Today is the last full day that I will get to enjoy my favorite chair for quite some time. As one of the biggest concessions to married life so far, I have to pack up Old Softie for an unknown period of time (rather than sell it on Craigslist, I brokered a deal with Swedish Girl, in which I get to store it until such time as we have a big enough place for me to use it in a den, office, or other man cave that will not be offensive to her eyes and sense of decor on a daily basis). New furniture is coming in and there is not enough room in our “cozy” apartment for Old Softie.

I’m excited at the change, but can’t help feeling like I’m throwing a sheet over grandpa and locking him in the storage unit (which, by the way, is perilously close to classic sit-com avalanche status each time I open the door). Afterall, I still vividly remember the day my mom bought this gorgeous leather reclining easy chair as a surprise birthday gift for my dad. That was at least 20 years ago, but this chair has aged better than Jaclyn Smith. Dear old Dad logged countless hours of in-front-of-the-TV nap time in this chair before it was given to me to become the focal point of my tiny first post-college living room. I’ve had it for seven years now and it’s pretty much the only thing in my apartment that is a direct link to my childhood. I do have those 20+ year-old socks that never age, but I don’t wear those every day. I do, however, sit in and enjoy Old Softie every day. My family has sat in it, dozens of relatives and friends have sat in it (some of them not with us anymore), old girlfriends have sat in, old roommates have sat in it (some of them I wish were not with us anymore), four U.S. presidents have sat in it.

Okay, I lied about the last part. Swedish Girl will be out with friends this evening and the Red Sox aren’t playing, so Old Softie and I will have the alone time we need. And before the new furniture arrives to take its place tomorrow, I’ll have to throw a sheet over Old Softie to spare it that indignance.

So, I’m really having problems with my roommate Hulk, aka “King Tool.”  It is not getting better.  It is getting worse.  It’s not so much that he is a bad roommate (which he sort of is); it’s that I am not equipped to put up with his peccadillos.  As I stated here previously, I drew a line in the sand and decided to shield myself from his weirdness.  I try to not enter rooms that he is already inhabiting.  That goes for the living room if he is watching TV, and the kitchen if he is making something to eat.  This works well, but still I can’t escape him.  

Hulk plays ice hockey.  He figured after merely watching it and getting a stiffy over the NHLers for 34 years that he should learn how to skate and join a team.  Good for him, but then I had to deal with all of his hockey equipment in the dining room for two months.  I decided to ask him to move it all into his bedroom or the basement and his response was “If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not.”  I erupted.  Granted, this all happened via email and I was at work sidebarring (also via email) with fellow housemate Petro, but I was literally hot with rage.  I had to remove my sweater and drink two large glasses of ice water.  After another strongly worded email, he acquiesced, but there was palpable tension in the air.  Petro remarked that Hulk was making a stand probably because he didn’t feel he should have to give in to the wishes of two guys six and eight years his junior, respectively. 

The next major hurdle to clear is the dining room full of Hulk’s possessions, including a microphone stand (are you fucking kidding me?!?), a couple of guitar amplifiers, a toolbox (how fitting), a Johnny Damon 8″x10″ glossy (not autographed), a box of anime adult-only comic books, and assorted other boxes of junk.  The guy moved in on Thanksgiving.  No kidding.  Swedish Girl and I were relaxing in the living room and King Tool arrived with boxes at midnight.  So the end of February will be 3 months of less than blissful cohabitation with KT and on March 1, I will face the next hurdle. 

In the meantime, perhaps I can keep myself tuned up by telling him to clean off the bathroom mirror once in a while.  I don’t really need to see what he ate that day after he flosses all over the place.  Or maybe I can get to the bottom of the mystery of whether he is stealing my conditioner or not.  And there’s always the issue of whether he’s stealing Petro’s Hockey News every other week.

And let’s not forget the intriguing little battle with his ugly Kabuki framed poster in the dining room.  At first, it was leaning against a wall in the living room.  I couldn’t stand the sight of it, so I moved it to his boxes in the dining room.  A couple of weeks ago, I turned it around so I wouldn’t have to look at it.  The next day, it was turned back around.  That sealed the deal as far as letting me know the Cold War was on.  And this limp-wristed stringbean is going down.