Yes, it's true. We bought a house.
Three weeks ago, we were browsing around vaguely on ComFree. Two weeks from now, we get possession and move in.
The living room is already full of boxes. We have a to-do list a mile long, and it includes applying for two new jobs on our new side of the river. I haven't been writing, but have instead been signing papers, taking extra shifts, sending out feelers and emails and making phone calls. I was not expecting to desert this house, this snowy garden, this hipster neighborhood, these bottle pickers, this gas stove, these bicycle routes, this newly-constructed mobile so quickly. Our life (so steady for two years) will be so different.
We will live in the basement suite, renting out the upstairs. Tim will have a heated workshop. His tools will move out of his parents' basement at last. I will have raised beds in the backyard and something of a study. We may finally have dogs, a microwave, a mortgage.
And oh we want them. They mean a place for us to work and design and manufacture. They mean an investment, something solid. They mean that we are managing our little money. They mean that we are stirring ourselves, going forward.
It isn't our dream house. It isn't smack in the middle of the city, where I love to be. It has small windows downstairs (where we'll live), carpets-not-hardwood, electric stoves. But we are so young. We have help that no one else we know has, and we are doing something we thought we'd have to wait six years to do. We feel lucky.
(Pictures galore to come.)