Sharing

Something about my girlfriend's house makes me wonder.
It's the way we'll come through the gate and there's a mangy little Pomeranian in a jumper yarping hoarsely at us. It's the way we pass the creepy old rainchair on the way to the door, and there'll be a plastic bag full of children's toys on it. She lives above an op shop and there's always something lying around on the doorstep. She has an awful plastic wind-up Transformer that she fished out of one of these bags. It'll lie dormant on the carpet wherever she's dropped it, but if you pick it up between your thumb and forefinger, it struggles feebly in midair, not quite out of zizz.
You come through the front door and there's an etch-a-sketch propped up on the kitchen table, bearing last night's message from her housemate. It usually says something about food, either "I stole your eggs to make dinner, WILL REPLACE" or "Free wine left over from work, help yourself". The kitchen shelves are divided by the owners of the goods, but "ownership" is never strict.
She used to have a housemate who would draw a line on the side of the milk bottle to monitor illegal use. It's hard to get comfortable living with someone who does that. Quietly, gently, without a single word exchanged, a little green marker message in your fridge: "I don't like you and I don't trust you."
She's got a new housemate now. I like this one better. She has a much better DVD collection.
We came in the other night to find a post-it note plastered to the television. Her housemate had booked the set to watch something awful. They almost never see each other, so they run a system of note-based communcation. Post-its are a staple of the household.
It must be a delicate operation, getting along with your housemates. I still live with my father, and my father (a) loves me, (b) is obliged to provide for me, and (c) is allowed to exercise absolute authority over the household, since I don't pay rent. But when you split rent with two other people you didn't know til after you moved in with them - people who aren't friends or drinking buddies - your entire relationship is based upon tiny little domestic details.
Who bought the last dishwashing sponge?
Who left the toilet seat up?
Who hasn't paid their share of the phone bill yet?
All of the rules seem unspoken.
Should I ask before I use her new nonstick frying pan?
Am I allowed to borrow a capful of vegetable oil to cook my lamb chops?
Is anyone going to get uppity if I smoke weed in here?
Oh hey, I'm just watching your Buffy season four, is that cool? Oh, hey, I'm taking care of my friend's cat for the day, is that all right? Keep your drawers shut, he likes socks.
It's all about manners, but home shouldn't be about manners. If I had to call a place home, I'd want to be able to fart without excusing myself. I'd want to sing in the shower and spread whatever condiments I could find onto my toast when I stumbled into the kitchen for a five am snack. Is a sharehouse a home? Or is it just a place to sleep between your pubs and your classes?
I wonder.