"I'm going to check for water in the basement," said my housemate, Scoobie, hopping up from the couch Wednesday evening, and heading to the lower floor.
Now, I didn't openly scoff, but that's only because I caught it pre-scoff, somewhere in the upper uvula.
We'd had rain, sure... And okay, it was coming down like a metaphor for doom in a Creedence Clearwater Revival song,.... And, yes, it was pouring dogs and cats and baby hamsters and enthusiastic emu... And the weatherman was talking record totals and tornado watches and cloud-to-ground lightning...
But the basement had never really gotten water before. Hardly a reason to go all Monk on the situation and--
"Oh my GOD!"
The basement had gotten... um... water.
In The Odyssey, there is this giant deadly whirlpool monster Homer bangs on about-- the mighty Charybdis.
It seemed that in the space of an hour, Char-baby had decided Greece wasn't where it's at anymore, thought it'd be nice to see a little more of world, and had relocated to Pittsburgh.
In the hotbed of social activity and culture that is my unfinished basement.
Water swirled. Boxes were submerged. My art supplies were doing the backstroke. And my paint mixing bowl decided it had always wanted to be a boat, and made a temporary career change.
The spiders in the basement, of which I have many, were seeing their greatest fear in action. Yes, that downspout song they'd heard so much about as mere eggs had finally come horrifyingly true. And at least two washed out eight-leggers were swirling about in Homer's whirlpool, doing eight-legged doggy paddles and unable to hitch a lift on the paint mixing boat.
Scoobie and I started bailing.
Should you ever be in this situation, with a Greek whirlpool monster in your basement, the proper attire for whirlpool bailing is:
- Pajamas
- Big rubber boots
Well, pretty soon, we got the water down to Slip-n-Slide levels. And while one spider was lost to the fatal waters (a moment of silence in his honor, please) the other latched on to a dry box and survived.
He's now suffering Eensy Weensy Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome, and has had to go to therapy to work a few things out.
I hardly blame him. I haven't fully recovered myself. And I hear that today, another hard rain's gonna fall...
Okay, yes, I know, that's Dylan and not Creedence. Take it up with the spiders and me later, 'kay?
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