Short Gift

Short sale sellers received a Christmas present this season from their former antagonists, the Internal Revenue Service (IRS) and the California Franchise Tax Board (FTB). The IRS and the FTB gave short sale sellers the gift of: Nothing. As in, “You owe us nothing.”

That’s the kind of nothing short sale sellers needed.

Before receiving this gift, short sale sellers could be taxed on ‘phantom income’.

Example: Frank and Laura Wilson owed more on their house than it was worth. Frank is a firefighter, and Laura is a health counselor. Frank’s department cut back his hours, and cut his income. Then Laura lost her job through government cutbacks.

“Here we were,” said Laura, “up to our necks in debt and underwater in our house.”

The Wilsons called the bank that had the loan on their house and were told they were legitimate candidates for a short sale, whereby the bank agrees to take less than they are owed upon the sale of the house.

The Wilsons put their house on the market, received an offer, and began the process of the short sale.

“It was brutal,” said Frank. “The person at the bank, our ‘short sale negotiator’, was like an evil slave-driver. I’ve never been inflicted with so much paperwork or heard so many demands. If you ever need someone tortured, hire a short sale negotiator.”

The Wilsons did close their sale, and the bank agreed to receive $50,000 less than they were owed.

“Then came the surprise we weren’t prepared for,” said Laura.

“The Tax Man,” said Frank.

The Wilsons had no idea they could be taxed on the $50,000 the bank agreed not to take. The forgiven debt was treated as ‘phantom income’ by the IRS and FTB.

“The Tax Man wanted $10,000, and the Tax Man is relentless,” said Frank. “The short sale negotiator is like Mary Poppins compared to the Tax Man.”

Just in time, Frank and Laura received their gift. As of this past December the IRS and the FTB no longer treat unpaid debt as phantom income.

“It’s strange but true,” said Laura, “we’re overjoyed that we don’t owe money for taxes on income we never received.”

“We got the perfect Christmas gift,” said Frank. “Nothing.”

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Doug Love is Sales Manager at Century 21 Jeffries Lydon. Email escrowgo@aol.com, or call 530-680-0817.

Dog Day

“That was really, really, scary,” said Janice.

“We could’ve been killed,” said Mark.

Janice and Mark were referring to the recent incident wherein a massive bull had charged the three of us in a pasture behind a ranch house they were considering buying.

“The place has bad vibes. Really, really, bad vibes,” said Janice as we drove away. She pulled bits of weeds from her hair with shaking hands.

We were now back on the road, after a break to settle the adrenalin rush, on our way to see another property I thought might be a good candidate for them to buy.

I pulled off the main road into a quiet tree-shaded country cul-de-sac, and up the driveway of a Tudor-style cottage home with a brick and stucco exterior, high-pitched tile roof, and tall mullioned windows.

Inside were high ceilings, tile floors, and plush bedroom carpets. At the conclusion of our inside tour, Janice stood in the center of the Great-Room. Shafts of sunlight highlighted the wood-paneled walls and brick fireplace.

“This place has a great feel,” she said. “I really, really like it. But we better go look out back.”

Mark was already in the large back yard, surveying the nearby properties for their bull population, no doubt. Although the place was adjoined by country property to the rear, none appeared to contain any livestock, and the homes on either side were of the residential non-bull type as well.

“Nice place,” said Mark.

“Oh, look,” said Janice, “what a cute dog. And not even barking at strangers.”

A Springer-spaniel in the yard of the next-door property rested his nose on the lower bar of the split rail side fence wagging his tail and his entire hind end, watching us with droopy brown eyes.

“Springers are sweet dogs,” I said as I walked over to the fence.

The Springer’s head shot forth through the split rail fence like a rattlesnake. He sunk his teeth into my ankle and ripped my pants as I pulled my leg away.

As we drove away Janice said, “Bad vibes, bad vibes again!”

Back at the office my mentor, the wily old KDV asked, “Did you find a property for that couple who were chased by the bull?”

“I thought so,” I said, “but it turned out to be a dog.”

Roof Life

I spotted a guy driving a pickup truck weaving through traffic, sticking his head out the window, looking up.

The pickup truck looked like it had been splattered randomly with buckets of black tar and dented by hammers and other blunt objects, which it had, because it was a roofing truck. The guy driving was John James Miskella, and he was looking up because he was looking at roofs. Half of the roofs around town had been installed by John James or his father before him, and he kept his eye on them like a dad watching over his kids.

I had called John James in behalf of my first-time buyers, Dion and Alma Sarafino, to provide a roof report for the house they were buying.

