People say it's all about compromise.  But some days it seems like you're the only one making 'em, dunnit?  When does "compromise" become surrender?  It's all about choosing your battles, right?  Keep telling yourself that.

I went out with my friend Paco last night, and when I came home Jake was putting the final touches on the new living room.  It wasn't completely out of the blue. He had been so single-minded in his relentless advocacy of out-sized suburban home furnishings with cup-holders that there was really no way to avoid this eventuality without resorting to violence.

Our cold soup discussion should have been a red flag (and for the record, it was).  For Jake, there is no such thing as a living room without recliners with cup-holders.  Try telling him it's actually a basement he's thinking of — it gets you nowhere. 

So we had worked out some of the logistics of the move beforehand, and I had been sure to be out when it took place, so that I would not be forced to participate in the charade of thoughtfully considering the proper placement of the monstrosity.  We had cleared a spot for it, and while it was much bigger than even I had feared, that's where it would go.

So when I walked in, all I could do was shake my head and chuckle.  If you don't laugh you'll cry.  Sometimes I forget this is MY life, not someone's for whom things go to plan.  I had dinner with my friends Iory and Leo Wednesday, and we were talking about my finally leaving the orphanage for the beautiful new place on the Fenway, where I felt at home, and then — Jake. 

"So close," Iory said with a tinge of sadness, "and yet so far."

That's always how it is, innit?  I mean, it's like the life I'm supposed to have is always one step ahead of me. 

If Jake at least had a sense of humor, but so far I have seen no evidence of one.  It's weird.  I'm not just talking about not having a sense of humor like mine, I'm talking a sense of humor, period.  He's jaunty, and has a Fox newscaster's cheery inflection, but underneath he's all business.  It's no exaggeration to say that in the three weeks we've shared an apartment he has not said a single thing that could even be mistaken for evidence of a sense of humor to anyone.

Like Oscar, his dog.  We think of goldens as happy because they're furry and blond and have those puppy dog faces and puppy dog eyes, and love to run and play fetch, but the truth is they are very serious dogs.  Very serious.

In fact, poor Oscar is literally pulling his hair out. 

I came home from work the other night and there was a huge ball of dog hair — with a little hide attached — on the kitchen counter, of all places.  It had obviously been left there by one of the humans in the house who does not mind having giant balls of dog hair on a surface where food is prepared. I’m wondering: is this what he meant when he said he was “tidy but not a neat freak”?

Or it's possible it was one of Jake's posse, who now all have keys of their own to the flat. It takes a village to walk a dog, apparently.

To be fair, Jake is busy with his Masters and a job, but some days Oscar is left pining for him all day and into the night. And I’m afraid I can’t lend the poor creature much moral support, as we are at cross purposes in many ways. I mean, I don’t miss Jake at all when he’s not around. But then he doesn’t provide me with chew-toys and I’ve never played with his balls.

Nor  — tragically really — would I want to.* 

So anyway, I get home last night and he's in the middle of this massive engineering project, in his welder's bib and mask. 

Seeing this space-age megathing for invertebrates that's taken over my formerly perfectly charming living room, I'm like: "the Eagle has landed."

No reaction.

"Dude," he says, "where do you think the coffee table would look good?"

It's very liberating to have a whole room laid waste like this — I had been shopping for pillows and pictures for the wall and little knick-knacks and things, and could have ended up spending a lot of money on that room when I cared.  But drop a giant deuce in the middle of it, and suddenly my discretionary income for 2010 has instantly quintupled!

I said: "It's really immaterial at this point what would 'look good,' innit?  Let's just focus on the logistics of how we can accommodate your giant cry for help here."

He set about jerking the coffee table around.  He had already thrown a coffee table book that cost more than his sofa on the floor in his excitement to move it in, and now he kicked it out of his way with a little backward kick like a dog burying its shit.  The book slid across the floor, coming to rest in a flurry of dust bunnies.

OK.  So mutual contempt has been established.  Finally.  I can breathe again.

I want to just stress:  I am a reasonable person.  Ask anyone.  But if the saga of the E-Z-Rider recliners has a moral, it's this: it doesn't really pay to be reasonable.

Now the real fun begins.
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*An earlier version of this post had unconfirmed allegations of LDS, which we felt it prudent to remove, for the time being.