We have an unfinished basement. There are several little "areas" down there that serve purposes. We have some large tools, ladders and equipment, there is a little hobby area, we have a dark place to watch movies, and then there is just a lot of storage on rolling metal shelves, for Christmas things, etc. There are also some animal 'things.' I would show you a picture, but it is so unorganized -- that's the nicest word I can use -- it's embarrassing.
The rancher has some trophies, and we have a plan that he so kindly agreed to -- that we will not put any animal heads or skins in the living room upstairs, at this time. I might go for a tasteful hide, properly tanned, maybe one favorite or meaningful trophy, but it would have to fit in somewhere... However, he has this 8 foot alligator skin, numerous deer mounts, some antler-only mounts, and other unusual things that I cannot tell you what they are because I don't know. Hunting happens to be a hobby we don't share. In actuality, he could have hundreds of them, and I should thank him that we don't -- but he sees all kinds of things at the ranch every day. His approach for hunting is that if you do not plan to eat it, do not kill it. On occasion, he has given the meat away after making a prior agreement with someone, but still, cleaning an animal is a huge job for the hobby hunter. Oh, and another okay time to shoot is when you see coyotes near your newborn baby calves.
This really happened. The other night, the rancher, who cannot sit still and watch Dancing With The Stars with me, found a project in the basement. It has a high ceiling and is wide open, so we entertain ourselves with what it will ever end up looking like... I was thinking maybe some used rough brick on the walls, man cave type deal with darts, pool table and man stuff, of course more tv's, and some big comfortable seating. A little wine storage place... a tasting room would be a ridiculous fantasy. Whoa.
Back to what happened. I hear what sounds like a golf ball bouncing off of every cement wall in the basement. No... Then, I hear it again, and I hear it again and again. I am in the middle of the house, and I hear it in every direction -- below me, north, south, east, west. Surely not. No way. We have golfed a few times recently, and he thought we needed a driving range. No, not a putting green or golf game or simulator, an actual driving RANGE. In the basement. Big black nets and a green driving turf with those white rubber tees. Really? REALLY?
I can't even go down there. I know. I know what I will find. What will I even say? "Hey, if you are driving golf balls in the basement, why aren't they going into the net instead of bouncing off every cement wall down there?" No judgment.
I left him alone.
Eventually, he came back upstairs. I look over at him, say nothing, just raise my eyebrows, and he just dies laughing.
I thought we lived regular, middle-aged lives. Maybe not.
