Basement War

I have been MIA for some time, owing to the copious amount of basement cleaning/work that needed completing. Rumors of my demise have been greatly exaggerated although I was almost eradicated by sixty pounds of dryer lint.

We are almost done. We have been almost done for a week. I am very pleased to announce that we have a very large clearing on one side of the basement, as well as another large clearing in the laundry area. This clearing is in jeopardy as I type this; we cleaned out boxes of material and clothing that smelled like general mustiness and cat piddle.

Cats. I have never been a cat fan. I do love the way our cat hops up on the bed and snuggles with us. It’s very comforting to feel her curled up on the small of my back while I cozy on my belly. She is affectionate. Lovely. Charming. She has pushed my tolerance boundary at this point.

This wretched beast destroyed my stairwell carpeting. She has destroyed the nap on several highly noticeable places in the living room and dining room. She has a perplexing disorder that causes her to vomit her food, usually on my rugs, a chair, or a brand new sideboard. Her veterinarian shrugs and offers to remove all four legs, thereby confining her to a single spot. I’ve nearly crumbled to the temptation.

Her recent habit has been to shove all the clean litter out of her clean box, pile it onto my basement floor, and shit or piss. She will do this even if we leave a few “reminders” in her box. Tomorrow I will leave a M18A1 in her litter box, there by solving my problem. Note to self: “front towards enemy”.

I’ve had the opportunity to meander (stumble, screaming) down memory lane. Our excavation yielded my old china doll, bronzed booties, The Cure, a fantastic assortment of classical literature, and some of my old writing.

A friend and I conspired to write a book together. It was my sweat and blood mixed with his suggestions. We thought up technology, social customs and language for this story. Granted, he was too drunk to really do more than say, “Well, George, what if we did more than simple bioengineering?”

My future ex-boyfriend destroyed the book. This moron fancied himself as the next Robert Anson Heinlein. Sadly, his talent was on par with “Where’s Waldo”. His writing style was nothing like mine. His suggestions grated on my nerves. If RJH told me, “well, George, what if we did more than simple bioengineering?” I would join him in a beer-fueled brainstorming session. If the future-ex said the same, he would then follow it with, “this is how I want it…” and no one would be allowed to input anything as he, the future-ex, was All Knowing and All Knowing.

Why did I date him afterwards? I was drunk. Final answer. I did protect some assets by registering my work and our ideas with the U.S. Copyright Office. I did not trust the future-ex.

My friend, RJH, took a downward spiral, as did our friendship. I worried about him for quite a while. He wandered around in a state of apathy, living for the next beer. He was fed quite a few lies from a mutual friend, and I firmly believe that was the catalyst for his breakup with his then-girlfriend as well as our ending. He finally took a prolonged Reality Check and, I would hope, stayed on it. I’m proud of his accomplishments, I truly am. I miss his friendship, even after all these years.

Our daydreaming gave me an entire story outline plus the initial eight chapters completed. I might revisit it. I certainly will change the name of the species. The language was my baby, with a few anatomical suggestions thrown in by my friend. Our own technology has advanced in the last twenty years, thereby negating our species biotech level and my friend’s suggestions. Perhaps I will rework everything. As I told him years ago, I would include him by name, if he wished. He said that he wasn’t interested. (I would include him anyway.)

Yah yah, shur shur.

I stirred up a nest of old photographs. It was the perfect opportunity to jump into the Way Way Back Machine and revisit some old haunts.

It was a cold Christmas in 1992. We had nothing under our tree. We didn’t have a tree. We had an orangutan. It was dead, murdered thirty years prior. It was also stuffed and mounted onto a large branch, festooned with tinsel and holding a candle. Its name was Bobo. Merry Christmas Bobo, from a very drunk Better Half and Aut.

Once upon a time, there was a very stocky Italian who loved to dig up dead things and cruise around in her Jeep. She had a Shadow Dog and really tacky clothing that really didn’t flatter her figure. She could probably bench press the Jeep and the dog, which is why her clothing never fit nicely. Better Half loved her anyway, and took this nifty picture.

Better Half wasn’t always Grizzled Veteran. He was Hottie Veteran with Dogs. See the Hottie Veteran sitting on the rocking chair? Rock, Hottie Vet, rock.

Better Half is MESSY. I believe that is a newt tank on our desk. Perhaps the Savannah Monitor was in it. Who knows.

I went through a blonde phase. I thought I could cover all of my gray hair by making myself look like I had just been frightened by a moose, or an IRS agent, or a fortune cookie saying that some moron named Obama would one day hold office and screw over our soldiers with regard to the TADT policy.

A bad photograph of me. Very bad. Avert your eyes, if possible. Warning: staring directly at this photograph may lead to blindness and erectile dysfunction.

A Christmas dinner. Possibly 2001. My parents, our kiddo Vlad, and us.

New Year’s Eve.