I mentioned a couple of blogs ago that many people think my roommate and I are married. I find it amusing, for the most part, that after having lived a relentlessly single existence, it would be assumed that I'm married to anyone. There haven't even been any near misses on that score. And really, if I were going explore my Sapphic side, I'd probably have done this while at the women's college I attended. Lovely women there. Truly.
Not saying that my roommate isn't a lovely person, too. Bryn Mawr was just a different range of opportunity.
But, almost sadly, my roommate and I are both heterosexual. We're pro-boner, if you will. And I say "almost sadly," my dear imaginary friend, because I am in a nearly penis-free zone. Sigh. That's not even almost sad, now that I see it in print. It's downright depressing. And please don't suggest the do-it-yourself route. It's not the same. Sure, sometimes it's better, but one misses the inherent cheerfulness of the penis. Such a happy little organ.
I understand why many people think the roommate and I are a couple, I do. We do a lot of things that married people do. I'm in charge of the yardwork in the household. She does the vast majority of the housework. If someone asks me to babysit [human puppy or furry child] I've found it behooves me to "check" with her, first. [It's not that she would say no, she just likes to feel like she has some say in the matter.] If I [or we] are invited to do something, I usually end up asking if we have something else going on that day, or if I can accept the invitation without consequences. We grocery shop together. We plan meals together. We refer to the dogs of the household as "your dogs" when they've been naughty. I've been known to take her car to have work done on it, fill it with gas and have it washed. When I come home from work, there's often a bag of garbage on the porch, that I put into the garbage cans before entering the house. I'm in charge of putting out the garbage and the recycling as well as putting the receptacles for said garbage and recycling away on Monday nights, after they've been emptied. If there's something I particularly like, such as mushrooms, she will add it to sauces or casseroles for me and pick them out of the food on her plate. She buys allergen-free cleaning supplies so my skin doesn't get irritated.
I know. I know!
The funniest one happened a while back. The roommate and I were going to meet her mother for dinner out one Sunday evening. It had been a lazy day, bad weather, movie on tv. About fifteen minutes before the time we were to drive to her mother's place, the roommate stood up and turned off the television and looked at me.
"Is that what you're wearing?" she asked.
It took me five minutes to stop shrieking with laughter. Later that evening, I told her mother that the roommate MUST start dating men. Immediately.
To be fair, I understood that she wasn't critiquing my ensemble. She was letting me know that I had a limited window of time if I wanted to change or primp. I got that. It was still pretty funny.
So I understand why people think we're married. We take care of each other. We work as a team. We balance each other's moods and generally, we're on each other's side.
We're certainly not having sex.
Hell, maybe we are married.