March 25, 2025
We bought a house. In the middle of a movie project. With apocalyptic interest rates. While juggling dogs, deadlines, and a growing pile of to-do lists that are starting to whisper threats in the night. So yeah, now is the perfectly crazy time to buy a house.
But also? The perfect time.
Tulsa was always the plan. When we moved here, we knew a house was coming eventually. We just didn’t know when or where or how much we’d miss being able to walk to a bar without breaking a sweat. Our last place spoiled us. Parks, restaurants, neighbors who loaned you weird things and asked about your weekend without making it weird. A town so compact we could walk everywhere, which meant we walked nowhere because everything was right there.
Tulsa’s bigger. Spread out. You need a car, or maybe a horse. But what it has in spades is character. Specifically, mid-century homes. And unfortunately, people trying to murder that character by slapping white paint over red brick and gutting all the charm until you’re left with a sterile white box that whispers “I’m not haunted” but you know it is.
We like weird. Give us asymmetrical built-ins and shag carpet ghosts. Give us a living room that makes you ask, “What exactly happened in here in 1973?” Weird has a heartbeat. Weird has soul. Bland has quartz countertops and the personality of a waiting room.
When we landed in Tulsa, we were lucky. Tonya’s family had a huge space for us to crash in. A whole back room we could call home while we figured things out. And it worked. I genuinely love her family, and I’m pretty sure they still like me despite my resistance to watching Survivor reruns on an infinite loop. It was warm and chaotic and a little crowded in the best way.
But eventually, the hunt began.
We had our list. Two bathrooms (we’re civilized). A backyard for Tonya’s garden and the dogs’ questionable digging decisions. A two-car garage. And, most important, it had to be weird.
We toured a few. Some were flip-jobs so bad you could still hear the drywall crying. But then we found the one. Walked in. Living room. Family room. Tonya and I looked at each other and both said, “This is it.” Then we remembered we should probably see the rest of the house. Formalities.
Made the offer on New Year’s Day. Closed it. Moved in. It’s ours.
Built in 1957 and still holding on to that glorious charm. I ripped out the carpet to find untouched hardwood floors beneath. Not scratched. Not stained. Just… waiting. The doors, the paneling, the layout — all original, all perfect. The updates (windows, electrical, all the boring stuff you want someone else to have already paid for) were done by someone who clearly cared. Who didn’t want to rip the soul out of the house just to make it “market-ready.”
So yeah. It’s a ridiculous time to buy. But sometimes, when a house speaks to you — and to your partner — and to your dogs — you don’t wait for perfect conditions. You move in. You get to work. You make it yours.
We’ve got a long list of updates ahead. I’ll probably bore you with those soon. Or maybe you’ll love it. Either way, stay tuned.
This weird old house has a lot of stories left in it. We’re just getting started.
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