When we first got our house we worked very hard on it. I wanted to create a warm and inviting refuge from the pressure and stress of the outside world. We scraped wallpaper off of walls, plastered, sanded and painted them and we refinished the floors. When we were done I felt we had created an environment where I would enjoy many leisurely hours spent with my family.
I'm not allowed to post any real pictures of our house. Daddy is extremely paranoid and thinks that if I do, some criminal trolling thousands of mom-blogs will stumble onto mine, see something in there that he wants, figure out our address, and then rob us and murder us in our sleep. Which is ridiculous.
Nobody wants our shitty stuff.
My point is that the living room is the nicest room in our house and it's sunny and comfortable if not perfectly clean. As nice as it is, I spend as little time as possible in there.
I'm hiding from my kids.
They're not stupid. They know that's the best room and that's why they've taken it over. There's lots of space on the beautifully refinished floors in there to race their cars, run around, move furniture, build forts, throw knives, wrestle, and otherwise wreak havoc and destruction. The only programming available in that room is children's programming (it's a long story but this is more the result of technical difficulties than evidence of good parenting) and so it is now officially the most stressful room in the house. You wouldn't believe what I put up with to not be in that room.
Welcome to The Bunker, which is our little nickname for our basement because it reminds us of being in one of those bunkers from WWII movies where soldiers nervously plan strategies as they listen to bombs drop overhead. You know. If that bunker were being run by hoarders.
Daddy has set himself up this sweet little man-cave down there complete with seating (lawn chairs) and entertainment (computer and stereo) because it's the only place besides the bathroom where he can lock himself away and have something almost like peace. You know. Peace with the sound of bombs dropping overhead. Well hell, I take whatever peace I can get so it's now my preferred getaway, too.
That's right. After spending an assload of money on the upstairs, we grownups get to hang out in the messy, dusty, cobwebby, mildewy, dank (and sometimes dripping) basement. And it is kind of fun. Down there Daddy and I can watch grownup TV, drink a beer, and talk about our day uninterrupted. For just a little while I can pretend I don't hear the screaming.
To keep the kids from coming down there and bothering us I told them that the basement was full of huge bitey-spiders that would eat them. After spending some significant time down there myself I realize I should have just told them the truth. We have these ginormous, prehistoric-looking centipedes that you could put a leash on and train to do tricks. They are mother-fucking scary.
They are so BIG! My Gawd! And they are not shy like their cuter, smaller counterparts that venture upstairs at night from time to time. These things are ballsy. Once, as I was walking up the stairs from the basement, I was sliding my hand along the banister like you do when you climb stairs. When I got to the top I put my hand down, full force, gripping hard onto the banister....and right on top of Hand Banana (EW!!!!). Most insects would have been crushed or severely maimed by this. He was merely stunned. He shook his head, reared up on forty or so of his hind legs and glared at me.
Then he turned around and scuttled back downstairs. It took me a long, long time to get over that, but it wasn't enough to deter me from seeking refuge from my kids. When it comes down to a choice between taking a break from the constant bickering, screaming and pestering or snuggling with Hand Banana I say, "Who's Mommy's horrifyingly ugly, multi-pedal monstrosity? You are! You are! Yes, you are!"
(Monster pics are from here and here. Living room and basement are from here and here respectively.)
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| This is not our living room. |
I'm not allowed to post any real pictures of our house. Daddy is extremely paranoid and thinks that if I do, some criminal trolling thousands of mom-blogs will stumble onto mine, see something in there that he wants, figure out our address, and then rob us and murder us in our sleep. Which is ridiculous.
Nobody wants our shitty stuff.
My point is that the living room is the nicest room in our house and it's sunny and comfortable if not perfectly clean. As nice as it is, I spend as little time as possible in there.
I'm hiding from my kids.
They're not stupid. They know that's the best room and that's why they've taken it over. There's lots of space on the beautifully refinished floors in there to race their cars, run around, move furniture, build forts, throw knives, wrestle, and otherwise wreak havoc and destruction. The only programming available in that room is children's programming (it's a long story but this is more the result of technical difficulties than evidence of good parenting) and so it is now officially the most stressful room in the house. You wouldn't believe what I put up with to not be in that room.
Welcome to The Bunker, which is our little nickname for our basement because it reminds us of being in one of those bunkers from WWII movies where soldiers nervously plan strategies as they listen to bombs drop overhead. You know. If that bunker were being run by hoarders.
 |
| This is not our basement. But it's very, very close. |
Daddy has set himself up this sweet little man-cave down there complete with seating (lawn chairs) and entertainment (computer and stereo) because it's the only place besides the bathroom where he can lock himself away and have something almost like peace. You know. Peace with the sound of bombs dropping overhead. Well hell, I take whatever peace I can get so it's now my preferred getaway, too.
That's right. After spending an assload of money on the upstairs, we grownups get to hang out in the messy, dusty, cobwebby, mildewy, dank (and sometimes dripping) basement. And it is kind of fun. Down there Daddy and I can watch grownup TV, drink a beer, and talk about our day uninterrupted. For just a little while I can pretend I don't hear the screaming.
To keep the kids from coming down there and bothering us I told them that the basement was full of huge bitey-spiders that would eat them. After spending some significant time down there myself I realize I should have just told them the truth. We have these ginormous, prehistoric-looking centipedes that you could put a leash on and train to do tricks. They are mother-fucking scary.
 |
| I call him Hand Banana. |
They are so BIG! My Gawd! And they are not shy like their cuter, smaller counterparts that venture upstairs at night from time to time. These things are ballsy. Once, as I was walking up the stairs from the basement, I was sliding my hand along the banister like you do when you climb stairs. When I got to the top I put my hand down, full force, gripping hard onto the banister....and right on top of Hand Banana (EW!!!!). Most insects would have been crushed or severely maimed by this. He was merely stunned. He shook his head, reared up on forty or so of his hind legs and glared at me.
 | |
| "Tonight. You." |
Then he turned around and scuttled back downstairs. It took me a long, long time to get over that, but it wasn't enough to deter me from seeking refuge from my kids. When it comes down to a choice between taking a break from the constant bickering, screaming and pestering or snuggling with Hand Banana I say, "Who's Mommy's horrifyingly ugly, multi-pedal monstrosity? You are! You are! Yes, you are!"
(Monster pics are from here and here. Living room and basement are from here and here respectively.)
I so know this feeling, we hang out in the basement too.... ours however is not buggy, it is drippy... I'm pretty sure we will never finish the basement as originally planned because they will lay claim to that space too.... I guess there is alwAys the garage.
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