“Mind if I run to your bathroom and dab my shirt? I got a little spot on it, just want to make sure it doesn’t stain.”

We’re sitting in the officially cohabitated living room with B, Boyfriend’s best friend from college, and his girlfriend J, in town visiting for a few days.

“Of course J, no problem! Though if you’d prefer you’re welcome to grab a t-shirt and hang the wet one up to dry. Just take any of the ones in the top drawer of the dresser.” I usher her towards the bedroom and point to the bureau.

“Are you sure? You don’t mind? I don’t want to be a pain.”

“Of course not, no worries. It’s chill in this household. Help yourself to anything.”

I turn to see Boyfriend choking on his Johnny Black, his eyes going completely white. “What did you just say?”

“What? I told J to help herself to a t-shirt.”

“No, I mean after that.”

“I said we were chill in this household.”

“Household???”

“Yes, household. What, you have a problem with the word?”

He puts his drink down precariously and walks into the kitchen. “I’d say it’s a little presumptuous.”

“Presumptuous? We live together, in the same residential dwelling, with a cat. I’d call that a household.” I shrug casually.

“Ok, if you say so.” He holds up his hands, his universal sign of total disagreement with whatever I’ve just said.

“Oh, I get it. Even though this place is no longer your single guy temple of Bacchanalian and carnal delights, it’s still not a household.”

“That’s being extreme, come on. The word just implies…” He glances over at B, who is watching the scene with obvious amusement.

“No, tell me, I don’t get the distinction.” I’m on a roll now. “There are spice racks and patterned hand towels in the kitchen. We had a Christmas tree. How is this not a household? I didn’t mean it to have some subtext or agenda.”

“Ok ok. Let’s talk about this later.”