I looked around my house a few days ago and realized it is starting to look like a bachelor pad. My dining room table has become my work-at home desk and I don't bother to put my laptop's attendant power cord and iPod connector away because I have grown into a habit of eating dinner at the counter while I read the mail. The flowers I bought last week at the market are still stuck in the vase that was nearest to hand when I came home, still wrapped in the rubber bands they came in. My fridge is full of leftovers and tupperware containers and most of a bottle of wine because I only had one glass the night I opened it. My kitchen shows evidence of a couple of meals across the stovetop, cutting board, counter - a pot, a knife, some onion skins. There are abandoned shoes in nearly every room, and some have abandoned socks tucked in them. I leave my knitting out on the couch because no one but me ever sits there and I know to watch for the needles. I always know where the remote is, too.