Published: October 10, 2008 06:01 pm         

The rec room that never was

My home office is downstairs. It was just a cellar when we moved into the house 15 years ago, but we invested a little money to fix it up, so then it became a basement. I guess you could call it a finished basement. But apparently it wasn’t finished enough because the builder we hired said that for a few extra bucks he could add some additional touches and then we could call it our lower level. We didn’t have that kind of money.

Our original plan was make it a beautiful room where we could entertain guests, sip white wine and talk about good books and the current movie scene. Fifteen years later, no humans are allowed downstairs except me and the men from Orkin.

We have a pool table that I bought in l998 when I wanted to get my son interested in something other than video games. I thought if I kept going back to negotiate the best price, I might have a shot at meeting that Watson’s girl.

We never have played pool. I use the cue sticks to wrangle cobwebs from the ceiling. I can store a dozen suitcases under the base and the top of the table is the perfect nesting area for a year’s supply of Bush’s baked beans. Each side pocket holds a flashlight. Corner pockets? Duct tape, scotch tape, masking tape and electrical tape. And my wife said we’d never use the thing.  Jeesh, what a pessimist.

Somewhere under boxes of old paperback books and smelly blankets is a futon, which we bought because we were told it was a cheap and convenient extra bed. It took three defensive linemen to negotiate the stairwell to get the thing down to the basement. I don’t know what the mattress is made of, but the cat sees the unit as a condo — two beds and a bath, if you know what I mean.

I just Googled “futon” to find out the origin of the word. There were links to Web sites that discussed serious sleep disorders, including one called exploding head syndrome. I don’t want to overreact, but I am keeping a close eye on that cat.

In 2000, I decided I wanted to learn to play the piano so I spent a hunk of money on this electronic gizmo called a Clavinova. It can be programmed to play 30 instruments, create background rhythms and magically produce chords. I don’t have to do much of anything but sit there and make the next payment. I’ve put the Clavinova on e-Bay three times and have had about as much success as Sarah Palin did selling her Boeing 707.

We built a bar in the corner so guests could mosey over have a nice cold one. But we never put in the fridge as we planned. You can still mosey on over and see our new sump pump. Better hurry. We may actually install it any year now.

The other day I noticed a huge green slab of wood resting against a wall, half hidden behind stacks of clothing and picture frames. I asked my wife about it.

“That’s a ping-pong surface, Dick. It fits over the pool table. I guess we’ve never used that, either.”

I told Mary Ellen that it was about time we invited some friends over and finally played some table tennis in our cellar.

But first, I have a whole lot of beans to eat.

Dick Wolfsie is a television news reporter, syndicated humor columnist and author. He can be reached at Wolfsie@aol.com