Hilda

Hilda, (AKA Anthony), is sort of my roommate. I’m not entirely sure what to call him because he’s partly a roommate, partly a nuisance, but mostly my best friend. Anthony received the nickname “Hilda” because of an ongoing battle we have about housework. I once told him that he reminded me of a cleaning lady that my grandmother had when I was a kid. Her name, strangely enough, was Hilda. My grandmother used to follow Hilda around, cleaning after she did.
Anthony will start cleaning something, only to give up in frustration when the girls recreate the same mess two minutes later. I began calling him Hilda whenever he complained about the insurmountable housework. It stuck, and now we all call him Hilda. He calls me “woman” in a condescending tone so I assume we are even.

Hilda popped into our lives at a time when everything was going to hell in a hand basket. It was not the best of times to embark on a new living arrangement, but life is supposed to be an adventure, after all. Regardless, he was here, whether we needed him or not. As it turned out, we needed him more than we realized.

Hilda originated as an employee of my fiancée’s, but circumstances dictated that I extend the use of my guestroom to him, indefinitely. This turned out to be more difficult than it sounds. The guestroom was also the catchall for every piece of discarded crap we had. Needless to say, I’m a bit of a pack rat. It gets me into trouble, but hey, you never know when you are going to need a broken knitting needle or old magazine!

As I stood in the doorway to the guestroom, I thought to myself,” Oh Lord, what am I going to do with all this?” Not surprisingly, the second I uttered the words “clean and organize,” my daughters scattered. They seem to have the same philosophy as I do when it comes to housework. If you can’t see it then it isn’t dirty.

Apparently, I was on my own. It took the better part of three days to throw out the less important stuff. My heart broke in the process. I had become very attached to the dizzying array of old clothes, magazines, knitting supplies, books, art projects, and miscellaneous garbage that had found its way into that room. I painted the decimated room blue, and Hilda moved in.

His moving in coincided with my Anthony (AKA Snarky) being hospitalized. At the time, I felt that Hilda’s proposed stay in my guestroom would be a major inconvenience, mostly because Snarky had a hissy fit. One would think that by now Snarky would understand that I am the type of person who does exactly whatever the hell it is I feel like doing, most especially if he has the impudence to tell me no. I thought at the time that Hilda living in his car was definitely not a wise choice and besides, it is my sworn obligation to piss Snarky off whenever possible.

Poor Hilda was thrown into my world the hard way. The first three days of his living with us consisted of babysitting, because I was at the hospital with Snarky. The girls felt it was essential to torture the new blood. I felt bad imposing on his good nature, but it was necessary at the time, and he left the girls mostly intact. They didn’t leave him tied up in the closet. I think he didn’t want to complain because he felt grateful to have a place to stay, and thought it was best not to annoy me. Little did he know that I am perpetually irritated about something, and nothing he did or said would make much difference. He has since learned how to deal with me, much to my annoyance.

My life was chaotic at that point, and a few weeks after Hilda moved in, Snarky moved out. This was not good. My temper got the better of me, and I broke every glass and dish in the house. Hilda tried to stay out of my way for the most part. He did his best to comfort me, but crying, hysterical, dish-throwing women are definitely not something he’s comfortable with. The whole back-patting thing he did was pathetic. I’m sorry, but sometimes one just needs a hug. He tried, but it was a sad attempt. Usually, he just hid in his room, perhaps to stay out of the line of fire. Good choice if you ask me.

It took an extraordinary amount of convincing to get Hilda out of his room. Slowly, and with serious reluctance, he began to open up. It started with my invading the precious sanctity of his room, just to chat. It bothered me that I had someone living in my house who reminded me of the ghost cat. I think that maybe Hilda has spent most of his life trying to be unobtrusive, and hiding has become a way of life for him. If you don’t notice him, then you won’t throw him out.
From our middle of the night chats, I have learned that life has not been very kind to him. Living on his own since he was fifteen has taught him that life is hard. It tends to kick one in the head from time to time. He has grown used to being an inconvenience, and I felt it was my duty to show him that not all people are like that. When Hilda moves out, it will be because he’s ready, not because he thinks he’s in my way. It has become an ongoing battle between Snarky and me, but when did I ever do what someone else thought I should do? I don’t think that Hilda trusts me to win the fight, but then again, he doesn’t put much faith in women in general.

