My Beyonce & I bought a duplex last summer; we’re on the top floor and have lovely gals renting downstairs. With a recently updated kitchen, a classic bath boasting a gorgeous original claw foot tub, and the treetop porch that goes on forever, I am in love with this old house. The only issue: one bathroom. We are but two people, but when you gotta go, you gotta go. And once in a blue moon, you gotta go at the same time.
We do have an extra [what I would call a 1/8] bathroom in our creepy basement. I’d like to say that ever since I watched The Conjuring, I’ve been scared to go into our basement. The reality is that I’ve been scared to go into our basement since we moved in. I go down there by myself often, but I don’t like it. It’s old and full of spiderwebs (and probably kill rooms) and you’d be scared if you were down there, too.
The other morning before work, Josh was already in the shower. I was pacing the hallway, on the verge of what an elementary school student would deem “an emergency.” Josh is not a big primper, so I thought I’d have to wait five minutes, max. Wrong. Maybe this was the day he decided to deep condition his chest hair, but at any rate, I could no longer wait. It was downstairs bathroom time.
It was 6:30am, so it’s pitch black in the basement. I flailed my arms feverishly as I entered our laundry room– there’s a light down there, but it’s on a motion sensor. The light clicked on and I raced to itty bitty water closet (that is actually a photo of the bathroom. I swear the rest of my house is nicer). I reached through a mass of spider webs to pull the cord attached to a bare light bulb. I immediately see this guy:
I had to go bad, but not so bad that I wasn’t going to document the biggest spider I’ve ever seen in my life! I snapped a pic, then smashed it with a piece of discarded cardboard. Once dead, I did my business as quickly as possible, hoping a spider wouldn’t bite my butt as I hovered over the bowl, which was full of plaster dust, dead spiders and grayish water. It was gross, but at least the toilet flushed and I didn’t get murdered by the killer that probably lives in one of our back storage rooms.
I marched (okay… ran because there was probably something chasing me) back upstairs and shared what a brave sole I am with my future husband, noting that next time we were double-booked, he’s the one who better use the basement facilities. It’s the right thing to do.