Today was an extra special day for the Family Yenta, and not just ’cause it was the last day we’ll be eating the
intestinal bedeviling bread of affliction for another year: This morning at 11:30am EST, I, along with my equally astonished spouse, became a home owner.

It’s a sweet three-bedroom bungalow with hardwoord floors in the exact center of Savannah, close to the children’s schools in a section of town reputed to be “up and coming.” It’s also two blocks away from my in-laws, which sounds appalling but has its advantages — my mother-in-law is less likely to get lost on the way over, and plus, they have a pool.

Of course I’m ecstatic to have a home of our own after living like a refugee for almost a year (cripes, could I sound more spoiled and ungrateful? I’ve been living at the beach, for heaven’s sake.) But there’s the whole mortgage thing, which just feels so heavy, man. El Yenta Man and I are what you might call late bloomers, having extended our adolescences well into our 30s and avoided anything like a real job. (You may be shocked to learn that Jewish blogging does not come with a health benefit package or a company car. Union, anyone?) Many of our peers bought their first houses years ago, these also being the kind of people who have had IRA’s since college and actually planned their children instead of suddenly realizing that “oops, honey, guess the ‘pull and pray’ method doesn’t really work that well after all!” We’re not really planners so much, so it’s just going to take some attitudinal gymnastics to wrap our minds around the reality that we’re full-fledged grown-ups now.

We celebrated our tentative independence and the end of chametz season with — what else? — a few pints of Newcastle ale and a cheesy pizza with extra fluffy crust from Vinnie VanGoGos.

I’ve been too farklempt and famisht (and hell, why not, a little farblondzgent) to take pictures of our new abode just yet, but until I do, here’s the Shoe House. I love shoes and I love my new house and I’m going to be so happy to introduce all my shoes to my new house, so it’s a perfect substitute. Though If I’m ever road-tripping near York, Pennsylvania, I’ll have to knock on the door (or maybe they have a shoelace doorbell or something) and let the old woman who lives there with her too many children that she really ought to come up with an alternative to those “pull and pray” shenanigans.