Hilda discovered early that women are not to be trusted. His basic philosophy is that all women are evil, and it’s just a matter of time before they kick you in the unmentionables. Women have done bad things to him. I think I may be one of the few people who know just how badly women have mistreated him. To some extent, I may be just as guilty. I understand that from his perspective this may all be true, but not all women are bent on his destruction. What bothers me most is that he thinks I’m just as evil as the rest. Not true, but I haven’t be able to convince him otherwise.
Being surrounded by four women must be torture for him. It’s not as if we try to torment him, it just happens. Actually, I think the girls do enjoy it. They have made it their mission to beat him into submission, literally and figuratively. I have broken up more pretend fistfights than I care to mention. Maybe it’s because he’s such an easy target. He’s never quite sure how to handle them. Part of the problem is that he has more issues than Boofy.

Hilda has an unending conflict with the girls that drives me somewhat batty at times. He desperately tries to put his foot down about how the girls are slobs. They then proceed to inform him where he can put his foot. It usually escalates into a schoolyard fight that ends with my separating the participants to neutral corners. It’s not that he isn’t right; it’s just that sometimes he’s the son I never wanted. I learned a long time ago that it’s a loosing battle. Hilda just needs to catch up.

As far as the girls go, Hilda is a bit of a good-natured bad influence. He has horrid taste in music, although my daughter Katie begs to differ. I think she has the hots for him. Hilda thinks I’m nuts, but I call em as I see em. He encourages them to act like five year olds, mostly because I think he can relate. Whatever silly thing they want to do, he’s always game to do it with them, even at the risk of annoying me. They spend much of their time hanging out with him in his sanctuary, but Hilda doesn’t seem to mind the intrusion. I’m not entirely sure if he actually likes them or is just being kind. He has become their partner in crime, thwarting my every attempt at control. His impulsive power has even extended to the dinner table.

Hilda eats like a teenager. Any kind of garbage in a can is what’s for dinner. I try, unsuccessfully I might add, to feed him anything that would be considered “normal”. Something perhaps along the lines of a meat, a starch and a vegetable. Unfortunately, he has the girls to back him up and I get overruled. They love all the crap he feeds them. I can’t really complain because at least he’s willing to cook for them. More often than not, I find myself at a loss finding time to cook. Hilda has risen to the occasion more than once. How many men can you say that about?

His adolescent antics annoy me to no end sometimes. He plays video games incessantly, sleeps with the lights on, has a thing for video vixens, steals my cigarettes, gleefully anticipates thunderstorms, and is a general pain in the ass. He yells back at Boofy whenever he thinks the cat is winning the argument. He has issues with feet, open cabinet doors, and my leaving my air conditioner on at night. We argue about the stupidest things. He undermines my authority every chance he gets. I think he antagonizes me on purpose, possibly to force me to be somewhat less serious for the moment.
One of the main problems with Hilda is that he doesn’t seem to comprehend what I say to him. It’s not that he’s stupid, far from it. He thinks he is, but I can assure you, he isn’t. Granted, his grammar leaves something to be desired, but spelling isn’t everything. I rely so heavily on my spell-check that it is a wonder I can get a coherent thought down on paper. He just doesn’t think he is worthy of anyone caring about him. He chooses not to understand, for fear of getting attached. He has way too many hang-ups. How can anyone care about him if he doesn’t think he deserves it? He is one of the sweetest, most frustrating men I have ever met.

This is the type of man who will take the pepperoni off my pizza because he knows I hate it. During what we will call the “dish throwing phaze,” he went out of his way to buy me salads because I wasn’t eating, using his last dime to do it. Whenever I seem too serious, he’ll walk past me and flick my ear. He’s remarkably aggravating, yet endearing at the same time. He forces me to smile at his antics, even though laughter is the furthest thing from my mind. He’s comic relief when I least expect it.

Hilda pretends to be afraid of me, but I seriously doubt he thinks I can hurt him. I probably can, considering there is a reason I studied karate, but the macho man in him refuses to believe it’s possible. On some level, maybe he is afraid of me. I suspect part of him perhaps feels sorry for me, and part of him is afraid that I feel sorry for him. His fear of attachment is maddening. He’s so afraid that we will get emotionally involved with him that he can’t see that we genuinely like him for who he is.

Whether he likes it or not, we have grown accustomed to his intrusion into our lives. We have come to rely on his incessant juvenile clowning around. He is the proverbial thorn in my side, the insecure child in need of comforting, and the junk food king, but above all, he is my friend.