Breaking The Dress Code

It's Been A Long Time Coming

Today is the day I've waited for since well before we even got married. I got into this relationship knowing it was the Dr.'s goal to go to Med School, despite our advanced ages. At the time he had a low paying but highly connected job in a local hospital and the burden of paying the bills fell on my shoulders. Then after he left for med school 3 months after we were married, not only I was not just the primary breadwinner, I was the sole one. He left for school, I stayed home and earned money. Most couples our age were taking huge steps forward with houses and kids, we were going backwards, paring down expenses, getting student loans.

Through the years my company has had ups and downs just like any other company. I've always strived to place myself in positions that even in the ups and downs, were necessary. Job security was always my priority, sometimes it was tricky, but year to year I managed to hang in there.

Three years ago when he started his residency, some of the pressure slacked off a bit. He was earning money now, but it was still about half what I make and not enough for us to live off of.  We had a little room to breath, but of course, after so many years of leaving leanly, we quickly expanded our life to be more comfortable and for the most part ate up the extra every month with this and that.

But today - today for the first time, I logged into our bank account and there it was - his first pay check. The first REAL pay check. I almost cried. Not for the reasons you might think, it wasn't a greed thing.

It was an achievement for ME, I had made my goal as well. This was my graduation day. I had supported my family for 8 years, kept a roof over our heads, food on our plates, and clothes on our backs, and sometimes toys in our hands for 8 years. Never once hiccuping, never once messing it up. I did it and I am now relieved of duty. I'm relieved of the stress, the wakeful nights, the worry. My husband now makes more than me, lots more than me and I couldn't be more happy.

I love my job, in fact I've never been happier in my work than I am today. I have no desire not to work. But I love the fact that I don't have to carry the burden any more, that yoke now belongs to him. He's strong and smart and ready to carry it, proud to carry it. He brought home that paycheck stub and reviled in it himself for many of the same reason.  I'm very proud of him.

But I'm proud of me to. I never thought I was capable of what I have done. I never dreamed I could do what I did. I sit in this chair in this glorious new house and look out of my window down at the front door and I know that it is his salary that bought it for us but it's my hard work and dedication that positioned us and laid the ground work for us to be here. This place is more than I ever dreamed I would have, and it's mine, and I earned it.

How I came to own a Pink Palace

On Friday May 13, at 37 weeks pregnant I reached the end of my rope with our landlord and decided I needed to buy a house. Immediately. I was over-it with my current situation and I wanted out, now. Amazingly with just a few phone calls the whole thing was arranged. By the time the Mr. arrived home at 3:00, we were pre-qualified for obnoxious amounts of money from three different lenders. "We are buying a house", I informed him. He's a wise man and is well aware of what the term Hormonal Rage means, he nodded and said, "Okay."

I waited until well into Happy Hour and placed a call to our friend/realtor (hereby known as BraveHeart)  and told him I wanted to buy a house by June 2. Since he was slightly drunk, he agreed. The search was on.

In three days we had seen everything on the market that was in the part of town we wanted, met our criteria, and was in our price range. Nothing was right. We were starting to feel defeated. Then on day four BraveHeart called and said he'd found a listing that was slightly more but worth a shot. The Mr. went to take a look. They came home and told me I'd hate it. Being stubborn, willful, and 37.5 weeks pregnant, I was determined to prove them wrong. I looked at the pictures, and made them take me to see it. The next morning we made an offer on the Pink Palace of Love.

The house itself is great, the yard is perfect, the neighborhood is divine. The catch is this... the entire interior of the house is PINK. Not just any pink, but Pepto Pink. It looks like an 8-year-old girl decorated it. It's horrible. People think I jest until they get here and stand in the doorway, slack jawed, and mutter "My God, you were right."

But the pink is one of the main reasons I said "Yes." Not because I like the pink but because I cannot put off getting rid of it.

See I'm famous for procrastinating, and then when I do start a project, many times half way through, I'll get distracted and take forever to finish. If I had bought a house that was livable, it might have been years before I got the whole thing decorated to my taste. But there is no putting off doing away with these pink walls.

So it's an insurance policy of sorts. I cannot put it off, I cannot not spend the money, I cannot ignore the pink or make it work somehow. It is hideous and it has to go. Along with the matching pink carpet. Yes that's right, MATCHING PINK CARPET. The place looks like a whore house and we can't pretend it doesn't.

So we went from I'm not happy with my landlord I think I'll buy a house to closing in exactly 30 days and got this enormous and wonderful property, greatly discounted due to it's pinkness. We closed two weeks after SugarPie was born and moved in the next week.

We now live in the Pink Palace of Love.. and the Summer of Much Drinking is scheduled to turn into the Fall of Much Painting. The nice man at Home Depot's paint counter already thinks I'm his new best friend.

Shock and Awe

With all the information available on child-rearing these days, there are very few surprises left. There is a whole line of books that tell us What To Expect, and where that leaves off the Girlfriends promise to Guide us, and then there's the you, the Internet, who have no fear of treading where even the Girlfriends fear to go.

But even with all that advice out there at my figuretips, nothing prepared me for the moment when I felt the strange mix of Pride and Horror that came when my darling little 3 year old, while attending her first grown-up event, unerringly sauntered up the punchbowl, helped herself to a champagne glass (No Internet, I did not say a glass of champagne, I said a champagne glass) took it expertly by the stem, and threw back a healthy helping of punch like she was born to it. Baby knows how to handle a cocktail glass. Don't mess with Baby.

I smiled sheepishly to the other adults standing close by. "We watch a lot of Bewitched" I told them.