Not the big hurts and betrayals that you grieve over, nurse for years, take to therapy. Not the stuff of broken hearts. Just the little insults that continue to gnaw at you, sometimes years later.

Sure, it takes energy to sustain a grudge, and usually it’s easier just to let the offense fade into the past and be forgotten. It’s better for you in the long run. Who wants to carry around a mental hit list? Let the laws of karma sort it out. But sometimes, every now and then, the grudge wins.

Michele: I lent you my first edition of The Secret History, a treasured possession I used to pull down from the shelf and read every fall as the weather started to turn crisp, the first notes of frost and wood smoke entered the air, and I craved a good murder mystery. You returned it (!) warped and covered with mildew, explaining, “I was using it to hold a window open and it rained.”

Rob: When you suggested we have lunch I agreed, even though we weren’t really even friends in high school. I almost felt sorry for you⎯your creepy enthusiasm. Then you stood me up! How many glasses of ice water did the smirking waiter bring me before I realized what was happening?

Jen: You promised that Sun-In wouldn’t turn my hair orange. Thanks for that clownish eighth-grade class picture.

Jayne: I heard what you said when I called⎯ “No, no, don’t pick up! Tell her I’m not here.” Ouch.

Maria: You were the new girlfriend that my dear friend A. was completely gaga over. You guys came to stay for a long weekend. “Let us chip in for dinner,” A. said, coming into the living room after I paid the deliveryman one night. “Oh, don’t worry honey, I took care of it,” you said. You guessed (correctly) that I would never call out a houseguest in a lie. You shot me a triumphant look: it said, I dare you to make A. choose between us.

Buffy the Vampire Slayer: Only an act of will keeps you out of the “heartbreak” category. Damn you for making me love a %&*(#% TV show, then sucking so bad in the last two seasons that you stomped all over my fangirl heart. Damn you for killing off my favorite character so ignominiously. Seven years on, and you still piss me off.

Erin: You gave me a tarantula one year for my birthday. Who the hell does that? What does it mean?

What are your grudges? How do you let them go?

Zelda was part of a litter of five abandoned puppies. A woman driving down a country road discovered some little boys abusing them, dragging them along with string tied around their necks. She scooped up all five, put them in the back seat, and drove to the nearest animal shelter. The folks at Animal Rescue sent the pups to stay with a “foster mom” until they could be placed. That woman, the owner of a rambling farm, had pale blue eyes and an endlessly patient demeanor. She sized us up to make sure we were good enough before she let us take the dog. We came prepared, with toys and a crate for the ride home. That was two weeks ago.

Initially I was terrified, not really being a dog person, and never having socialized a puppy (yes, grammar heads, “socialize” as a transitive verb). We got lucky, though: Zelda was already crate trained. She seldom barked. She seemed cheerful and undamaged by her early trauma. We bonded right away.

Getting a puppy is absolutely nothing like having a child, of course, though I imagine both have at least one thing in common: one day your life is about abstract complexities, contemplating Big Ideas; the next, it’s a cycle of feeding times and cleaning up poop. And you don’t even mind.

It feels illicit, but is totally on the level. I am going to check out some furniture from Craigslist.

A gorgeous cherry mission-style chair and sofa, not cheap but easily worth twice as much, lured me into this moment, walking into a stranger’s home here at the end of a suburban cul-de-sac, where I could easily be kidnapped and no one would be the wiser.

She answers the door while on her cell phone. Not a good sign. “I’M ON HOLD,” she stage-whispers. “GODDAMNED AT&T. FORTY MINUTES! SORRY. PLEASE COME IN.” She shows me into the living room, invites me to sit down (oh beautiful sofa, couch of my dreams! you will soon be mine…), and disappears. Weird.

After a few moments, a friendly-looking man wanders in. Weirder. He sits down and we start chatting. “They lost her entire voicemail archive. She needs it for work.” Turns out she is a state representative (mine, in fact—I should have known that!) in the midst of a reelection push, and the voicemail thing is a near-crisis.

“Um, she should be back in a minute.”

Wait. What’s an elected official doing selling her shit on Craigslist?

