Tre, domesticated.

Due to a series of unfortunate events, my big ass house and my two other roommates and I have been, recently, seeking a fourth roommate. The unfortunate events include but are not limited to letting a douche live with us -- a douche who we thought was our friend -- and then later having that douche douche out on us, by which I mean move to another state a mere week before the beginning of the month (when, lest you forget, rent in the amount of $600-$800 is due).

This has resulted in a few interesting twists in my life over the past month or two.

One of them is that my boyfriend moved into my house.

Now, before my mother starts sobbing hysterically about how hard she tried to "raise me right" and my brother starts repeatedly calling said boyfriend to threaten his life unless he propose, I should clarify: he moved temporarily into my house. Just for a month. To help us with the rent while we sought a "real", non-boyfriend, roommate.

The whole living with your significant other thing is an interesting experience. I've never really been decided on whether or not the rule should be one MUST live with their significant other before marraige or one MUST NOT, and this experience hasn't done much to convince me either way.

Let me explain, pro-con style:

Pros: Your respective schedules, and coordinating them, is no longer an issue, as you're guaranteed to see each other at least once a day, albeit sometimes when you're sleeping.

Another pro? Mealtime. Without even discussing it, Jim and I slipped effortlessly into the ryhthm of making breakfast and dinner for each other. I'd make french toast one day, he'd make egg sandwiches the next. I'd do corn chowder for dinner, he'd do salmon and rice the next day. There's something, as you know, that I find ridiculously sexy about cooking, and cooking together in a house that you both belong in is a whole 'nother hot, intimate, wonderful experience.

Plus there's just the pro of being in the general vicinity of the person who is your most significant other and therefore one of your best friends. Yes -- you better be able to fart in front of each other or your relationship is doomed -- but more than that, it's just nice to come home or wake up and have that person be there, happy to see you, every day.

But there are some cons. Like now he knows exactly how long it takes me to get ready to go out -- about 15 minutes longer than I'd like to have him believe. And he's seen -- and smelled -- me in less than desireable conditions. Living together, you're no longer able to carefully craft your image... cards are all on the table, face up, chips down.

But it gets worse. Take, for instance, the other day, when Jim came home to find me in the hallway outside the washer/dryer, a confused, guilty look on my face.

"I couldn't help it!" I cried, perplexed and flustered.
"Help what?!" Jim was confused and suspicious.
"I saw your laundry pile, and it was just sitting there," I said, face red, hands flapping about, "...and I had nothing better to do, so I just... I just... DID YOUR LAUNDRY!!! Without asking!"

I was horrified. I had become, overnight, a wifey/matronly type who, under the guise of doing her significant other a "favor", occupied her compulsive self by doing laundry like some sort of crack-chore-doing-whore.

There is no end to all the things I suddenly want to do for Jim that he is perfectly capable of doing on his own -- and probably likes doing as a perfectly capable modern man! Like making doctor appointments, cleaning up, doing dishes. Hell, I don't know how to iron and I've been tempted to iron for him!

And I'm OBSESSED with my crockpot. Jesus. I spend 15 minutes a day on Recipes.com looking up crock-pot enchiladas, crockpot stews, crockpot winter chicken roasts. I'm like the weirdly domesticated version of my former self -- suddenly my greatest concern is how I'm going to get a fresh, hot meal on the table in the least amount of time after work. Two months ago, my greatest concern was how to get my blood alcohol level up to .20 in the least amount of time after work.

What has become of me? Am I losing my sex appeal? My spark? My wiley singleton way? Has the constant exposure to testosterone suddenly caused a surge of the opposite in me? Or is it just the winter and the approaching holidays, and that innate female desire to nest, nest, nest when the weather gets chilly?

Whatever it is, it's a phenomenon, and one that's taken me by surprise. I think it must be a phase (a theory I'll test in a week when Jim moves out and into his new place 45 minutes away from me).

In the meantime, I'm going to play out the rest of this little domestic fantasty by going home during lunch to start my spicy black bean soup -- tonight's meal.

But aybe while I'm there, just to be safe, I'll change into some lacy underwear... you know, to keep things cosmically balanced.