“A report?” he said on the phone. “I can tell you right now the doggone place needs a new roof. When they built that subdivision they hired out-of- towners who slapped those roofs on with cheap materials and hit the road. The ridge shingles are warped and cracked, and the valley flashings are rusted through. Those roofs are dying prematurely.”      

I now stood in front of the house when John James pulled up. He slid the ladder out of the truck, leaned it against the rafters and lunged up to the roof like a panther. I lumbered up behind him.

He kneeled at the peak of the roof and moved his hands lightly along the shingles as if he were gauging the health of a sick beast.

“What a shame,” he said. “Like I said, it needs a new roof. And I would feel better about the whole doggone thing if that separate patio roof got replaced, too. They used cheap roll roofing on it instead of hot tar.”

I wrote up a repair request. The seller agreed to replace the main roof but not the separate patio roof. Dion and Alma were disappointed.

“The patio roof will cost as much as three house payments,” said Dion,” but let’s move ahead.”

A week later I met at the house with Dion and Alma as John James was finishing up his job.

“Now that’s a good roof,” said John James.

“Wait a minute,” said Alma, isn’t that a new patio roof?”

John James nodded.

“But that’s not being paid for,” she said.

“I know,” said John James Miskella, “but now I feel better about the whole doggone thing.”

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Doug Love is Sales Manager at Century 21 Jeffries Lydon. Email escrowgo@aol.com, or call 530-680-0817.

Play Ball

Business over pleasure is understandable, but for me, business over baseball is unacceptable when the San Francisco Giants make the playoffs. A season when the Giants make the playoffs is as rare as hen’s teeth, to quote a saying by my Old Grand-Dad. If you were to recite all the sayings by my Old Grand-Dad it would take a month of Sundays. The list would be as long as your arm and I’m not pulling your leg.

The Giants were as hot as blue blazes and won their division for the first time in 16 years, so I was as happy as a dog with two tails. But like all long-suffering Giants fans, I was also as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a roomful of rocking chairs.

  

Right now I was as mad as a wet hen as I drove toward the country property to be sold by Jack and Ethel Birdson. I had been as dumb as a box of rocks for booking my appointment the same time as the opening playoff game between the Giants and the Cubs. I could at least, I thought, catch the first couple of innings on the car radio. But alas, as I left the valley behind, the radio reception faded until it was just as clear as mud.

The road was as crooked as a dog’s hind leg as I approached the mountain dale that was the Birdson homestead. It was as pretty as a picture and I would dearly love to list the place. But on my previous visit Jack had been as cool as a cucumber toward me, so I felt my chances were as slim as a broomstick. I wondered: How can I butter him up and make our relationship as warm as toast?

“Jack, you come down here, right now,” Ethel yelled. “Mr. Love is here!” She turned to me. “Jack’s as crazy as a loon about those Giants. He’s up in that big pine tree trying to get radio reception.”

Quick as a flash I was up that pine tree. “What inning?” I asked.

An hour later Ethel brought out a couple more beers for us.

“You guys are like two peas in a pod,” she said.

Yes we were, and we stayed that way as sure as the day is long.

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No Bull

Spring sunshine floated down through the sycamores and oaks and splashed upon the country lane, spreading dappled shades of yellow and green across the graveled surface. In the fields on either side, cows munched new spring grass, and calves hopped and bucked about the pasture.

My passengers, buyer clients Mark and Janice, sat smiling in a dreamy way. Janice said softly, “This place has good vibes.”

We rolled to a stop, stepped out of the car and drank in the air, a heady fragrance of almond blossoms, tilled earth, and a light bovine bouquet from barns and pastures. Janice took Mark’s hand and they strolled onto the long covered porch of the 1930’s ranch house. From its front-door oval window and glass door knob, to its stone hearth and hardwood floors, the place inspired confidence in its stability and structure.

“They kept it in good shape,” said Mark.

“It’s beautiful,” said Janice.

Sensing a sale, I felt the urge to recite the list of amenities included, like the new forced air system, the R-30 attic insulation and the updated electrical panel. But the voice of my wise old mentor KDV came to mind: “Never miss a chance to shut up, my brother. Give your buyer some room. Let the magic happen, babe.”

I meandered into the neighboring pasture alone to give Mark and Janice some space. They eventually joined me, smiling hand-in-hand. Mark said, “We've decided we want to make an off…….” He froze. The ground rumbled. I turned around and caught sight of a streaking mountain of quivering bull-flesh thundering toward us. Mark and Janice went one way, and I went the other, each of us diving through strands of barbed wire as the bull stomped and spun in our tracks, cross-eyed and crazy.

In the sanctuary of the car, Janice said, “That was a bad sign. I can’t raise my kids in vibes like that.”

