It is a day to take off the training wheels. To pack our bags. To move forward.

That’s right, dear readers. We’re relocating. I’ve been working on a new website for you. Bigger. Better. Nicer. I’ve got some sweeping, some organizing, some nesting yet to do—but overall I think you’ll really like it. I just couldn’t wait to show you.

Remember when Diet Pepsi came out with the silver can? Same great taste, bold new look. That’s basically what’s happening here. All your favorite posts have been moved over, but we’ll have some new features as well. We’ve even got a new name. Sunday Book Club. I like the ring to it. And don’t worry, I’m not just posting on Sundays. And it’s not actually a book club (although maybe in the future we should look into adding a section for that). But if you like what you’ve read here, you’ll still like what you read over there. And that’s the important part.

So this is it. Say your last goodbyes. Shed your tears. Update your bookmarks. I sincerely hope to find you on the other side:

http://sunbookclub.com

(When you get there, be sure to read “Welcome, Welcome All!” It will introduce you to the new place.)

So long dear friend. Time for a new you.

The simplicity of that small event perfectly demonstrates my obsessive anxiety over money. Not a purchase goes by that I don’t talk to Brandon first about the state of our finances. Is it okay if I buy this shirt? It’s only $12 on sale. Is it okay to grab lunch with my boss? Can I take a few dollars for some Pepsi this week? I count obsessively. Ask constantly about our budget. Fret over eating out. Stress out over driving 45 minutes away because of the gas prices.

Which is why living in debt for the past 4 years has been miserable. Horrible. Burdensome. Tragic. Restless. Shall I go on? And our debt wasn’t stupid—we weren’t purchasing big screen TVs and iPods and high heels and a bedroom set (sigh). Our debt kept racking up because we moved 4 times in 3 years. We had no savings, so in order to get the first and last months’ rent, we had to sacrifice something equally important to the credit card. Like groceries. Or gas. Or toilet paper. And an $2,000 down payment for a couple who has $5 in savings can do a lot of damage quickly.

At one point we had about $9,000 on one card and $2,500 on another and $700 on another.

And that was an unhappy thing.

But I have delightful news. The most wonderful, happy, awesomely fantastic news. We’ve scrimped and saved and pinched and pulled. We stayed in the same apartment for over a year. We committed a certain amount of money each month specifically for debt. We’ve received promotions. And bonuses. And we used them wisely. We’ve canceled trips and vetoed outings. And our debt slowly came down, down, down. Slowly. Slowly. Down, down, down.

Until last night.

$0.00.

We did it.

We paid it.

We’re done.

We’re out of credit card debt. Completely. Fully. Wonderfully. Absolutely out of bad debt. No more payments. No more interests. No more scrimps. We get to start the new year fresh. Full of possibilities. No ties. No burdens.

Except for those students loans. Oh, and the car payments. But let’s choose to forget that until tomorrow.

The important part is that now Brandon can actually buy me flowers without also buying me guilt.

I decided Ulla needed something special to mix for her inauguration into my kitchen. (Oh yes, Ulla. That’s her new name. It’s Swedish. And because she’s robust and strong and powerful, she obviously needed a strapping viking name.) But the recipe couldn’t be just anything. Not cookies. Not a cake mix. It needed to be something that would really demonstrate her usefulness. Something that would ease my burden. Something that would impress. Something that would please my Italian husband. And then I knew.

Pizza dough.

I scoured the internet for a recipe and settled on one that called for sugar. (Because I’m Swedish, and we Swedes like our sugar.) I then pulled her out of the corner, admiring her sparkling metal. Her smooth curves. Her matted beauty. Selecting the bread hook so she could do the kneeding for me, I linked her pieces together and snapped her belly into place. I won’t pretend like I knew what I was doing from there. I just had faith she’d do it for me.

I read and re-read the recipe. I carefully measured the temperature of the water to proof the yeast. Added some olive oil. Checked the measurements. Put in a pinch of salt. Reviewed. Rechecked. Remeasured. Timed it perfectly.

And look at her work. She was a beautiful helpmate. Never missed a beat.

But then I started to run into problems.

The dough was fine at first, but then it seemed like there was too much flour. That’s not possible. I put in a whole cup less then it called for. So I added some water. It helped the dough mix a little better, but it was getting stiff. And less and less elastic. And I decided to add a little more olive oil, to see if it would smooth out. No luck.

And then I checked the package of the yeast. Did you know yeast expires? Think the dough would still rise if the expiration date was September 09? All I could do was wait. It couldn’t be a total bust, could it?

Don’t tell anyone, but I may have made a second batch of dough using a different recipe. And it may have come out worse than the first.

Because Brandon is the Italian in this house, he made the pizza. The dough was softer once the yeast worked its magic. But it didn’t rise as much as it should have. It also wouldn’t stretch without making holes. But I think Brandon sensed I was losing hope, so he tried to make it work. I love him. I love him a lot.

On a side note, if you’re going to make pizza, you should probably make sure you have enough cheese. And marinara. And pepperoni. But if you don’t, you can always work with what you have. For example, Barbecue Sauce and chicken.

And then came the final test of my dear Ulla’s work. Did she complete her task? Was she efficient? The dough wasn’t bad. It also wasn’t good. No flavor (and yes, we seasoned it before baking). A little sticky. A little flat.

But not bad. Which means that she did exactly what she needed to do, and nothing more. Maybe we Swedes weren’t meant for Italian recipes. You can give a girl a mixer, but you gotta make sure she can cook.