I recently did something very loving, tender, romantic and kind-hearted. I walked from room to room in the apartment I share with my fiance, trying to figure out who's ruined more of whose stuff.

It started innocently enough. One afternoon he announced it was time to purchase new blue jeans.

Like so many of us, he'd been wearing the same few pairs for long enough that they'd become comfortable, which is nature's way of telling you they're no longer in fashion.

The following morning he waltzed out the door in soft faded Levi's and returned, struggling to move, in super-saturated dark blue skinny jeans.

"I'm a Skinny Jeans Guy now!" he declared, teetering.

He hobbled to the couch and then fell on it.

This is how he sits now.

I didn't think much of it — if he wants to muffin top his ankles, that's his business — but then I started noticing something strange. Half of our — and by "our" I mean "my" — beige couch was turning grey.

At first I assumed it was some weird butt-shaped shadow but the more I inspected the more I realized the dark cloud was on the fabric itself.

I struggled to identify the culprit. Newsprint? Cigar smoke? Soot?

Had someone been entertaining an erudite cigar smoking chimney sweep behind my back? It seemed unlikely.

But then I heard my beloved gasping for breath from the other room.

Of course! His jeans were leaking!

I informed Skinny Jeans that his new personality was leaving a mark all over my — I mean "our" — furniture and that he might want to consider dropping the new duds into the wash.

A look of panic flashed across his face.

I felt bad because I knew I was asking him to risk shrinkage, which would mean having to wake up a good sixty minutes earlier to get dressed. But, as far as I could tell, we only had two options: Shrink the skinny jeans or invite the California Raisins over to rub themselves on the couch to even out the tone.

Then I began to wonder if he was wiping his blue butt all over my couch in retaliation for crimes I committed early in our relationship against his pillowcases.

Allow me to explain.

I am a grown woman in many ways — age being the main one — but I still have the skin of a teenager. (Her name was Cheryl; I keep it in the freezer.) Because I still break out, I often slather on acne cream before bed which works to cure and control breakouts, repel the opposite sex and bleach the bejesus out of any fabric it comes in contact with.

I learned this the hard way when Daniel asked why his eyes burned when he hugged me and also why his blue pillowcases were streaked with orange.

I went on to destroy his blue face towels and white bath sheets with mascara and lipstick.

I also damaged his vacuum because I went around a corner, which accidentally yanked the cord from the wall, bending the prongs. And also the plastic.

But who's keeping track, really? I mean, aside from me.

But the vacuum had it coming because it beguiled me with its "handy" wand attachment, which is stuffed and coiled into the back of the vacuum, ready to strike.

I had no idea that if I released the wand from its holster, I would not only suddenly feel as if I was doing battle with an angry robot, but I would never be able to stuff it back into the machine without learning origami. It's right up there with cheap horizontal blinds in terms of flimsy pieces of plastic with a deeply ingrained sense of individualism.

So one could say we're even, and yet I still think the couch offense is a bigger one simply because the couch is larger. Also because it's mine.

I'm left with two questions: (1) At what point will I stop thinking of our belongings as his or mine and just think of them as ours? (2) If I rub my face on his skinny jeans will I bleach his jeans or turn my face blue?

I'm going to find out. Worst case scenario I'll become a chimney sweep.

Hear more from Alison Rosen on her podcast, "Alison Rosen Is Your New Best Friend" or on the immensely popular "Adam Carolla Show" podcast. Follow her on Twitter @alisonrosen or visit her website at www.alisonrosen.com. To find out more about Alison Rosen and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate Web page at www.creators.com.