How to Build or Remodel a Home in Miami without Getting FK'd E-Book

Samuel Cuñado

• Herausgeber: Spines
• Kategorie: Lebensstil
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

In this vibrant narrative set in Miami's Pinecrest, a homeowner embarks on the Herculean task of actualizing their dream home amidst the frenetic building landscape. With wit and candor, the journey from lofty designs to structural reality unfolds, painting inspectors as gods and contractors as generals in a grand domestic theater. Each chapter reveals the intricate ballet of construction—from the intimate touch of luxury to the practical dance of mechanical systems. Here is the homeowner's odyssey, a fusion of triumph, challenge, and the pursuit of a personal Eden, resonating with hard-won wisdom against the Miami skyline.

Leseprobe

How to Build or Remodel a Home in Miami Without Getting FK’d

A Real Homeowner’s Guide to Surviving Construction, Contractors and Chaos

Samuel Cuñado

Miami was the Battlefield, but the war is everywhere

Samuel Cuñado

How to Build or Remodel a Home in Miami Without Getting FK’d

All rights reserved

Copyright © 2025 by Samuel Cuñado

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Published by Spines

ISBN: 979-8-90001-717-4

Disclaimer

To protect the privacy of the individuals involved and to maintain a clear and focused narrative, I’ve decided to use code names or fictionalized versions of real names throughout this book. Contractors, architects, inspectors, expediters, neighbors, and the occasional human tornado will appear under different identities. It’s not because I’m afraid of getting sued (that’s a joke… mostly), but because the goal here isn’t to publicly shame anyone. It’s to share what I experienced and what I learned with a bit of humor, a lot of honesty, and just enough sarcasm to make it all bearable.

Everything in this book is based on my perspective and my direct experiences with the people involved. Your experience may vary. Hell, their version of events probably does too. But this is my story, and these are the names I’m sticking to.

Chapter Index (A Chronological Journey Through the Home-Building Gauntlet)

1. Why This Book Exists

Because I Paid for Therapy and You Shouldn’t Have To

2. Welcome to the Jungle

Where Permits Go to Die and Contractors Multiply

3. The Fantasy vs. The Fuckery

Dream Big, Budget Stupid

4. Financing vs. Cash

The Devil You Know, or the Bank That Hates You

5. Finding Your Architect (Who Will Eventually Betray You)

Brought to you by Sketch Up and Gaslighting

6. Finding Your GC and the Least Shady Sub

Like Casting a Heist Movie…

7. Inspector Clouseau Wouldn’t Survive This Sh*t

The Kafkaesque maze of the Village of Pinecrest Inspections

8. Breaking Ground and Breaking Spirits

Start digging into your wallet, that is

9. Concrete, Steel, and WTF is That?

Structural integrity with a side of regret

10. Roofing and Wrath

A Thou Shalt Not Covet Thy Neighbor’s Trusses

11. Windows In, Budget Out, Doors Everywhere

A Thousand Pounds of Glass and One Emotional Breakdown

12. The MEP Bermuda Triangle

Mechanical, Electrical, Plumbing… and Your Sanity, Missing

13. The Great Wall of Drywall

Sanding Dust, Broken Dreams, and a Mexican on Stilts

14. Interior Wars

When Tile, Trim, and Trust All Crack

15. “Lawn & Disorder”

Your trees have more rights than you do

16. Inspector Roulette

Spin the Wheel, Get a Red Tag, Cry Quietly in Your Car

17. The Certificate of Occupancy

Celebrating and sobbing simultaneously

18. Move-in Day – More of a Crawl!

Sleeping on Mattresses, Showering in Chaos, and Smiling Anyway

19. The final reckoning

You Moved In, Now the House Wants a Word

20. When GCs live in Matrix World

He Lied. You Knew. You Paid. Now You Roll down the window

21. Homeowner’s Survival Kit – Pocket Edition

Duct Tape, Xanax, and a Burner Phone

22. Sub Acknowledgments

The Few. The Proud. The Ones Who Actually Delivered

Want to take this further?

Chapter1

Why This Book Exists

Because I Paid for Therapy and You Shouldn’t Have To

It was one of those smug, perfect Miami December mornings, the kind of weather that makes the rest of the country hate us just a little. Mid-seventies, dry, cloudless sky, a light breeze reminding you that paradise really does exist. But instead of enjoying a cafecito and staring at palm trees like a retired cartel boss, I was on the phone chasing a guy named Rico who had ghosted me for weeks. Rico was the subcontractor responsible for my aluminum perimeter fence. A five-foot-tall monument to missed deadlines and broken promises.

