The Homewreckers

Unlike many folks in this day and age, my parents have an unfinished basement. Ok, they have an un-started basement.

For several reasons, this was never a grown-up social setting and quickly became the playroom/TV room/sleepover headquarters in addition to what it already was -- a storage facility.

From the washer (with a PVC pipe dumping into the janitorial sink) and dryer (hooked up to the weird space-suit arm leading to the vent outside) to the random pieces of wood and fishing poles stored between the wooden braces of the ceiling, their basement reeks of my dad's blue-collar feng shui.

There's his worktable overflowing with mason jars of turpentine, baby food jars of screws, bits of scrap metal and wood, basically anything you'd ever need to fix anything. Ever. Leather oil? Vice? 7 different kinds of tape?

My dad is such a home improvement pack-rat that when my brother and sister-in-law were expecting their second child, my brother called under the guise of "I need you to come quickly! Bring a sledgehammer and some Guerrilla Glue!" My parents arrived at my brother's house breathless and ready to simultaneously destroy something and glue it back together. My brother, of course, didn't need either, just an excuse to have them drop by while his in-laws were in town and knew that my dad would have both and would come running. A hilarious prank considering my brother's trademark placid and imperturbable personality.

Alongside my dad's worktable, there's a big chalkboard next to an authentic iron boxing bell I used as a school bell, a pull-up bar, and two 5' metal filing cabinets. You can also find a yellow HAZMAT suit complete with mask, several types of rubber gloves, fluorescent orange traffic vests, a dog leash (note: our dog died in 2002), and possibly a pinewood derby racing car (circa 1987).

There are random, unmatched rugs everywhere in an effort to cover the uneven cement floor. Our television stand is a porcelain sink. (Note: I didn't realize this was unusual until I was in college). We also have an entire section of board games and children's toys, camping equipment, paint cans, a croquet set, and tins of plastic silverware that my mom insists on washing after parties.

At age 7, my friend Jana (jay-nah) and I were playing after school and discovered that the Styrofoam insulation on one wall doubled as a blank canvas. We carved our names, we used pencils to gauge designs, we clawed maniacally in no pattern whatesoever, solely because the texture of those minuscule Styrofoam balls under our fingernails felt like what I imagine drawing on the surface of the moon feels like. After what seemed like hours, Jana's mom arrived and we ran carelessly up the steps to greet her.

Laughing and looking like 2 human nonpareils, we bounded into the living room leaving little white balls in our wake unknowingly having destroyed the basement in what was probably only 30 minutes. Face-to-face with 2 equally angry mothers, they lit into us at a volume my neighbors had probably become familiar with.

To Jana, I apologize. In all likelihood, it was probably my idea and you got the worst of the repercussions, solely because my mom's anger was trumped by your mom's red-hot embarrassment-turned-fury.

To my family, you're welcome. After the mess was cleaned up (a good vacuuming was all it took), my dad installed giant floor-length mirrors and classed up the place, not to mention created an illusion that our basement had doubled in size. And in a house that small, with that much stuff, if the only space we can get is an illusion, we'll take it.