So, I realize that I haven't posted anything to this blog in quite awhile. Frankly, that's because there hasn't been very much to post. Ohh, things had certainly progressed...
Armed with the report of defects from my home inspector, I was able to go back to the seller regarding the issues with the roof. This was of particular concern and upset to me because the disclosure reported that it had been replaced in 2009 - only two years ago, when rubber roofs are supposed to last for approximately 20 years. (Fortunately for me, the seller agreed to pay for half the cost of replaced the roof via a credit to my closing costs. Whee, monies! Which, as I said, makes the world go round.)
I picked a contractor. Of the three I attempted to meet with, he was by far the best. He showed up on time, worked around my schedule, answered my questions, had the lowest estimate, and came highly recommended by my builder. The photos of his work were fantastic, as were the videos. Yes, videos. My contractor was featured on an episode of HGTV.
I submitted my paperwork to the mortgage company. To my surprise and dismay, it was decided that the property wouldn't qualify for a 203K streamline loan and had to be submitted as a regular 203K loan. This involves taking on a 10% contingency to the project in the event of problems and hiring a consultant to oversee the work done by the contractor before payments (known as "draws") can be made. And that was right about where the swearing started, because this change was announced to me by a consultant calling me at my office telling me he'd been hired for the job - by my mortgage broker, who neglected to tell me any of this. Needless to say, I was upset to the point that several of my co-workers here in cubicle land probably know way more about my finances, my home repairs, and my grasp of four-letter words, both foreign and domestic, than they ever needed to. Fortunately, it turns out that this consultant also came highly recommended by the home inspector, who it turns out the broker had called on my behalf. Now that I've been working with him for awhile, I actually like him a lot. And, lucky lucky me, he seems to have long-since gotten over the fact that I shot the messenger when he called by basically demanding, "Who the hell are you and how did you get my phone number?!?"
And then... everything ground to a halt. What was supposed to be a 45 day closing was pushed back three times. They needed this piece of paper. They needed that piece of paper. They needed that other thing over there that I had already submitted three times. At one point, when my boss asked how the process was going, I told him that I was expecting the mortgage company to ask me for my tax returns from 1979, bearing in mind the fact that I was born in the day-glo days of the 1980s. There were multiple agitated emails and phone calls to my mortgage broker who, although apparently fantastic at pushing paperwork through and cutting fees, seemed to have no concept of returning phone calls. Or emails. Or texts. At one point, the processor at his company actually told me he was no longer working there, less than a week before settlement, and that was why no one could answer my questions or explain my closing costs to me. (I think that was the point when I finally went "WHAT?!?" and actually yelled at someone on the phone. And once again, I'm sure my co-workers had a new-found discovery of my ability to morph into Megabitch, the Mortgage Mashing Monstrosity.) My closing costs had ballooned to almost twice what they were estimated to be and totalled more than I actually had in my bank account. There were at least three tearful phone calls to my mother, one massive blow-up with my boyfriend that almost resulted in him moving out, and more panicked texts to my realtor than I'd really care to count. (Thank you, Verizon text-messaging plan!) I had to threaten to back away from the deal more than once, probably gained close to five pounds from the sheer force of freak-outs messing with my eating habits, and got at least half a dozen stress pimples - which is the only time I have problems with my skin, which seems to be the one good gene I inherited from my parents. (Thanks, Mom!)
Things were pushed to the wire to the point that I was literally at the bank 45 minutes before closing to get my certified check, because that's when I found out what my closing costs were going to be. The office where I needed to go to settlement? Half an hour away. With my realtor waiting in an agitated panic outside, texting me to see where I was! And it turns out my closing costs were still wrong, thanks to them forgetting - despite three reminders - that I had paid the 203K consultant out of pocket and not to include that cost in my totals. Ultimately, the mortgage company owes me $700 for that and I keep making cracks about how if they don't pay up, I'm going to foreclose on them like this fabulous couple that foreclosed on a bank, found here. I think most of the problems I encountered can be traced to the processor and her spotty record keeping and, needless to say, I'm more than a little tempted to shriek that if this what every home-buyer has to deal with, it's no wonder the housing market is tanking. Frankly, it's a wonder I'm not bald from practically pulling out clumps of my hair. (Really, the woman deserves a good ear-blistering fit. Everyone involved in the process has looked back at her communications and record keeping and pretty much gone, "Umm. What the hell?" ) After all, this little blurb is just a tiny summary of the sheer amount of - let's be blunt here - bullshit I had to go through as part of this process.
But in the end, though, as of about 2:30 PM on October 25, 2011... I officially own a house. Let's hope it was worth it!
PS - A big thanks to the following for not choking the crap out of me while I was going on my Godzilla rampages through Philadelphia:
My Boyfriend, Who I Literally Shrieked At for More Minutes Than I Care to Count
My Mother, Who Doted and Fretted and Consoled Me Through All My Tearful Phone Calls (And Offered to Let Me Move Back Home)
My Realtor, Who Dealt With Every Fit-Throwing Text With Aplomb and Grace
My Mortgage Broker, Who Must Have Worked Some Kind of Space-Magic on Keeping My Closing Costs Low (Even After All My Cranky Emails)
You can find my realtor, Deb Nye, at Elfant Wissahickon Realty.
She's an awesome lady and, if you're buying a house in the Philadelphia area, should be your go-to girl!
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