Pussycat pussycat

There was a side angle to yesterday’s Word Nymph post that caught the attention of a few readers who know my family. Several people commented on and off line about the fact that we are cleaning out our attic. One reader referenced our attic by its given name, the Pussycat Lounge.

I guess it’s time to come clean about our dirty little secret. Besides, we are going to have to do something about it eventually if we are ever to sell our house or save our son from having to deal with it on his own.

I may have mentioned that we live in historic Kensington, Maryland, incorporated in 1894 and preserved as a small town of Victorian homes and antique shops.

Our house, built in 1912, is still quite in character. From the gingerbread out front to the lace curtains, wood floors and flowery wallpaper, our home appears to be inhabited by prim and proper residents.

Until you get to the third floor. The Pussycat Lounge is my husband’s man cave. It’s also his treasure chest, his scrap book, his museum, his “art” gallery. It’s a monument to his childhood, adolescence, adulthood and his second adolescence.  It’s where cigars are smoked, whiskey is sipped, hundreds of carousels of old slides are viewed on a large screen. Some nights, the mirror ball spins, the lava lamp bubbles, tiki lights twinkle and, before it almost caught the house on fire, a commercial sized neon bar sign glowed. It’s also where old nursery furniture and baby clothes were stored and, until recently, where a turn-of-the-century clawfoot bathtub, not connected to any pipes, held hundreds of stuffed animals.

Oh, and it’s also command central, where the business of the household is managed.

They say a picture is worth a thousand words. There are no words for the Pussycat Lounge. As with any significant monument, it must be experienced.

Some day we may offer tickets to the closing of the Pussycat Lounge. Everyone who comes can take a souvenir, which might just be a picture of you.