Went to see my mom and brothers over the weekend, and what a nice weekend it ended up being, despite the furnace-like temps we're being subjected to, for what feels like going on an eternity. . . maybe hell really is on earth . . . I've got our house for sale. Yes, again. This time, hopefully for good. I have been "researching" all options for where I will go, if and when it sells, and the St. Peter/Mankato area is definitely an option. I'd love to be back in St. Paul, but the reality is, it is so f'n expensive to rent a decent house, in a decent neighborhood. Damn near what my mortgage is (and in some cases, even more). I'd like to find a small house, with at least a one stall garage and a small, fenced yard. My hope is to downsize and simplify this time, not make things more complicated. Been there, done that, don't need that t-shirt . . .
I'm going the short-sale route, we'll see what transpires. My hope is that my mortgage co. will see my situation for what it is, a true hardship, and allow me to bow out of my home gracefully and painlessly as possible, given the circumstances. Trouble is, I'm not behind in my payments—kinda trying to be proactive here, peeps, though I should know better, as I've discovered time and time again on this f'n journey, that doesn't seem to be the way the rest of the world operates, unfortunately . . . sorry, a little worstcasescenarioitis flare-up, there . . .
This has been a long, dragged out process, which is one of several reasons I've not written lately. Such an emotionally-charged decision, yet one that I finally have to reckon with, and I can't even begin to describe how difficult these decisions are to make, on my own. Our house is far too much for me, financially, emotionally, physically, and is slowly bleeding my dry, financially, emotionally, physically . . . losing Bob means an infinite number of things to me, but one glaring "real world" loss is a significant portion of our income. "Back in the day," when we were together—healthy, able-bodied and working full-time—maintaining this house and all the expenses connected to it were never an issue. Bob loved to head outside and "do chores," as he called it—mowing lawn, cleaning gutters, clearing buckthorn, hell, he'd even scramble to the top of the metal roof and clean the sky lights. I even liked helping him, as together, we could make short order of a big project . . . Now, I alone am responsible for the upkeep and expenses of a life/home that two once shared. Bob, with his capable body, is gone, his income is gone, but all expenses and responsibilities of this house are still very much here, for me to deal with . . . we've been in a dragged-out heat wave for weeks now, yet I lie awake at night, dreading our "pending" winter, which in my mind, is "just around the corner . . ." We lucked out last year; we can't bank on two winters like that, in a row. I am ecstatic that this heat wave without rain has kept the lawn care at bay. Usually, it seemed that no sooner would I have the lawn mowed, I'd turn around and start all over again. . . So, with those thoughts and a whole host of others in mind, I started thinking about my options: stay in the house, try to sell, try to refinance, rent it out, get a roommate, and on and on and on . . . You'd be surprised at the various other "options" I came up with: the man-cave behind the garage would make an awesome meth lab, for example. I mean, the dude on Breaking Bad seemed to make a rather interesting go of it (disregard the fact that he nearly dies at the hands of drug lords in every episode) . . .
As lonely and easy to isolate as it is out here, I thought, perhaps if I could refinance, it would make sense for a few years to stay put. I could then justify the costs of paying someone to do yard work, snow removal and other expenses/repairs as needed. I may even feel better about spending a little extra money to travel a bit . . . So, I contacted my lender to see if I might be able to refinance, short answer is no, because I'm not working. Long answer is still no, because even if I were working, my debt-to-income ration wouldn't qualify me for a refi. So option B is the "Obama Hardship Plan," (aka, Making Homes Affordable) where there are several ways to modify a loan for homeowners, to assist in keeping one's home. Again, the short answer to "Do I qualify for that plan?" is a resounding no, because I'm not behind in my payments, because my Freddie Mac loan doesn't qualify under the programs, because of a whole host of other reasons. So much for a real hardship. . . this process took about three days to get through, several long phone conversations to various entities, and required copious amounts of financial paperwork on my end, only to be told there are no options available for me, to try to stay in our house . . . I can see how someone would become so frustrated and daunted by this whole process that they'd just throw up their hands in despair. But I plodded along, damned and determined to find some solution to my circumstances . . .
I was eventually referred to my local county housing and development authority, for further assistance. Another three days, copious amounts of paperwork and dragged-on, tearful conversations later, and coming up empty-handed with a solution to help me stay in our house, the very kind woman who helped me through this process finally asked me, "How badly do you want to keep your home?" I don't, really, I told her. It's too much property, too much house, too much work, far too expensive for just me to be here much longer. "Well, the only other option I can see for you, is to try to do a short sale, but if you go that route, definitely find a realtor who specializes in them, because it's a long and tedious process and might still not work out for you, in the long run," she replied. A short sale basically means that the bank accepts an offer for a home that is less than what is owed, but I soon learned it's a helluva lot more complicated than that . . . she gave me the names and numbers of a few realtors in my area who specialize in short sales, telling me that the county doesn't endorse any of the realtors, but simply offer their contact info as references to start the process.
