I guess this means I'm sticking around a while longer.

We're in the process of buying our first house, and this process is a dizzying whirlwind. We're due to close early in February, so if you've been trying to reach me and have had little luck, bear with me. This is a bizarre, American rite of passage that consumes every waking moment, every jule of energy, every dollar you haven't earned yet.

It happened over the holidays. After a year of confusion and turmoil, Daniel and I decided to stop whining and wondering. We decided to stay. I'd been looking at grad schools across the country – none of which I could afford and few of which were worth going into debt for – and imagining, as I have been for years, that I would move away in the intermediate future. I've always been off to some grand place, awaiting the glimmer of Cibola to spur me out of this one-horse town and on to glory. Having that sword of damn-o'-please constantly hanging o'erhead makes for tense living. So we concluded: let's just stay. Daniel enjoys his job well enough, and though I'm still restless in mine, I at least have a history and maybe even a few futures at the Tulsa World. And we like it here, we have friends here, I have family nearby. Let's just stop kvetching and stay.

So if we're staying, we don't want to throw money away every month on rent. So the hunt began for permanent digs. It's a mind-numbing process – the endless trolling up and down the streets of a choice neighborhood, backtracking and criss-crossing, eyes darting toward every placard in any yard. (Note: it's best to house-hunt when there's not a political campaign on. We were duped countless times by campaign signs that looked like real estate signs in the dusky distance.) We'd seen some possibilities, we'd made some calls, we had some very rouch ideas. Then me met Candace.

Candace showed us a house that we didn't like in a neighborhood we love. She lives in the neighborhood, too, so she knew the skinny on every place for sale within a seven or eight block area. Then she remembered the place on Marion Avenue. The house had just fallen off the market. The seller was desperate. He'd bought a ranch near Sapulpa contingent on the sale of this place, and a previous buyer had backed out, leaving him stranded with three mortgages. He was willing to sell the place for what he owed, which was about $15K less than everything else we'd seen in the neighborhood. Candace lived one block down, and she became our agent in the deal.

But Candace, by virtue of her inherent tenacity, is so much more. She's an attorney, advising us on contractual matters. She's collected all the bids for the improvements we're working in. She knows the dirt on all our neighbors. Half the block bought their houses through Candace, and they all love her. She has pass keys to many people's homes; when dithering about kitchen renovations, she took us into several different houses on and around the block to look at what they had done. She never quits, never tires and gets incredible deals. Thank God she's on our side.

We've got a contract on the place, and after we close we start a kitchen remodel. (Yeah, first-time home buying and remodeling to boot. Please pray for us.) Hopefully we'll be in by mid-March. Housewarming party details to come.

It's weird, though. Just a month ago, this was a mere idea on the back burner. Today the process consumes my free time like a bush fire. Every time I turn around, there's a new decision to make (good training for both of us, neither of whom are great decision-makers). Contractors, roofers, inspectors, paint colors, countertop styles, contractual costs – all these things must be chosen every day, not to mention the ultimate moment: do we do this? It's alternately thrilling and terrifying. I've already signed checks for more than I do in a year, and I'm told that at closing there will be a stack of documents up to my waist.

From a recent letter to Mark Brown:

Buying a home is a great way to expand your vocabulary. “Abstract,” for instance, is not just an adjective to describe something apart from concrete existence. It is also a noun – a complex document which details the purchasing history of a piece of property and which costs a great deal of money just to read. It goes back all the way, sometimes showing transactions involving payment with chickens or hogs. It is also, for all intents and purposes, something apart from concrete existence. Decorating, too, is a crash course in descriptive wording. The countertop pattern we chose this evening: Ebony Star. It was difficult, selecting from such choices as Alabaster Mirage, Mayan Sun, Pawnee, Provence Pear, Cloud Nebula, Thai Nectar, Beige Tempest (love that one), Ecru Fossil, Highland Fleece, on and on. I should share this with my writing students. Word choice is important in every situation.

Jesus, who woulda thunk.

I’m in an entirely different realm now. I’m through the domestic looking glass. This is a very bizarre and uniquely American rite of passage, this first-time home purchase. I suddenly find myself speaking on subjects I only overheard bantered about by people like ... oh, what was his name? John something? That copy editor who wasn’t worth crap, who contracted on the side? Or James Watts, who spends most of his vacations doing home repairs and remodeling. Words like grout and eaves and scraping and estimate and escrow. I’m tapping all the friends and acquaintances I can think of who dither in these things – Micky Payne from Fuzz gave us an estimate on the kitchen, Steve Jones from Billy Joe Winghead is going to estimate glassing in the back porch. I’m making time and small talk with roofers and plumbers. I’m suddenly more class conscious than usual. Tonight, in my skinny tie, I hunted for common conversational ground with Bob, the cabinet maker, who wore his name on his breast in exquisite script. I got him to throw in doing the water line to the fridge. It was a great victory, and I felt terribly shrewd. I’m enjoying that now; I’m sure I’ll feel differently in two weeks when we close and I’m forced to sign my name to a stack of documents the height of my torso and which obligate me to incomprehensible sums of money which I don’t currently possess. The American Dream – suitably ephemeral.

Still, the terror swings to joy more often than expected. ... It really is its own magnificent adventure, without jet lag or intrusive airport security. Our imaginations are fleet of foot. In the evenings, we don’t read or watch TV much, even though the TV is on or the book is in our lap; instead, we stare into the air and pepper the silence with posits like, “What if we left the gap in the moulding in the front bedroom and just extended the carpet in there?” I’ve got sketches already for landscaping in front and raised beds in back. And, oddly enough, it seems exciting to put down roots seriously again. It’s all about my own post-sabbatical realization that it’s people that matter more than place.

Wish us luck. If you have any old how-to books, please send them immediately. And as mentioned, watch this space for housewarming details. I'm already building the housewarming mix ....