The (Almost Never Dull) Life of a Landlady
I am 39, and for more than half my life I have been a landlady.
I bought my first house at age 19, in the days (1970) when a charming two-bedroom house--on a view lot, even, and with hardwood floors--could be bought in Southern California for about $17,000, with $1,200 down! (That same house would be about $180,000 today.)
I had worked full time as a secretary/typist/receptionist during summers in high school (at $1.65 an hour), and the minute I got my paycheck, Mom (Pennsylvania Dutch, who remembered the Depression all too well) would grab it out of my hands and deposit it in the bank before I had a chance to blow it on clothes, as my teen-age friends were doing.
So, after some time, I had $1,000 saved up. I thought I was rich!
But Dad had other plans for my money. He explained that if I used the savings toward the down payment of a house, I could make a greater return on my money (from the rent, etc.) in a month than I could from the interest a bank would pay me in a year.
I had no idea what he was talking about (remember that this was a good decade before the Southern California real estate boom, and was rather out-of-the-ordinary for 19-year-olds to do), as he explained something about this “being a long-term, life-long investment” for me.
I cried all the way to the bank as I withdrew my $1,000 and turned it over to Dad. I vaguely remember thinking, “Well--he’s my father, for Pete’s sake--I should trust that he knows what he’s doing with my money!”
The house that Dad had spotted was $17,000--$1,200 down. He kicked in the extra $200 and I signed on the dotted line. At that time, I was told by a clerk in the recorder’s office that I was the youngest person in San Diego County to own property, and cautioned that I couldn’t sell the house until I was 21.
My friends were aghast. “You bought a house? “ Actually, I couldn’t believe how easy it was! After the rent surplus reimbursed Dad his $200, he was turning over rent checks to me, and after a year, I had made enough profit from the rent to buy another house.
All this time, while working on my teaching credential at San Diego State University I held a part-time job, too, saving up for even another down payment.
After that initial investment, I soon became intrigued by the market and read everything on real estate, from books to newspaper articles. I spent Sundays snooping around open houses so that I could soon recite verbatim the selling prices in any area.
And I studied the classified ads, which Dad had taught me to do, developing a “sixth sense” for a real bargain.
Today, I play landlady to a handful of tenants in houses and condos in San Diego and Indian Wells. I bought the desert property in 1975--completely furnished, for $26,500--when I taught school there. And I have managed it myself since moving back to San Diego in 1977.
Contrary to what my envious friends think, being a landlady is not all glory and glamour and riches. I do not spend my free time running to the bank and cashing rent checks or adding up my equity, as they think I do.
Being a landlady involves wearing many hats: supervisor (coordinating the plumber, the electrician, the painter, the handyman); counselor (hearing tenants’ problems--and advising); financial adviser (such as recommending that the tenant pay the rent before buying a new car or traveling to Paris); maid (I do all my own cleaning); bookkeeper (keeping track of receipts and payments); promotions director (creating rent ads for the newspaper, putting clever signs in window); boss (being firm with tenants when needed), and legal adviser (knowing all the landlord/tenant legalities and being fair).
I am definitely not in the property leagues with Leona Helmsley and Donald Trump and Merv Griffin, but I have my share of tenant anecdotes to share at parties.
Recently, for example, I had a vacant rental and needed to line up workers to do simple upkeeping: mow the lawn, haul junk from the back yard, pull weeks, paint the trim, clean the carpet.
Generally, I have been very fortunate with tenants--most of whom keep the places neat and clean and pay the rent on time. But there’s always that small percentage that give the biggest headaches--and in this case, the tenant had been evicted for not paying rent.
Considering the horror stories I’ve heard from my landlord friends, the house wasn’t left too badly.
In fact, the two deputies who served the eviction notice seemed impressed: “You should see some of the places we go to! Terrible messes!”
I made a quick survey of the house (after the deputies ascertained that the tenant--several months behind on the rent--had indeed moved). The carpet (only 2 1/2 years old) was filthy, the walls were smudged, the kitchen floor--fairly new--was covered with so much dirt that I couldn’t recall the linoleum’s original color. There was junk in the back yard: rabbit cages, the oven rack, tires, an old car seat.
Before running an ad to rerent, I called a carpet-cleaning company. They would not have to move furniture, I assured them. I vacuumed the carpet first--to remove the prominent dirt--and it made a difference. We set a time for the next day between 11 and 2, when the carpet cleaner would call me.
At 10:50 a cheery male voice called to inform me that he was “in the beach area finishing up a job and would be at the rental at 11:30.”
I got there at 11:20 and waited . . . and waited . . . until 12:40. No carpet cleaner. While waiting, I borrowed a neighbor’s broom to plow through the kitchen floor. After three good sweepings and the same number of moppings, it looked good once again.
I left a note on the door for the carpet cleaner and dashed home to see if he had left an emergency message on the phone machine. No message. A no-show.
I called another carpet cleaning ad in the newspaper. The man was polite as he listened to my frustrating story.
Carpet Cleaner No. 2 met me at the house the next day, gave a very fair estimate and did a good job. One problem checked off the long list.
I talked to a neighborhood teen-ager about doing the yard work. (He had in the past, and did a good job.) I discussed with him what needed to be done, and we set a price.
“Call me when you’re finished,” I told him, as I wrote down my phone number. “Then I’ll drop off your check.” He assured me that he would mow the lawn and pull the weeds “the very next day.”
Three days went by. No call.
I drove by the house. Same weeds, yard still a mess. No sign of the teen-ager. I left a note for him at his house: “Please call me today if you can still do the yard work.”
No call from Handyman/Yardman No. 1.
I looked under “Handyman” in the classifieds and called the number of an ad that said “free estimates: any job.” I gave Handyman No. 2 the address of the house.
Handyman No. 2 assured me that he would go there “right away” and call back with an estimate. By now, I was prepared to pay anything. (Well, almost anything.)
No call.
No estimate.
No yard work done.
Back to square one.
I found another handyman who agreed to do the yard work for $35. He told me to meet him at the house at noon, when he would be finished and I could pay him.
I was there at 11:45 and waited an hour. No sign of Handyman No. 3. No yard work done. Never heard from him. . . .
A prospective tenant looking at the house told me how much he loved to do yard work.
Could I hire him to mow the lawn?
Of course! He would be glad to--it was good exercise and enjoyable.
Prospective tenant suddenly became prospective Handyman No. 4.
How much would he want?
“Well, ya know, it would depend on if it was a push mower or a power mower . . . ‘cause, ya know, it would take longer if it was push.”
How much would he want?
Never could pin him down. (I don’t think he really wanted to do it.)
Now I have run an ad to rent the house.
Will the junk be hauled away?, prospective tenants ask me.
Will the yard work be done?
I read in People magazine that real estate baronness Leona Helmsley’s hired help not only can’t move fast enough to please her, but kowtow and tremble as she snaps her fingers. No junk or weeds in her back yard, I’m sure.
How in the world does she do it?
