Welp, the stock market has gone SO berserk on news (presumably) of a bullying egotist’s election to the White House that happy days appear to be here again.
Yes, again. This month’s statements from my financial advisors show that my big IRA alone earned so much last month that the increase absorbed this year’s RMD (required minimum distribution) rip. The increase covered the entire $28,314 gouge with seven grand to spare.
Wow. Just wow. What else can one say?
Well. I could say I’d feel a lot happier about this if I didn’t suspect it ultimately will come at the expense of the American republic and of our children and our children’s children. But hey… let tomorrow take care of itself, eh?
Problem is, o’course, “tomorrow” is just a few hours away…
The credit union estimates that the downtown house M’jihito and I bought ten or twelve years ago (thinking he would live here about five years, get back on his feet after the penultimate recession, and then move back to San Francisco) is now worth about $35,000 more than we paid for it.
That’s nice. I guess. Well…except…
a) That ain’t what I’d call a grand return on investment (considering that we had to put about 40 grand into it to make it habitable…), especially after something over a decade.
b) At least we’re not underwater anymore, lhudly sing huzzah.
My son is refinancing the loan, which as some of you will recall was a 30-15 deal…because we thought he would be outta there long before the 15-year balloon came up, and we thought we were buying at the bottom of a downward-heading market.
What we thought was…so magnificently wrong.
The credit union locked in a very good rate just before the Fed raised its rate, causing mortgage rates to jump. So if he gets this loan, he’ll be pretty well set.
He’s writing me out of the loan, even more lhudly sing huzzah. This means that if anything happens to him, God forbid, I will no longer be on the hook for the debt. If he goes belly-up (highly unlikely, with this mega-frugal kid), I will not have to pick up the mortgage. If he croaks over (hello, God? let’s repeat that: FORBID, got it?), I presumably will inherit the house but not a hundred grand worth of toxic debt. I would probably break even on the sale of the place.
Sort of. I’ll continue to contribute, since without a wife or a partner he would have to strain every gut to afford the house payments. Financial Advisor points out that in his misspent youth he earned exactly what M’hijito earns and he could’ve covered those payments…but the youthful FA did not live in 2016. Nor did he face a future probably devoid of Social Security and Medicare.
It’s such a pretty little house, historic in its years. Mid-century middle-class tract housing, from back in the day when America had a middle class.
(Think of that!)
He invited me and the pooches over for dinner last night, whereinat he created a pretty awesome home-made chef’s pepperoni pizza. With the gorgeous mahogany French doors and the solid mahogany front door standing open (we built a courtyard in front to slow the dog’s escape and add some “charm”), on a balmy Arizona winter night the place was just beautiful. If I could afford the utility bills, I’d love to live in it myself.
Ain’t a-gonna happen, though.
It’s in the Arizona Public Service power district — APS is just freaking rapacious. His house is much smaller than mine, he has a swamp cooler, and he’s penurious in his use of energy, but his power bills exceed my summer bills by upwards of a hundred bucks a month. I know I couldn’t afford that…so (God — listen up! — forbid) if anything should happen to him, I couldn’t even begin to think of selling my own house and moving in there.
In the bidness department, it’s been a busy week. We have a very large project in-house — 475 pages, deadline January 31: the product of god only knows how many individual academic contributors, each of them fond of footnotes and references. Two proposed indexes came in; one sounds easy enough that I could probably manage it around the other project, assuming The Kid handles at least some of th’same. Together, they would bring in enough income to cover two months’ worth of target income for The Copyeditor’s Desk.
Which sounds nice until you realize we got hardly any work at all through the summer doldrums.
Alors… speaking of werk, now that the bedding is washed and several days worth of food is cooked and financial data (some of them) are entered and the hair is washed and set and the bathroom is cleaned and the kitchen is cleaned and the dog hair is laundered out of the dogs’ bed blanket and the pool filter is cleaned and the correspondence is tended to and a Christmas present idea is investigated and I still need to paint my face before tonight’s social event, it’s time to knock off the blogging.
And so, à demain…
Got a plan to hang on to whatever ill-gotten gains you’ve accumulated in the (no doubt brief) wake of the Trump triumph?
Image: DepositPhotos, AndreyPopov