Over the next twenty minutes I learn a great deal. The lady and the man are getting married this summer. The invitations are exquisite. They are moving into her bungalow, even though it’s smaller, because it’s in her district. His furniture (and house, where we are currently hanging out—because that’s really all it is at this point) has to go—now. He has two children, little girls, who are charming and lovable—one who is totally un-self-conscious in that seven year-old sort of way, the other a couple of years older, skinny, teetering on the edge of puberty, but not there yet. Still a kid. She harbors ambitions to be a competitive hot-dog eater, which she discusses in all seriousness. Their dad clearly adores them. Cute family.

I look up at the bookshelves. Really good stuff—someone follows contemporary fiction pretty closely. I want to ask the man about the collection, but don’t, not wanting to seem nosy. The room has cool art. Turns out we both love biking. And we’ve already established a mutual love of good furniture. These are people I would like to know socially, I realize. They are smart and funny. They have good taste and better politics. For a second there I start to forget that I am a stranger in their home, there for the sole purpose of making a transaction.

State Rep has still not returned. “This is starting to feel rude,” the fiancé says. “Would you like glass of wine or something?”

Well, sure. Exactly the thing you share with your not-friend.

He leaves and comes back with three glasses and a really excellent bottle. Wow. I am developing a crush on this family.

A few moments later State Rep is finally back, clearly the orchestrator of this Craigslist thing, and we can begin. Now that she is smiling, relaxing with a glass of wine, I see that she is uncommonly young and lovely to be a government official⎯think Elizabeth Moss (Peggy on Mad Men). She exudes warmth and intelligence. We talk some more. At this point I have been in their immaculate home for over half an hour. In my mind, we are best friends. I am Auntie Rachel to the kids. Invited for Thanksgiving. Bringing pie.

“Thanks for responding to my email. This is beautiful furniture. It’s really comfortable, and the craftsmanship is amazing.” Laying it on a little thick, but nerves turn me into a flirt.

State Rep stands up, wine glass in hand, tilts her head to one side and gazes at the furniture as if for the first time, then over to me.

“You know, you’re right…I don’t think we are going to sell it after all. Sorry for your trouble.”

Before I know it, I’m back on the sidewalk.

What just happened?

My friends, I have joined a secret society. It hides in plain sight. Some of you are members already. Some of you aspire to be. Others remain proudly free of the constant demands, financial obligations, and emotional binds the society exacts from its members. To the latter of you, I say: congratulations. And goodbye. I’m leaving the realm of the renters and casting my lot with the Venerable Order of Homeowners.

The group’s initiation⎯a hazing process that assesses creditworthiness, strains affability, tests negotiation skills, and sorely tries general stability⎯takes weeks, sometimes months. Every hopeful member runs a gauntlet of realtors, bankers, underwriters, inspectors, tradespeople, and insurers, all of whom must be paid for their trouble.

You know you’ve made it, become an insider, when coworkers you know only in passing sidle up to you and utter the equivalent of a secret handshake:

“So, when do you close?”

“Closing,” like “commencement,” means the opposite of what it seems to denote (and it, too, represents a graduation of sorts). It is the day that the mortgage papers appear, a formidable sum of money is exchanged, and, with a flourish of keys, the hopeful homeowner-to-be becomes a homeowner in fact. It is the first time the “buyer” sits across the table from the “seller,” both of them feeling the fight-or-flight adrenaline of a Major Life Choice. It is signing away your freedom for another sort of enfranchisement.

It is this Friday.

When I tell people, their pupils dilate and they show a (toothy, sort of terrifying) smile as they remember their own first time. Then we begin conversing in the society’s secret language, which I am learning as quickly as I can. It entails ideas and vocabulary I literally never considered before a few months ago. Like a recent immigrant, I cram by studying the way people talk on TV (HGTV, that is): Escrow. Structural engineering. Cladding. Sump pump. Double-hung (heh). Tankless. It’s a whole new world, a parallel universe that was overlaid on my own reality the whole time! Now I can see it. If only there were a decoder ring for the things that still mystify me. But belonging to the secret society requires learning the hard way, it seems.

There’s no turning back now. I hope it’s worth it. Do I dare trust my heart? Because I really, really love this house. I’m in love with my partner in this adventure. I’m in love with our vision of the future. And any love requires a leap of faith.

A fable:
Once upon a time there was a girl. She tried to be careful with her money, but ran up very large credit card bills while trying to balance school, city living, and partying like a twentysomething. Truly, the bills were ridiculous⎯they threatened to bury her.

Oh, and the points? She exchanged them for a stack of Home Depot gift cards.

What’s the moral? I’ll have to let you know⎯after closing time.