Cellar Dwelling

My wife had absolutely no mercy on my delicate constitution yesterday. I thought she would be sympathetic when I recounted my herculean efforts at not being distracted by female lacrosse players throughout Saturday afternoon but that was not to be. After an early morning breakfast with the Keene Friend I was ruthlessly directed into the car and instructed her drive her home so she (we) could continue work on the basement cleaning project. After a quick stop to lay in supplies for the week she was back in the basement sorting through the detritus of the past ten year’s accumulation of unwanted items sentenced to exile in the cellar. She used some of her most artful female wiles to shame me into helping her against which I am basically helpless. She said she was going to get back to work and I was welcome to sit on my butt upstairs while she worked. Like I didn’t know what the price of inaction on my part would engender.

She didn’t even try to understand that the Game of Thrones was returning last night and my need to see the wildings’ barbecue at Castle Black – as I said – ruthless. I held out some hope that the Red Sox –Yankees game would gain me some respite since she’s back to being a fan this year. Then the Red Sox starter gave up seven runs in the first inning which eliminated all hope.

Some of her acquisitions on Saturday were huge plastic storage bins which were employed to store the things we would be keeping and to make the basement look more orderly (because that’s important). She doesn’t fully appreciate the artistic quality of some of my more adventuresome storage techniques. She has staged a true coup d’état removing me from the decision making process in that regard (I can’t say as I blame her). I was called on to move heavy boxes and generally keep my mouth shut while she made the tough decisions. 

In a very funny moment she ran across a number of my summer shirts that I hadn’t seen a few years. She’d put them down there for the winter and then forgotten where they were. She was properly chagrined (a rare victory that). Buddy spent a morose day as we flitted about his subterranean domain. He’s always tied after a visit to Keene Friend (protecting us from late night college kids) and didn’t appreciate the constant reminder from my wife about how much fur he sheds.

The Targaryens, Lannisters, and Starks were just about to crank things up when I told my wife I would move one last box and then I was calling it a night. She disdainfully pointed to a box I’d just finished loading with old photo albums. To counter her aloof demeanor I decided on a powerful male response. I contemptuously seized the box, lifted it and swung it into position. In doing this I learned two things almost simultaneously. 1. Photo albums are friggin heavy. 2. My back reached its limit one box earlier.