We were nineteen months into what was initially pitched as a twenty-two-home build. And that morning, my general contractor, whom I’d stopped trusting three crises ago, told me Rico had finally resurfaced. Miraculously. Like a low-rent Houdini in steel-toed boots.

The truth is that the fence was just the latest in a long, expensive, and increasingly surreal saga. Delays. Cost overruns. Disappearing subs. Permit purgatory. Communication breakdowns. And there was a general sense that no one, not the city, not the contractors, not the consultants, was ever on the same page. Somewhere between the missed inspections and surprise invoices, it hit me: if I were going through this, others would too. And most of them wouldn’t know what hit them until it was too late.

That’s why I wrote this book.

Not to vent (though trust me, that’s part of it), and not to scare you off from building or renovating your home. I wrote this because I wish someone had handed me a straightforward, no-bullshit guide to what I was about to step into. Something honest. Something useful. Something written by someone who actually went through it.

And not just for people building from the ground up. This is also for you if you’re taking on a full remodel, gutting your kitchen, redoing your roof, adding a second story, or tearing out your 1980s “sunken living room” to make space for a modern one. Because if the scope is big enough to require permits, plans, engineers, inspections, or more than one subcontractor, you’re stepping into the same maze the rest of us walk through.

This book is designed to help you avoid the pitfalls, identify the warning signs early, and emerge on the other side with your sanity and budget largely intact. It’s a part cautionary tale, part survival guide, and part playbook. My goal isn’t just to tell war stories. My goal is to give you tools: questions to ask, steps to take, and strategies to use before you sign that first contract, break ground, or hire the guy who “knows a guy.”

Because here’s the thing: Miami is one of the most exciting, beautiful, and brutally frustrating places in the world to build or remodel a home. The people are vibrant. The culture is electric. And the process? Utterly lawless. It’s a cocktail of Latin American improvisation, American bureaucracy, and South Florida dysfunction. If you go blind, you’ll come out broke, bitter, and possibly bald.

This book won’t fix the system. But it will help you navigate it. I’ll take you step-by-step through the entire process from permitting and planning to punch lists and inspections, sharing what I learned, what I’d never do again, and what might actually save you months of headaches and thousands of dollars.

Yes, I’ll rant. Yes, there will be sarcasm. But underneath that is hard-earned knowledge. You’ll find checklists, tips, traps to avoid, and things no contractor will ever bother to tell you because it’s not their money, and it’s not their house.

Because building or remodeling your dream home shouldn’t feel like surviving a hostage negotiation.

Welcome to How to Build a Home in Miami Without Getting Fucked.

But Before We Begin…

Let me say this: even though this book is based in Miami, what you're about to read probably applies to wherever you’re planning to build or remodel, whether that’s Austin, Atlanta, Seattle, Scottsdale, or anywhere in between. The names might change. The accents might shift. But the chaos? The loopholes? The contractor games? That stuff’s nationwide.

Miami happens to be the pressure cooker version. A flashy, fast-growing melting pot of ambition, dysfunction, luxury, and litigation. It’s become a magnet not just for people relocating from New York, California, and Chicago, but also for international buyers and investors chasing sun-drenched luxury, tax advantages, and $25 million glass boxes in the sky.

And with all that comes a gold rush of development, inflated egos, and a permitting process that could break a monk’s patience. But don’t be fooled, whether you’re building in Brickell or Boulder, Coral Gables or Calabasas, many of the same rules apply.

This book isn’t just about Miami. It’s about protecting yourself from the system wherever you are. It’s about keeping your dream project from turning into a waking nightmare.

So even if you’ve never stepped foot in Florida, don’t let the title fool you. If you’re dealing with architects, engineers, GCs, inspectors, or city officials anywhere in the country, or planning to, this book is for you, too.

Read it like a blueprint. Annotate it like a survival manual. Laugh when you can, yell when you need to, and above all, remember:

You’re not crazy.

The system is.

Let’s begin.

Chapter2

Welcome to the Jungle

Where Permits Go to Die and Contractors Multiply

Before I built the house that nearly sent me to therapy, bankruptcy court, and possibly prison, I lived just a block away in a perfectly decent, smaller home in the heart of Pinecrest, Miami.

Now, suppose you’re not from South Florida. In that case, Pinecrest is one of those leafy, deceptively peaceful villages where everyone drives a Tesla, raises trilingual toddlers, and posts aerial drone shots of their backyard mango trees. It’s affluent. It’s quiet. It’s basically where overachievers go to raise overachievers. Great schools. Wide lots. More Sub-Zero appliances per capita than most small countries. In short, a perfect place to live and an absolute circus to build in.

