Now that the madness of moving has calmed down a bit, I've had an opportunity to think on a slightly deeper level than where I should put all our kitchen utensils. I will say that I think the whole relocation process has actually been going quite well.

However, my life wouldn't be complete without some sort of drama, and all this Jack Handy-ing has resulted in a brand new set of psychological issues.

Here's the thing: The house that my husband and I are living in ... we've lived in it before. And not in some bizarre, "Twilight Zone" way. My husband and I met when we were both living in Vegas, roughly seven years ago. Well, this is the house he owned back then.

Meaning that the last time I called this place home, my husband and I were dating.

Click here to read how Amy and her husband have regressed ...

I feel like I've entered some sort of crazy time warp and any second Dr. Frank N. Furter is going to jump out of the closet and throw a piece of toast at me.

When we left Vegas a few years later, we held onto the house as a rental property. So when we decided to move back, it was an easy decision to boot out the renters and reclaim the house for ourselves. That was all well and good until I started to experience the psychological regression that went along with it.

When we were living here the first time around, it was clearly his house. His name was on the title. He payed the mortgage. His furniture was in the living room. And when we were dating, that was totally fine. In fact, I was excited to be with a guy who was adult enough to own real estate.

Now that we're married and all "joint" in our accounts, the house is "ours," but somehow I still feel like I'm bunking with my boyfriend. It's amazing how a place can have such an impact on you, despite all your rational feelings to the contrary. It's kinda like visiting my parents in the house I grew up in. For some reason I automatically revert to the teenage habit of asking permission to stay out after 11 p.m.

I'm really trying to not let the history of a house affect my mental state, but with all the changes recently, everything is compounding to make me a walking basket case. Oh, and it snowed here this week. A lot. In the middle of the freaking desert. Maybe I am in a "Twilight Zone" episode, after all.