Tales from the Basement, Part 2

(Okay, I must be honest. I’ve been writing a post all week that I couldn’t get quite right until tonight, when I just deleted the whole thing. I finally realized that I did not want to relive a lot of what I went through during my courtship with Al—there are just some things that don’t need to be repeated and put out to the whole world, such as my former tumultuous relationship with his ex-wife. Although in retrospect, some of the stories are quite comical, there are some that are very heartbreaking. I have come such a long way with her and understand her so well now, that to repeat any of these stories almost feels like a betrayal. So we’ll just have to fast-forward a little into the relationship…)

When I met Al, he was renting a room from his friend, a divorced chiropractor who rented out 3 bedrooms in his large home to other single/divorced men. Al had been living there ever since his separation three years prior to our meeting, and was the only one renting at the time that we began dating. He had one room to himself and was in the process of fixing up another room for his kids, but his chiropractor friend made the decision to turn that section of the house into a large apartment for a family.

I was in the throes of single, working motherhood and messy-kid-syndrome: my kids had nowhere to have play dates save for their bedrooms. By the time the respective parent came by to pick up their child, the bedroom would look like an explosion at the Toys R Us warehouse. I would then muster a phony, “Oh, that’s okay, don’t worry, we’ll clean it up after you leave!” when the parent expressed concern about their child helping to clean up. Most days, I found it overwhelming to deal with my own kids, so I was usually willing to compromise and clean everything myself if it meant getting all the extra kids floating around the house to go home in a timely fashion so I could have some peace and quiet.

My unfinished basement was being rented out pro-bono to a family of unwelcome tenants—I believe their name was “Rodent”—and I had a brainstorm that it would be a great idea to build a playroom, laundry room and studio apartment down there and kick these freeloaders out once and for all. Al and I were dating over a year at this point, and after some lengthy discussions, we decided that he could move into the studio apartment and pay me rent, which would basically cover any raise in my mortgage from refinancing the house to pay for the work.

The construction was done beautifully by my cousin’s husband, and Al moved into his “cave”—one bedroom with a small living area, and a tiny bathroom with a stall shower. Although there was a separate entrance—just in case things didn’t work out with Al, and I had to rent to someone else—he used the front door to come and go, and I eventually caught on that the neighbors thought that he had moved in. But not into my basement. Into my bed.

Anytime that I would mention that Al lived in a studio apartment in my basement, I was met with expressions of disbelief. “OH, come on!! You know he doesn’t live down there.” Or, “Yeah, right…and he puts up with that nonsense, going down to the basement every night without complaining.” And my all-time favorite: “Lisa, I’m sorry…but that’s…weird.”

Weird?!? We weren’t married. Neither of our divorces was final yet, even after all that time. We had kids… impressionable kids, for crying out loud! The very last thing that I wanted was for my daughter to witness her mom sleeping with a man in her bed every night that she wasn’t married to…and then, God forbid, having it not work out. So why was that…weird?

We continued our “weird” living arrangements for several years. My divorce became final; he was having difficulty coming to agreeable terms with his ex, even after 7 years. Once his divorce became official, I made the request that we become “legitimate”. Yes, I enjoyed our little “rendezvous” in his cave once I put the kids to bed—no one could hear us down there, that’s for sure—and I know he liked to have his own place to “escape” now and then. But it was becoming increasingly important to me to build a relationship based on the real commitment of marriage; not only to set an example to our children, but for our own emotional investment into our futures. I wanted someone to share my life with as a full-fledged, committed partner; it didn’t work out the first time, but I believed that Al and I had what it took to be there for each other through anything.

One wintry Saturday afternoon right before my 39th birthday, I was outside in the dog run picking up dog poop with a plastic bag on my hand, as my pooper-scooper had broken and had yet to be replaced. Al came to the back door and told me that he absolutely needed me to come inside right that minute, as he wanted to show me something. I came inside with bag still on hand, a little annoyed that he interrupted my wonderful hour of crap-slapping. He chided me to come into the living room, and I relented, still with the bag on my hand, so as not to lose any time in my race to get back out into the field of land mines. To my complete and total surprise, all of a sudden he dropped to his knees and popped out a small, square box. I sat there in disbelief, subconsciously thanking the heavens above that I was right-handed. He looked at me with the most loving, sincere face and…well…you know the rest. I of course started to cry, and we hugged for what seemed like an hour. There I stood; no makeup, a winter hat on my head, a bag for a pooper-scooper on my right hand, and the most beautiful solitaire diamond on my left. I never felt more loved in my whole life.

(Next installment…our wedding day. Absolutely the most wonderful day of my life.)