Just Call Me Donna Reed.

As I woke from my slumber and stumbled out of bed I suddenly got hit with that primal urge to nest, and make the bed. I moved into the kitchen, desperately trying to ignore the 6ft 4inch blond behemoth in his tightie whities obstructing my path, and proceeded to make coffee. I then wiped down the counter and did last nights late night snack dishes that were left out. As I reached for the snack bowl, hands covered in suds, it hit me. I have become domesticated. Am I becoming my father (if you knew my mother you'd understand)? I tried to shake off this realization as I turned on the dishwasher and began moving last nights pasta casserole into tupperware. Maybe I'm not the only one. Maybe this is a right of passage, like your first kiss, and the first guy you punch out, or for those of you with normal childhoods, your first apartment.

Have I been bred for this? After a sufficient amount of wild and reckless dish washing habits, and lack of sweeping and putting food away is there a chemical that triggers me to tame my feral and savage ways?

Finally I pinned it down. It came to one four letter word....

B-R-A-D.

Yes, Brad.

It seems as of late there's a trend that I am now officially a part of. Maybe it's the cold of winter, maybe it's the holidays and family, maybe some beacon went off igniting our collective (if not slightly accelerated) biological clocks, or maybe the flood is coming. Regardless it seems we are pairing up like Noah's Ark.

Brad is my significant other. My main squeeze. The bread to my butter, and all those vomit inducingly cute things to say. I've been staying in his house for the last few days, and have rapidly fallen into a routine of cooking, and cleaning and tidying. I'm waiting for Donna Reed to present me with my string of freshwater pearls for my accomplishments in housewifery. Except that I think she might be dead. Is it a sign of maturity, or neurosis that I vacuum his living room, and clean his sheets. Is it love or just madness.

Maybe I'm becoming my father. The kind of person who cleans up your plate before you've finished your sandwich. Maybe I'm settling in. Maybe I'm just growing up, oh god......

All I know is that if one more dish gets put away dirty, I swear to God, I'll take another vicodin and wash it down with gin. Straighten my pearls, iron my apron, and scrub it till it sparkles again.

And then I'll make a roast.