Drowning My Soggy Basement Sorrows

In short, this has been the week from hell. I guess when you see a rattlesnake the size of a fire hose on Sunday, it’s possibly some kind of omen that later in the week men are going to be using extraction machines attached to fire hoses to suck the four-inch-deep water-swamp out of your basement. And that I’m going to have to act like a rattlesnake from hell with the insurance adjustor who can’t understand why the hardwood floors must be replaced. Because they’re buckling into six-inch-high teepees that trip me, dumbass? And that I might have problems with other long, hose-like objects later in the week, like maybe gas pumps that should have been replaced before I drove off from the gas station.

So I briefly – very briefly – considered getting myself drunk tonight. I kind of earned it. The house I was supposed to put on the market this week has over $50,000 worth of damage to it, and that’s not counting the furniture, exercise equipment, and stored items that are ruined. As a matter of fact, one of the few items that suffered no damage was the empty aquarium that was once home to a ball python, Hunter’s pet that escaped several years ago and was never found.

But getting drunk is not the answer to my problems, because although I’ve only been really drunk three times in my life, each time it did not end prettily. One of those times occurred while my whole family was in St. Augustine. My poor sister-in-law had to put my drunken ass (or “ash,” as I pronounce it when I’m drunk) to bed. I woke up in the middle of the night very, very thirsty. I tiptoed downstairs and was greedily chugging a liter of Pellegrino when I noticed a cat on my front porch eating from the dish I set out for Degas, the Siamese across the street who spends most of every day going door to door begging for food. Only it wasn’t Degas at the dish. I made my way over to the front door and watched the kitty eat. I wanted to go outside and pet the pretty kitty, but even in my semi-inebriated state, I remembered that opening the door would cause the alarm to beep, and I didn’t want to waken the entire household. So I stood and watched the cat eat while I finished my Pellegrino.

The next morning, I made my way downstairs in time to meet my family for breakfast at eight o’clock, proud of the fact I was not in the least bit hungover. Plus, I pointed out to my brother and niece, at two o’clock that morning, I’d even had the presence of mind not to open the front door and pet the kitty because I hadn’t wanted to wake them.

“What cat? Degas?” Beau asked.

“No. It was a different one. I’d never seen it before, but it was a really pretty kitty,” I said. “It was grey, and it had these cool black rings around its tail.”

After my brother picked himself up off the floor, he explained to me that the “pretty kitty” was, in fact, a raccoon who probably carried rabies – the ultimate in tainted pussies.

So on this night, when I probably have every reason in the world to drown my soggy basement sorrows, I will not drink. Because as sure as I do, some creature from Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom will show up at my house. And with the way my week’s been going, it will be that long-lost ball python, now the size of a fire hose and hungry enough to eat a dachshund.