Home ownership is something my wife and I have looked forward to for a long time. The chance to truly customize our own nest, to be lords of our very small manor. (As of now, we only have one unruly serf who doesn’t follow orders. See offspring, previous post.)
I’ve just learned that despite all the taxes we pre-paid during our closing, we get to pay more taxes.
“Those are supplemental taxes,” our mortgage broker told me.
“And we haven’t already paid those? What about the impound account?”
“No, those are for the increase in value due to sale.”
[pause] “This bill says it’s to supplement the taxes with the increased value of the house.”
“The borrower is responsible for paying those.”
[gargling noises as I clutch my throat]
What makes this hilarious is the huge tax benefit we will supposedly get by paying a mortgage. I can see my wife and I lying strapped on gurneys, a garden hose pumping blood from our withered bodies while the taxman stands at a distance, smiling and waving swollen bags of plasma at us.
“Don’t worry, you’ll get it all back!”
Uh-huh.
Despite all this, I enjoy owning a house. I found the original plans and specs tucked up in the rafters of the garage. The builder’s notes are there, and I can see how everything in the house is original, down to small cabinetry details. I plan to keep it as original as possible. In another hundred years, someone will be glad we kept the turquoise sink, the built-in cabinets, the bronze door hardware.
Of course in a hundred years, my wife and I will be grinning skeletons in the living room, teetering piles of bills all around, when a prospective buyer walks in.
“Didn’t they know they had an impound account?”
Writer, architect, father, husband.