The second night in our new home, my husband and I couldn't sleep. Every time we began to drift off, we'd awaken with a start, hearing voices in the other room. Then we'd remember: we now had a housemate, and he had a friend over. Brian and I whispered frantically. This was a mistake. We couldn't tolerate a roommate at this stage of our lives. What were we thinking?
Our friend Dave had proposed this arrangement because he wanted to buy a house but didn't want to live by himself. For some reason, a married couple and their 128-pound dog were his preferred companions.
For a couple of months, we were reluctant to accept Dave's offer. We'd been married for two years and weren't inclined to cohabitate with another adult. We thought we'd try to buy our own home instead -- until the realities of the Silicon Valley housing market sank in. So we reconsidered. After all, Dave wasn't home much. He was laid-back and probably easy to share a house with. He had lived in Terra, the co-op where I spent my senior year, and understood the flexibility, respect and teamwork necessary for successful cooperative living. Most important, we loved him and were excited by the prospect that he would play a bigger part in our lives.
Dave agreed to our two conditions: Brian and I would get the master bedroom, and the rent we'd pay him would not exceed the rent for our two-bedroom apartment in Cupertino. We helped him select a four-bedroom, two-and-a-half-bath in Sunnyvale, and the great experiment began.
Despite the anxiety that second night, the three of us settled into a harmonious household pretty quickly. I knew things were going to work out when Dave trotted off to the furniture store to buy bookcases that matched ours. Of course, there have been low points, like when Dave forgot to pay the electric bill -- twice -- and we got a shutoff notice while he was on an extended trek in the High Sierra. But these are transcended by the high points, like a recent Saturday that spontaneously evolved into a Day of Hedonism, during which we left the house only to fetch items that furthered our personal comfort and amusement (10 a.m., bagels and doughnuts; noon, sodas and juice; 2 p.m., pizza; 4:30 p.m., Trivial Pursuit; 8 p.m., chocolate mousse ingredients).
The division of labor developed naturally. Brian takes out the trash; Dave retrieves the cans from the curb; I perform the less smelly task of household bookkeeping. We don't always fall into gender stereotypes, however. Brian is our chef-in-residence; I know more about baseball than Dave; and Dave's hair is longer than mine.
Still, I sometimes think our house could use a little more estrogen. I catch myself singing off-color passages from Monty Python songs, and I have to endure sexist commentary when I polish off the M&Ms. ("She's a woman; it's chocolate; she can't help it.") I can't believe the guys consider watching each other play video games a viable activity. And I'm the sole proponent of a ban on Star Wars art in the common rooms.
Then there's the privacy issue. Yes, three's company, but it's also a crowd. The other day, I had to drag Brian off to the bedroom before I could express my frustration that he had received yet another speeding ticket.
Actually, though, the greatest challenge is explaining my domestic arrangement to the outside world. "You have a housemate?" people invariably exclaim, their eyes traveling from my face to my ring finger and back again. They assume there's something kinky going on. There isn't. Dave is like the brother I never had. He asks my advice on whether to buy earthquake insurance and gives me tips on becoming a better pinball player. We discuss abortion politics, debate whether "architected" is a word and sing along with Madonna at the top of our lungs.
It won't last forever. Someday, Dave will want to get married; Brian and I will want to buy a house and have children. But the family feeling we've created will endure. "Uncle Dave" already has dibs on babysitting.
Kathy Zonana, '93, JD '96, is assistant editor of Stanford.