In that previous house, we did what most people do when they start feeling a little too comfortable: we remodeled. Bathrooms. Kitchen. Patio. We even converted the garage into a room. Small stuff in the grand scheme, but even those projects turned into mini soap operas. Permits took forever, subcontractors disappeared mid-job, and the budget had all the discipline of a kid in a candy store. Still, we chalked it up to the typical construction drama. You shrug, you swear, you finish the job. Right?

Wrong.

What we didn’t realize was that the dysfunction scales exponentially with the size of the project. If you double the scope, the headaches don’t double, they quadruple. It’s not a clean line. It’s a chaos parabola. A bigger build doesn’t mean “more of the same”; it means entirely new categories of problems you didn’t even know existed. Delays, yes. Cost overruns, obviously. But also: permit purgatory, inspection roulette, and a city bureaucracy that seems to run on expired cafecito and divine intervention.

(Quick pause: if you’re not from Miami or haven’t been blessed by the Cuban gods of caffeine, let me explain. A Cafecito is the sacred elixir of the 305. It’s a tiny cup of Cuban coffee that punches way above its weight. Think espresso, but stronger, sweeter, and served in a thimble-sized cup that somehow holds enough energy to power a small village. It’s not just coffee, it’s culture. It’s a ritual. It’s rocket fuel with charisma. And hands down, it’s the best thing Cuba ever exported next to Celia Cruz and “pastelitos”).

But hey, we were optimistic (read: delusional). In December 2019, we bought a one-acre lot with a house on it, if you could call it that. This thing was a certified biohazard. We didn’t even go inside before buying. Didn’t need to. You could smell the inside from the street. And not faintly. I mean, pungent “eau de cat” cologne that slapped you from 50 feet away.

The house was occupied by an elderly woman, recently widowed, who lived alone with what seemed like a hundred cats. Her daughter was based in New York, and from what we could gather, the woman may have been suffering from dementia. The place had deteriorated to the point where demolition felt less like construction planning and more like pest control.

Once the property was vacated, we started planning the teardown. But before that, my wife had the idea to post all the salvageable items on Craigslist: kitchen cabinets, windows, doors, anything that might have value. I laughed. Genuinely laughed. I told her no one in their right mind would take anything out of that place. It smelled like sorrow and bleach, and everything looked like it had survived a hurricane… and then a second one.

But she was right. People showed up not just from Miami, but from Naples and other corners of the state. One guy came from the west coast of Florida. He showed up on Day One to take the windows and spotted the toilets, baseboards, and door frames. “Can I take these too?” he asked. We said, “Sure, take whatever you want”. He was kind, respectful, and clearly thrilled to find usable materials. But what really caught us off guard was what he did next.

The following evening, just before coming back to pick up the rest, he called us. Not to confirm the time. Not to ask directions. But to ask us to call the police in advance and let them know he was coming. When we asked why, he said, “I don’t want to be arrested. I’m coming at night, and I don’t want them thinking I’m looting.”

That hit us hard. This man was doing honest work, with our full permission, and he still had to worry about being mistaken for a criminal for showing up in a decent neighborhood after dark. Welcome to Miami, where every moment there is one part Craigslist and one part moral gut check.

We hadn’t even hired an architect yet, but I wanted the lot cleared. I figured: get the demo done, clean up the property, and let it sit until we were ready with plans and permits. So, I got a few quotes for demolition. Most were in the same range, $25,000 to $30,000. I hired a company that seemed solid, and they did a good job. We paid about $23,000. But here’s the twist.

I speak Spanish. And once I started talking to the crew in fluent Spanish, joking, asking questions, just shooting the breeze, the price dropped. Not by magic. By vibe. It turns out that in Miami, pricing is a moving target. It’s not “Here’s our rate.” It’s “Let’s see if this guy is clueless.” Once they realize you’re not clueless, the rate suddenly becomes… negotiable.

It reminded me of the souk in Marrakesh. There, if you try to buy something and accept the first price, they refuse your money and force you to haggle out of principle. You’re expected to negotiate. It’s part of the ritual. And construction in Miami felt eerily similar. Say yes too fast, and they’ll knock themselves down to save face. It was the first clear sign that pricing here isn’t about cost, it’s about confidence assessment. The more Latin you sound, the more they assume you’ll call their bullshit. The more Anglo you appear, the more they think you’ll swallow it whole.

That lesson hit fast: your accent is part of your budget.