“Let’s get out of here,” said Mark.

Back at the office, KDV said, “Did you make the sale, bro?”

I shook my head slowly.

“I’m surprised,” he said. “It sounded perfect for your people, and the write-up on the place was impressive.”

“Yeah,” I said, “but it turned out to be a whole lot of bull.”

_________________________________________________________________________________Questions or comments? I’d like to hear from you. Call 530-680-0817 or email escrowgo@aol.com. Doug Love is Sales Manager at Century 21 Jeffries Lydon.

Tiny

“Tiny House” has become part of the conversation for people looking for affordable real estate, people looking for a scaled-down lifestyle.

A Tiny House is smaller than a shotgun house, a cabin, or a guest house. It’s smaller than your garage. A Tiny House is so small, as my old mentor KDV would say, you have to go outside to change your mind.

A Tiny House is the size of a shed, typically 250 square feet or less. But it has everything. The kitchen is there, the bathroom, the bedroom, the living area. Tiny House owners tend to pour their hearts and souls and creative flair into their design, construction, and decor. You have your Cape Cod, your Victorian, and your California Craftsman styles. You have your high ceilings, your natural lighting, and your energy efficiency. You have your low, low, low, utility costs.

Tiny House owners tend to say things like, “Living small emphasizes home life over home maintenance.”  And “We need to recognize what fills a home when the excess is cut away. Living small can free up your mind, your wallet and your spirit.”

Logan and Tammy Strobel built a to-go version of the Tiny House, 128 square feet, built on an 8’x16’ trailer with wheels. It’s a tall, cedar-sided beauty, fully self-contained, with an alcohol-burning stove, composting toilet, and walls insulated with natural wool. “We designed our home”, says Logan, “and it fits us like tailored clothes.”

Good thing their Tiny House is a to-go version, because it went. The Logans towed it from a city lot in Portland, Oregon to country property near Mt. Shasta in Northern California. A garden hose and an electrical cord from their pump house did the trick for utilities.

The simpler life, the less expensive life, and the smaller impact lifestyle are all part of the Tiny House phenomenon. If you’re ready to give up the man-cave and the lady-lair, the maintenance and the bills, the entertainment theater, the bonus rooms and frills, you too can leave a smaller footprint. You could make it Tiny.

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Doug Love is Sales Manager at Century 21 Jeffries Lydon. Email escrowgo@aol.com, or call 530-680-0817.

Fan Base

I met a Realtor at a convention luncheon in the Bay Area who seemed to think I would be impressed by hearing she did all of her business with celebrities. I was half-listening when she said something about specializing in a certain type of celebrity.

“My first clients were Will Clark and Vida Blue,” she said. “Ever heard of them?”  I froze, with my sandwich in hand, mid-way from the table to my face. She was referring to my two favorite players from my all-time favorite team, the San Francisco Giants, late 1980’s version. The sweet-swinging lefty Will the Thrill, and the fire-balling southpaw pitcher Vida Blue. Oh, I’d heard of them alright. They were baseball gods.

I looked at her and nodded slowly, my mouth hanging open.

“This one time at Candlestick Park,” she chortled, “I was in the clubhouse during the seventh inning of a game, getting papers signed by both of them for their separate deals. They kept running back and forth from the what- do-you-call-it, the dugout, like a couple of kids sneaking out of class. What a hoot!”

She looked at me for a moment and said, “Are you okay? You’re drooling on your sandwich.”

I was imagining myself as the Realtor for those Giants players. I would ask Will about his famous inside-out swing; how he managed to always get the sweet spot of his bat on the ball. I would get Vida to show me his two-seam fastball grip and his change-up that buckled the knees of the best hitters in the game.

 “You’re a Giants fan, aren’t you?” the Realtor asked me.

“How can you tell?”

“Oh, just the Giants pen in your shirt pocket, the Giants logo on your jacket, and the fact that you’re wearing a full-on Giants uniform at a real estate convention.”

“Good call,” I said.

She told me she couldn’t care less about baseball; that working with Giants players was just like working with anyone else.

“So what if they’re good at baseball?” she said. “They’re like a bunch of overgrown kids.”

She’s not worthy!  She’s not even a fan!  I thought.  

“But that’s probably why they like me as their Realtor,” she said. “I don’t think they would want me blathering on incessantly about baseball. Celebrities need a Realtor, not a fan.”
 

If that’s the case, I guess I would make a great Realtor for Miley Cyrus.

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Questions or comments? I’d like to hear from you. Call 530-680-0817 or email escrowgo@aol.com. Doug Love is Sales Manager at Century 21 Jeffries Lydon.