Thus, ensued another three or so days, contacting the realtors, talking with them and setting up appointments to go over my "situation." I tell you, some days, I'm astounded at how I downplay my circumstances, as though it's something everyone goes through on a regular everyday basis, and how guilty I feel, thinking there are others who have it so much worse, and that I should suck it up and figure all this out on my own. Until a stranger who, hearing our story for the first time, sits across the table at me, mouth agape as words tumble out of my mouth . . . maybe it's because I've just become numb to the circumstances, having told the story so many times . . . maybe it's because any time I've tried talking to our mortgage company, their response has always been, "How far behind are you in your payments." I'm not, see, I'm trying to prevent that, is always my answer, which seems to be the wrong answer, because to them, at this point, I'm not a hardship. Or, maybe it go back to the time, after Bob had gone through 12 weeks of grueling chemo, was down to 112 pounds, had had his second heart attack and countless other crises, and I was blogging like crazy about the horrific situation we were in, when someone had the nerve to tell my mom that I needed to drop the martyr act already, or no one would follow my blog any more, because everyone has problems, y'know. To her, we were not a hardship . . . or the time a client of mine told me, in the heart of Bob's ordeal, "Well, just remember, there are always other people who have it far worse than you do . . ." What we had endured, in her opinion, was not a hardship . . . anyhow I digress, as usual . . .
As I sat with the realtor whom I finally decided to work with, he stopped taking notes and said to me, "Jen, your situation is about the most difficult scenario I've ever encountered, and I've been working with short sales for several years now." He then said he commended me for being proactive, as most people wait too long to try a short sale, when the foreclosure process has already started, and by then, it's too late. I asked why any other realtor that I had spoken with after Bob died, about selling our house, had never mentioned a short sale to me. In their opinion, I was told, I would not get what was owed on our home, but if I listed with them and had to sell below what I owed, I, personally, would be the one making up the difference, which could easily have been in the 30-60 grand range. That was the deciding factor in pulling it off the market in January, and move back . . .
He said that many realtors hate short sales because they involve so much extra stuff—paperwork, time, information gathering, etc.—that most realtors don't want to be bothered by them. Or they simply don't know enough about a short sale to offer it as an option for someone in a real hardship situation. Suddenly, I felt like I was back at the U of M again, when everyone is shouting the battle cry, "You have to be your own advocate!" But how can one be an advocate when you aren't even told what allf your options are . . .
There is no cut 'n' dried process of a short sale, unfortunately; each circumstance varies wildly, and my realtor has seen all outcomes. "In theory," the process is simple: seller writes a detailed hardship letter to their mortgage company and fills out all the paperwork involved with the property as well as insanely detailed financial information, all as "proof" to the lender that the seller is, indeed, facing a hardship. The house is listed, an offer is made and the bank approves. Done deal. An appraisal is done, inspection is done, everything that happens in a "normal" sale is done, but then, if an offer is made, the hope is that the bank will accept the offer, and wash the difference. But that doesn't always happen in that way. Sometimes, the bank simply refuses the short sale. Sometimes the bank says they want the seller to pay the difference. Sometimes, the short sale drastically affects the credit history of a seller, especially if the seller is behind in payments, which in the past might have freaked me out, as I have stellar credit, and have been somewhat of a pitbull in protecting that . . . But, I've also gotten to a point where I don't place such importance on something like a number assigned by a credit reporting company any longer. I'm not behind on payments or any other bills, nor am I about to turn around and buy another house any time soon. I am simply trying to be proactive and hoping to avoid the financial disasters that so many people have ended up in, in recent history. . . I keep telling myself, "It's just a house, it's just a house, it's just a house . . ." In other words, the flip side to the hit to my credit number with a short sale is far more devastating an option . . . it's not worth going into financial ruin over, just because I'm having a little difficulty letting go of the emotional ties to the house . . .
So, as luck would have it, the week I put the house up for sale, my lawn mower broke down and the central air unit began leaking water all over the utility room . . . and I got an offer, less than two weeks "on the market." A ridiculously low-ball offer, but an offer, nonetheless. Ultimately, with a short sale, the offer doesn't impact me at all; it is up to my lender to accept it or not. And I can always say "no" if the bank says I have to pay the difference in a short sale. At which point, I'll start perusing the internet for a good meth recipe and set up shop in the man cave . . anyhow, more stories on the widow front, to come . . . I promise. Lucky you.
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