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When The Husband proposed to me in the lobby of The Peabody Hotel in Memphis, Tennessee, I spilled all the bar snacks on their elegant floor and screamed, “Are you seriously kidding me right now?”

Of course he said NO, he was not kidding and of course I said YES, I would marry him.

But, where to begin this life of eternal bliss? Surely the lover of my loins and I should build a hospitable nest.

At the time, we had a hood to call a home.

The Husband had a loft in the East Bay that I frequented, but did not live in (see Flickr photos right). His informal, industrial, airy, living space struck many as an urban, artist’s dream, but with regular gun shots next door and screaming, crack crazies in the street, it was hardly the ideal neighborhood to host a block party or start introducing myself down the corner liquor store as the new step-bitch in town.

What really pushed us out the door was one unacceptable truth.

If we were all going to live together- my two stepsons, their father and I- we needed to get out of Oaktown. Snarling pit-bulls and police sirens aside, what really pushed us out the door was one unacceptable truth: my lover’s loft came with only one bathroom. You do the arithmetic. Three dudes, one of me.

I mean, honestly, there is no amount of love that makes this a livable situation. Am I right?

But, after a long, hard talk with realtors, we sadly recognized that any suitable home in the Bay Area with four walls and more than one toilet would eventually put us in a cramped and shabby, poor house, or out on the street with the crazies we just gave the finger to. Or worse, the suburbs.

We’d have to move.