well, we'll revisit that in a minute.
meanwhile,
take a look at good ol' uncle steven over here:
what's he doing, you ask?he's chopping a hole in the floor,
so he can start moving the heating vents,
so he can move the improved island closer,
so he can put down the new spice-colored bamboo floor.
i know.
it's all very confusing (to me) and incredibly manly, i'm sure.
of course,
that full foot-wide hole looks awfully cold and dark and creepy
(that's what she said)
and it is in no way deceiving in it's looks.
did it go smoothly?
c'mon.
the vent ducts broke, and disconnected deep within the delve.
and since uncle steven is 15' 11" tall,
take a wild guess as to who got to shimmy-shimmy-ya under the floor?
heck yes, ya'll.
and for all the frozen-piped minnesotans who want to whinge
about under-house hazards,
i double-dog dare a duder to doo-doo this particular dastardly deed.
remember about the spiders from up top?
yeah, we're getting to that.
but first,
here's a glimpse inside the tiny portal into the underbowels of old bustedness:
and that's the squeaky-clean part;
does it look like it's only 18" high?
i know.
it totally IS only 18" high.
belly-crawling through rusted-out disused derelict ducts,
mysteriously dangling disconnected wiring,
long-lost blocks, rocks, and various and assorted filths,
i exerted some epic manliness in my own right.
i think my voice is lower and my beard fuller now, an' that.
good thing i don't get claustrophobic, huh?
whilst crawling about, i had a premonition,
y'know, a tingling feeling all up and down my skin.
against my normally sound judgement
(oh, stop it. at least for the sake of the story, c'mon)
i shot the maglite up between the floorbeams.
and that's when the sh!t got real:
cobwebs.
spiderwebs.
old dead spiders.
little small alive spiders.
great big spindly maybe-alive F*ers.
egg sacks empty.
egg sacks full.
eggs sacks surrounded by little alive spiders.
when you're an avowed anti-arachnid advocate,
all of that is the worst thing ever.
...if you're wondering if i'd been wiping my hair in spider parts,
yes.
yes i sure was.
everytime i banged my head on the low, low overhead,
i was smooshing spider-bits on myself.
i was proper saddam-style in my very own spider-hole.
but,
i still riveted and racheted and taped the ducts,
and got busy with my big business,
and didn't even get that sweaty.
who's a big boy?
mmm-hmmm.
who had skin-crawling terrormares all night?
mmm-hmmm.
i can hold it together whilst awake,
all barbarian bluster and the like,
but my subconcious has it's own agenda.
i don't know that i've ever knowingly gnoshed on an eight-legger,
so my reference here may be skewed toward speculation,
but i swear my mouth tastes like spiders.
like maybe i wasn't just breathing in stirred-up dust from byond the grave,
but i was somehow huffing spiders.
is that real?
it's real gross, i'll tell you what.
but,
the work is done,
and i won't be indiana jones-ing any more temples of doom today, anyway.
some situations i just didn't coming,
or at least i didn't see myself in, y'know?
hell,
in just one eentsy-weentsy little week,
from today,
i'll be papa bear to a flippin' nine-year-old!!!
that's cool and awful and awesome all at once.
time keeps spanning across all these moments.
that's some sh!t.
one second you're a flavorful father, frontier philosopher, and Folk Life libertarian,
the next you've got a mouthful of spinerets in a spider-hole.
real life.
really-real.
and it's all really happening;
never quiet, never soft.....
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