Fetid, mephitic, pustular.
So a few years ago we moved a rather large and cumbersome entertainment center to the finished basement along with the television, cable, and gaming system. I loved the quiet on the main floor that ensued for more than 4 years. It was so nice to have … peace. No one was trying to sell me anything, I was blissfully unaware of any political/social/environmental crisis, no happy crappy cartoon themesongs; twas nice.
Rancid, tainted, decomposed.
Then the girls decided that television was just so much more fun to watch in mommy and daddy’s bedroom than in the basement. Which didn’t really bother us until they started taking snacks and sticky, staining drinks to our room and leaving gold fish crumbs and popcorn kernels in our sheets and spilling chocolate milk and who knows what else on our carpet and then hiding that under the clean and dirty laundry they’d liberated from the politically incorrect confines of their segregated baskets.
The last straw was nail polish. Liv sat on the floor in front of my bed and painted her legs from the knee down to the tippy tip tip of her precious, cream filled toes. She also painted my down comforter, my dust ruffle, and the carpet directly before her. Jack and I emphatically laid down the law: No more kids in our room, and we bought a new T-Bo, and made plans to move the basement television back up to the main floor so the little shits could have some place to get dumb and I could have fewer excuses to leave them unsupervised.
Decaying, noxious, rank.
To do this moving Jack had to pull the large and cumbersome entertainment unit in the basement away from the wall so he could disconnect the whoozit from the whazzit. And Oh. My. Gawd.
You know that vague smell that you can never ever find no matter how hard you sniff and search? It comes and it goes, and mostly it’s gone, but you don’t like for guests to go to the basement because you might have become used to it, but it might knock them on their asses and then you’ll be known as the lady with the house that reeks? Well Jack finally found it, and he stumbled upstairs teary-eyed, leaning against the wall for support, clearly breathing from his mouth. “I’m going to need Lysol, a scrub brush, Dyson, three or four plastic bags, tongs, acid, and Febreeze,” he said then disappeared into the garage to get what he could. Intrigued I went into the basement to investigate. By the third step down my eyes watered, but undeterred I opened my mouth to breath and made my way to the askew entertainment center and took a hesitant peek behind it. Brace yourself.
Festering, moldering, putrescent.
THE FLOOR WAS UNDULATING. With MAGGOTS. Because someone or some animal had hidden/dropped/dragged a package of Healthy Choice sliced turkey breast behind the entertainment center long ago enough for it all to have liquified into a heaving brown and white puddle of goo. The actual meat was unrecognizable and I only knew it was meat because I recognized the packaging.
Excuse me for a few hours while I gag.
Jack returned with everything but the acid (hydrogen peroxide instead), hooked up Dyson despite my mighty protests and BEGAN SUCKING UP ROTTED MEAT SLUSH AND SQUIRMY WORMS WITH MY PRIDE AND JOY. Then he left to finish fishing the cable to the main floor and could [I] “finish up because he was about to vomit.” I did it but I didn’t do it with God in my heart. It was however, very, very, very cool when I pour hydrogen peroxide on the spot where the grossness had been. Way the heck better than the old baking soda and vinegar trick.
Unfortunately, my beloved Dyson now has rancid meat sludge stuck in its tube and it won’t come out. The smell!!! My God! The SMELLL!!! Oh, and did I mention THE SMELL???
New rule. Food is never to leave the kitchen. Food is to be returned to the refrigerator upon completion of need. Person or persons leaving food out or daring to step off the linoleum while masticating will suffer mightily for the transgression because NEVER AGAIN will I do what I did last night. Not to mention how much my beloved Dyson suffered.