Saturday, November 21, 2009
It's Okay To Dream Though, Right?
This morning I made the terrible mistake of looking at the real estate section of the paper. Now I feel totally fucking depressed. Without fail, every Saturday my good lady wife checks out the market, assessing prices per suburb, noticing the little fluctuations of value, and every Saturday morning I refuse to look at the same info - what's the point in dreaming a dream that will never come true? "It's good to know what's out there", she says. "To what end?" I wonder. It's like punishing yourself for a wrong you never committed. Anyway, with the missus and kid#2 away for the weekend, I thought I'd secretly check out the housing market (kid#1 was distracted by cartoons). So, feeling a little dirty (you know, like when you indulge the occassional urge to view some tasteful, if rather hardcore, er, 'adult' entertainment), but not in the least bit excited (unlike with said entertainment), I perused that most foul part of the paper. Now if my tastes are anything to go by, I'm in BIG fucking trouble! My dreams start at around the $1.3 million mark - and they are the fixer-uppers! The more I read, the more I was filled with dread.
A question: How the hell does anyone afford to buy a house? I work my arse off. I pay my taxes. I am an active and involved father. I treat my partner with respect. I love my family. I give to fucking charity. You see where I'm coming from here? I pretty much do everything right in terms of the values I was brought up with, and I still can't get ahead. Now, there's a pretty terrible message in all this, isn't there? IT DOESN'T PAY TO BE GOOD IN THE MODERN WORLD. After all the bills have been paid - rent, car loan, food, clothing, utilities, credit card, petrol, et cetera - there is nothing left for saving for the home deposit. There is no rich benefactor waiting to die to confer the required lump sum. Mum and Dad are not buying me a house for my 21st/marriage/whatever. The lotto odds are not improving over the 1-in-7,500,000 mark. As they like to say in the classics - I am totally screwed.
Pet Hate #1: (After the real estate section, of course.) Reading the "Money" section in the paper. If I see one more person writing in to Noel Whittaker asking for advice on how to manage their superannuation/savings/shares of a value exceeding, oh, I dunno, maybe $500 or more I will hunt down the person enquiring and fucking kill them! You know the type - "Dear Noel, (you can picture the fucker already, driving a souped-up erection substitute, writing his letter on his brand new G5000 iBook, sitting in his lavishly appointed sitting room) I have $3 million invested in shares, $250,000 in cash accounts, $2 million in superannuation, and other investments totalling $1.9 million - should I split my wealth into managed funds and real estate, or should I consolidate all into super and bonds? My taxable income for the last financial year was $750,000." What a fucking prick. YOU DON'T NEED FINANCIAL ADVICE YOU ASSHOLE! You already have everything you could possibly ever need! Thank you Noel Fucking Whittaker for giving these cumrags a platform to boast! You know what I want to see? I want someone (not me though, good Lord!) to write to our mate Noel and ask, "Dear Noel, I have a taxable income of $50,000. With the exception of about $60,000 invested in my employers' compulsory superannuation fund (which I can't touch until I retire, probably at around age 82), I have no money invested anywhere, a young and growing family, debts totalling approx $20,000, and about $30 in my pocket. Short of suggesting a lotto ticket, have you got any advice whatsoever for this Aussie Battler? No? Hmmm? Well? Didn't think so.