Upstairs Downstairs

A successful relationship is one where each person is able to tell the other to go the hell away before violence happens. Or at least, this is the dictum by which devoted partner and I have happily outlasted most marriages. I remember, vaguely, lying on the two twin mattresses I had put on the floor to simulate a king bed in my junior year college dormitory with devoted partner as we mused about the future:

"We'd need separate rooms, though."

It doesn't much matter who said it first, we both were thinking of it. Ah, those halcyon days.

Fast forward to assorted concerned parents, "you're going to live WHERE?!?"

"But mom, dad, mom, dad, if we don't each have a private room, we'll probably kill each other, and the only place where we can afford a place that has private rooms is in this post-apocalyptic nightmare of a neighborhood."

When we started speaking to real estate agents about the new suburban manse, there was a note of concern: "you need (pause) three bedrooms? Do you have kids?"

"No, we just each like having a home office."

"Do you work from home?"

"No."

Awkward pause.

Our two-level modified ranch house (with the Swiss Chalet interior influences) was a little non-traditional in the home office layout. There was a "rumpus" room on the lower level with a door through to the laundry room, a door to the garage, and a door to the backyard; there was a clearly delineated second bedroom; there was a dining room. I wanted the second bedroom - I don't know why, but it felt like my place. Even though I'd eventually end up spending lots of time in the laundry room thereby potentially impinging upon devoted partner's alone time. I sold him the room as close to the grass that he liked so much and close to the garage woodshop area where he could spend countless hours building things. I don't know if he capitulated because it was what he wanted or because he could sense I was about to make jokes about his constructing battle bots. Either way, I got the upstairs.

Now, of course, I can't resist the urge to make fun of this arrangement.

"Honey, are you having fun with the other morlocks?" I yell downstairs from my snuggly perch on the couch.

"What?" Aw crap, he thinks it's something important and is coming upstairs. "Did you just ask me if I was feeding Moloch?"

"No. I. Nevermind."