of my sails – which is pretty remarkable considering it was blowing near 40 while we were debating which one to choose just moments ago. After re-crunching our numbers for what I was sure was the 25th time, we decided to keep the lot we had chosen. After all, you can’t just give back the piece of land you chose to build your first home on. It would be akin to leaving a lost puppy behind who was begging to be loved and sheltered. Heart wrenching, right? It was to us.
Christen, our amazing know-everything Home Helper (my nickname for her), marked the lot down as ‘Reserved’, but sadly declined to shoot anyone who trespassed. Instead, she ordered a sign that read “Future Home of the Wentroths” to put out front. Guess that will suffice in staking our claim. She then informed us of our next step – getting a pre-approval letter from the bank. Yipe. This was the part that I had somehow managed to shove (violently, may I add) out of my mind until the last possible second. We both knew we were extremely young in the credit world, and despite Home Helper’s words of wisdom and assurance we would be okay, Austin and I cringed at the thought of being rejected. Not only was it embarrassing, but we would be leaving our little lost puppy behind to which we had both grown so attached in the mere minutes we had known her. I couldn’t bear the thought.
The next day, we went to the bank and met with the mortgage lender. As he came out to greet us, I thought it was a mistake. He looked no older than we were, and that was a stretch. This “man” was a CPA? He barely looked as if he’d reached puberty, and HE was going to approve ME for a mortgage? Ludicrous. Once back in his office (in which I was surprised to find no Legos or Star Wars posters), we produced the customary pay stubs (painless) and waited while he looked up our credit score. Those ensuing moments were the longest (and sweatiest) of my life. I wanted to badly to reach across the desk, grab him by his well-appointed suit lapels and shout, “We can do this! I can prove it to you without a credit score!” I resisted. Instead I just sat there and let my palms become even stickier. It was merely a month before that we had finally found a credit card company willing to lend us some plastic. I imagined our dream home sliding away from us in the foggy abyss and just when it was almost out of my sight, I heard from across the desk, “Actually, you have nearly perfect credit scores for your age. Looks good.” Looks good. Huh. LOOKS GOOD?!?! I wanted to jump up and down on his neatly stacked papers and shout YIPPEE!! Again, I resisted. I settled for shaking his hand (hopefully mine weren’t too sweaty). As we walked out of the bank, I clutched that pre-approval letter in my hands like it was manna from heaven. I just hope my slippery palms didn’t smear the ink where it said “APPROVED”….I wanted that part to be fully legible. I think I skipped the last few paces to the car.
No comments:
Post a Comment