If you asked me what’s new, I would say nothing except I’m about to commit what some—including my devout catholic grandfather—would consider a mortal sin. (Although, if we are keeping tabs on crimes against humanity, Grandpa’s insistence on stretching a tan thru Speedo across his wrinkly, 83-year-old butt cheeks would certainly qualify for more than a few Hail Marys … but I digress.)

The big news, which is “nothing new,” except that it is, is that:

Andrew and I are moving in. Like together.

We are going to live in sin, which if you think about it, is not unlike living in Singapore except there’s a few less letters to contend with. And also, the unfortunate practice of caning won’t come into use in our household … unless Andrew makes a habit of leaving the toilet seat up, in which case all bets are off. Just kidding, honey! (But not really.)

And no, we don’t think cohabitation is a bad idea. Andrew and I have been together two years and this particular pre-marital proposal has been under consideration for about six months. We both agree that marriage is in the cards, but we’re still sorting out when that will happen—wise men say, only fools rush in. And neither of us is into making serious, life-changing decisions by sticking a careless, wet finger into the wind. Now, sticking a careless, wet finger into an unsuspecting earlobe? We totally back that.

In the interest of full disclosure, I will tell you there has been *some* concern, as it applies to increased domestic responsibility. “There’s a reason why women hesitate to shack up,” Mom recently explained. “Taking care of a man—all the additional washing, cooking, and cleaning—it’s like accepting a second job where the pay really sucks.” I told Mom she was being silly. I said I’d been living with a boy the past five years and I’d never had to fold his underwear. “That’s true what you’re saying sweet girl,“ Mom replied. “Sphynxy is very good about personal cleanliness and he doesn’t go through a lot of laundry, but honey,” she said, “that’s because he’s a cat.”

Andrew—who has never had a roommate—is so lucky he’s leasing an apartment with me. I am a GREAT roommate! In college, I bunked with this sweet girl, Megan Snelling—she was on the crew team, which meant she was gone most weekends at rowing competitions. Every Sunday, while she was out, I would wash Megan’s bedding and turn down the sheets. I did this partly because I really liked Megan, but mostly because I’d secretly spent much of her absence passed out, naked—Saturday night’s vile vodka-Kool-Aid cocktail oozing from my pores like a steamy bowl of microwave ramen—on her convenient, bottom bunk. And only once did she catch me actually in her bed (she’d returned earlier than scheduled). She gasped at the sight of me tucked into her covers, drooling, at 2PM on a Sunday afternoon. As Megan ripped back the purple comforter, the one her granny had gifted her, she asked, Where are your pants?! Looking at her buff rowing legs clad in teeny athletic shorts, I could only reply, I dunno. Where are yours?!

(As an aside: I wonder what Megan’s doing now … and why she won’t add me as a friend on Facebook. It’s a nice gesture and all, but every time I send a request—instead of hitting “add”—my long-lost roommie emails me a link to this video called “Are You F*cking Kidding Me.” Poor girl. She never was very good at computers.)

So Andrew and I are currently apartment hunting. If you are in Houston, we highly recommend the services of Denise “Boots” Boucher at Apartment Living Locators (713-783-1441). She only winced *very slightly* when I told her Andrew and I (being fitness enthusiasts) had special needs that include: space for six bicycles, a dedicated spandex closet … and most probably, an intervention.

If we don’t get committed first, February 2010 Andrew and I are moving in. And then we’re going to buy new furniture. And then—if you ask my Grandpa Banana Hammock—we are going to burn in hell. I personally think the only burning Andrew and I will be doing will occur in our shiny, shared kitchen, but  there’s only one way to find out. Premarital cohabitation, here we come!