My basement is...full.
Okay, that's putting it tactfully. My basement it stuffed to the gills with less than useful--let's call it "useful-ish"--crap. (It might be full of crap, but I am hanging onto the "-ish" for dear life.)
This isn't entirely my fault. See, ideally, when a couple marries, it should be stipulated in the wedding contract that at least one of them is a thrower-outer instead of a saver. The trouble with my basement is, the theater god and I are both savers.
Every computer we have ever owned is up--and running!--down there. Even the Commodore 64. Seriously, it looks like a freakin' geek museum. We've nicknamed it "Nerdvana," and it is a veritable paradise for the socially awkward.
(Not that we are socially awkward, of course. But we have deep empathy for those who are.)
Anyway, for Nerdvana I blame my husband, who, aside from being a theater god, is also a technology wizard. He loves to upgrade his equipment, but can't stand to let go of something that still works. Also, he's utterly fascinated with antique gizmos and gadgets; to him, the older something gets, the more interesting it becomes.
(I have to admit, I like that about him. It bodes well for our future together. As long as he doesn't try to "upgrade" to a sleeker, faster-running twenty-year-old, and retire me to the basement, I figure I can look forward to a long and happy dotage with a husband who blissfully raves, "Look! She still works!")
But it isn't just my husband. Honesty compels me to admit the state of the basement is partially my fault. I have a small problem of my own.
I, Linda Grimes, am a bookaholic.
There. I said it. (Whew. I feel so much better now that that's off my chest.)
Stacked-up boxes of books line the perimeter of Nerdvana, the overflow from the shelves upstairs.
Apparently I am constitutionally incapable of getting rid of any book I have ever owned. Because...well, they're mine. And I might reread them again (for the fiftieth time) someday. Besides, they'll come in handy when I'm old and senile, and living on a fixed income. It won't matter that I can't afford new books when I've forgotten the endings to cases full of thrillers, mysteries, and romances.
It's not hoarding. It's a retirement plan.
All right, it's more than that. Some of them I keep purely for sentimental reasons. Fond memories of my larval phase as a bookworm. Like this favorite from when dog books ruled my shelves:
And this from my "nobody wants me in a crime-fighting club so I'll just read about it instead" period:
Though some of the selections I just found while excavating downstairs force me to admit my addiction may border on the compulsive. Yes, this is an old Guinness Book of World Records. From *cough* 1995. (Hey, what if I need to research world records from that era? I am prepared!):
And then there are the duplicates. Yes, I accidentally bought two copies of the same book. But I can't get rid of one, because, if you look closely, you'll notice one of them has an embossed title. So really they're different:
Besides, what if I wear one out? Best not to take any chances.