Nobody tells you what's involved in buying a home for the first time.

I think that's because nobody remembers exactly how it happens. All they know is that they called a real estate agent. The rest goes by in a manic, stress-propelled blur.

This is why I wanted to get my experience down on paper before I forget all of the crucial detials. (This would be one of those "If I can help just one person out there, my ordeal will be worth it" types of things).

Our journey started just like everybody else's, with a phone call to the Realtors. We lucked out and retained the services of a dynamic duo named Lois and Stan. (Who could resist calling them Lois and Clark? Not us.) They invited us for coffee and to look at a few houses in the area, which is like getting a license to snoop, so one should never turn that down. I find that you can tell a lot about people when you wander through every square inch of their home. For example, we learned that one family had let an affection for crafts projects spiral out of control. In another home, we discovered a young man home from college, eating a sandwich - information we never would have obtained had we not stopped by unannounced.

The contract

Things got serious when the mortgage company got involved. Once we got preapproved for a certain sum of cash, I found myself at a desk, signing papers in a dreamlike state.

"Now you can go shopping!" the mortgage people said, and although we didn't need any arm-twisting, we were somewhat appalled by their speedy decision. I mean, it's not like they'd approved us for a can of English peas; they were lending us a large sum of quite complicated peas. But we kept this observation to ourselves.

Right away, we found a house we loved: It had a very open floor plan, a lovely master bath and a tiny back yard - always a good selling point for those of us without one speck of green on our thumbs. Two days later, we were whisked to the seller's office, in the model home down the street.

The woman pulled out The Contract and started going over every detail, talking and talking and talking, blah blah blah. At first I stared into her face, nodding in a serious manner, but after the third hour I stopped feigning interest and just scribbled my name everywhere she wanted. The fine print may very well require us to house a minimum of 15 live elephants inside our home at all times. I wouldn't know.

The nightmares

When it was over, we were congratulated by the contract woman, who put a "sold" sign in front of the house. Then we were hugged by Lois and Clark. All indications were that we had bought this house, even though the closing date wasn't until weeks later. Why do they do this? It only serves to confuse us first-timers. I'd recommend holding off on all the handshakes and hugs until the keys are doled out.

The period of time between signing and closing can accurately be described as "hell". On a daily basis, you find yourself driving by your house, stalking it. In addition, you will literally have nightmares about whether you're doing the right thing; in one of mine, we walked into our brand-new home and realized we'd accidentally bought a disgusting shack with stained carpeting and closet doors hanging off their hinges. When I was awake, my feelings of horror involved three distinct subjects: a) money, b) money and c) money.

Finally, closing time arrived. People warned us to be prepared for a few last-minute "surprises," and I don't mean the kind with frivolity and cake. For example, just before making that final commitment to the house, we were told to expect our property taxes to go up by at least $300 a month, right away. Surprise!

The Closer efficiently went over her mountain of paperwork, using as few words as possible to ensure we'd be done before the 21st century had come to an end. Sign, sign, everywhere we signed. Then she showed us our warranty book and said that within a few months, we'd be getting a sticker in the mail that must be affixed to the book's cover. "And it won't come addressed to you or have a return address; it will say 'Resident,' and it will look like junk mail," she said. If we accidentally throw it away, it's all over. No sticker, no warranty.

In a professional manner, I yelled, "That's sneaky!"

"Yes, it is," she replied, getting back to the signage at hand.

Although we're still on the lookout for The World's Most Valuable Sticker, we are now dwelling in our new home. I kind of have a crush on the place. I'd give every wall a big hug if we had all the blinds installed.

But once the actual buying process is over, there are other unforeseen challenges, especially if you have bought a brand-new home: You will feel an unrelenting pressure not to sully it.

The lived-in look

Before, the only time someone called me a neat freak was at the height of sarcasm. Now both my husband and I are crazed with cleanliness. The other night, Mike washed a pan in our sparkly new porcelain sink while I scrubbed off tiny flecks of real and imaginary dirt from the stove. After he was done, I glanced down and saw that he had left a large, possibly permanent scratch on the bottom of the sink. We both stared down at it with horror and shame, as if we'd just killed a man.

(Later, we learned that they make liners to protect our beloved sink from future incidents).

I can't believe what's happened to me. I have never in all my days been the sink-lining type, and I don't know how much longer I can stave off the clutter that is ever-looming. I should mention that we have a 2-year-old, a 1-year-old and a couple of cats, none of whom seems too worried about tainting the purity of the new abode.

But there are ways to get them to conform to my ways. All I need are their signatures.

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