Speaking of demolition, before you swing the first hammer, you need a permit. And to get that permit, Pinecrest requires a whole tree and utility survey. That means every single underground line, septic tanks, electrical cables, city water, and every tree, big or small, must be flagged and documented. Once approved, the city physically shuts off water and electricity to the house. That’s not optional. That’s so you don’t light the place on fire or flood the neighborhood during demo.

This is because Pinecrest isn’t just proud of its foliage. It brands itself as “Tree City.” And they mean it. If you remove a tree, especially a big one, the city expects you to replace the canopy coverage, not just the number of trunks. That requirement comes back to haunt you later in the Landscaping and Tree Protection phase of the permit process. They measure how much shade area you destroyed and force you to replant enough trees at the end to make up for it, regardless of what your actual landscape design is.

So, when we took down a massive banyan tree as part of demo, we knew we’d be paying the tree karma later. But what we didn’t expect was the other banyan tree. A stunning, massive, healthy one we wanted to keep. Our plan was to build around it, make it a central feature of the property. The city? They wanted it to be gone.

Why? Not diseased. Not dangerous. Their explanation? “It’s not autochthonous.” (Translation: it’s not native.) Apparently, the city saw this as an opportunity. If you’re doing new construction from scratch, they try to squeeze in removals like this under the guise of code. Not coincidentally, removing a tree of that size would have cost another $3,000.

We pushed back. Had the tree surveyed, certified, and documented. Turns out it was over 99 years old. Before launching into litigation, I called the inspector again and asked him to come by with his team. This guy, late 50s, American, cocky, showed up annoyed that I made him walk more than 12 feet.

We argued. He repeated the line about the tree not being native. I calmly pulled out the certificate, handed it to him, and asked his age. “Fifty-eight,” he said.

Then I said, “So who’s not autochthonous? The 99-year-old tree that’s lived here through hurricanes and history, or the 58-year-old guy trying to get rid of it?”

He stared at the paper. Then, at my lawyer. Then, back to the paper. Said nothing. Signed the permit. Left.

Lesson learned: When someone’s lying to you with a clipboard, bring a witness, bring documentation, and make sure your best one-liner lands like a sledgehammer.

The demolition work itself? Surprisingly smooth. On time, on budget. Only one minor theft, though theft is probably too strong a word. My wife specifically asked the crew to preserve a gorgeous staghorn fern hanging from a tree. “Just place it to the side,” she said. The guy nodded. Smiled. Hauled it off and sold it as part of his landscaping side hustle. When she confronted him, he admitted it. Said he’d bring us another one. Still waiting. It’s been years. We assume it’s flourishing in someone else’s yard in Palmetto Bay.

That lesson would repeat itself constantly: Trust but verify. And then verify again. And then hire a forensic accountant.

Need another cautionary tale? Enter Francisco Mendez, a general contractor right here in Pinecrest. The man was sued for inflating costs, siphoning off client funds, and allegedly using homeowner money to fund trips to Las Vegas. He reportedly misappropriated over a million dollars while leaving sites half-finished and invoices fully padded. This isn’t a rumor; it’s in the Miami Herald. Lawsuits were filed. Homes were abandoned mid-construction. This isn’t some outlier. It’s just Tuesday in the 305.

And that’s why I wrote this book.

This isn’t just a memoir. It’s a survival guide. A playbook. A collection of red flags, checklists, and brutally honest advice to help you avoid the worst mistakes and possibly save thousands of dollars and months of therapy. You’ll find out what I learned, what I’d never do again, and what no contractor will ever tell you, because it’s not their house. And it’s definitely not their money.

And here’s the thing, at first, it feels like you’re winning. You have the lot. You got the demo done. You saved a banyan tree. You scored a deal on removal. You even helped a guy from the west coast of Florida avoid a wrongful arrest. These moments feel like victories. And in a way, they are. They make you feel smart. Capable. Energized.

But like everything else in this process, it’s not about any one decision, it’s about the compounding effect of a thousand small ones. It’s not that any single issue is impossible to handle. It’s that they don’t come to you one at a time. They show up like waves in a storm, stacked, relentless, and always worse when you’re already soaked.

It’s like doing an Ironman race. I’ve done several around the world. And the most significant lesson besides how much chafing a human body can endure is this: you have to pace yourself. If you go too hard at the start, if you let the early adrenaline trick you, you will pay for it tenfold later. The swim feels great. The bike feels strong. But by mile 15 of the run, your body cashes every check your ego wrote that morning.

Building a house in Miami is no different. It’s long. It’s brutal. And it will test every part of you. Don’t let the early wins fool you into thinking you’re in control. You’re not. Not yet.

This book is your pacing plan. Your course map. Your Gatorade station for when your soul cramps. It won’t stop the pain, but it might just help you finish upright.