Complaint: Ewwww.

So we’re looking at houses and it’s taking some time to retrain my eye to the non-California look (all one story, newer, less wear and tear) and appreciate the well-worn, massive, crumbling edifices that line the Eastern part of the country.

The houses here are a different breed entirely. I vaguely remember these things from my childhood. There are so many stories, and so many nooks and crannies, and what’s this thing down at the bottom of the stairs?

Oh yeah. Basements.

Gah.

I forgot about those.

Oh how I wish I didn’t have to think about those again.

I remember our basement in Montreal, when I was growing up: dank, damp. dark and dirty. Possibly good adjectives for a punk band, but not for a room in your house.

These things called basements disturb me.

There are so many unknown places in a basement. There is so much that can grow, fester, or spread. I really hate them. I think in some ways I fear them.

And now it’s time to deal with one of my (many) fears.

Every time we look at a house, I have to walk downstairs and face my demons. I have to dwell in the dank, bonk my head on a light fixture, and cringe as I peer into crevasses that would be better left unpeered upon.

Here’s my test: I have to imagine myself walking downstairs to do the laundry, alone, at night, when my husband is away and my kids are in bed; if I can’t imagine doing that in said basement, without Jason or Mike Myers (either one) jumping out at me with a mask and a machete to ambush me, no dice. I pass on that house. Next, please.

But I’ve started seeing flaws in my system. Because pretty much ALL basements are dark and dank. Even if you pour a ton of money into them, they still smell, leak, seep and drip. They’re just on the less disgusting part of the continuum of the basement gnarl scale. So I need to readjust myself, and see basements not as foes to be vanquished, but afflictions to be endured.

All houses here have basements. That’s the way it is. I cannot avoid the basement. I shall have to face my fears. In facing the real spider-webby, potentially rodent-dropping-filled basements, perhaps I will face the dank and dark and nasty in my own psyche. Perhaps by facing what disgusts me in basements, I can face what disgusts me in my own life.

Or maybe I could seal off the basement of our next house and just wash the clothes in the sink.