Over the previous summer, 2016 to date myself 10 years from now, my partner Robin has rented a studio on Adams Street in Burlington. It cornered a nice little park, aptly called "Smalley Park," and it was exactly a two-minute walk to work, which was nice on warm and hungover summer mornings, and even nicer on frigid winter mornings when the night had blessed us with six inches of snow. The park was perfect for playing fetch with the dog, and when you walked across it in the morning, you could catch slight glimpses of the lake which sparkled in such a way that it made you feel so fortunate to live in a place as beautiful as Burlington, like the lake and the water in it was breathing life into you as you took your first steps of the day.
It was small for an apartment, but large for a studio, especially in Burlington, and for its size was not overpriced. The apartment was a perfect transition for him; we could finally have alone time together, which was important for us as a relatively new couple who couldn't keep our hands off each other, and was made even more blissful in its comparison to his previous roommates who were the type of people who lived under the delusion that nobody else in the world existed except for them. Sure, the shower was small, and there wasn't much cabinet or counter space, and Robin had no furniture to actually put in it, but at the time, we were just so happy to have space and time to ourselves.
Unfortunately, Robin had moved into the apartment in February, which with its proximity to work, at the time made the apartment seem perfect. But when the warmer months started to come, we realized that we really weren't as alone in that apartment as we thought we were.
See, it was clear that the guy who owned that house was making nothing short of a buttload from his tenants. The house looked small from the front, but when you saw it from the Smalley view, it absolutely towered. It was a fucking beast, with about four floors and what I'm sure was more than one apartment per floor. The studio where Robin lived was, quite literally, the basement of this house, which had been converted into the quaint little apartment. And I don't know if you've ever lived in a mother fucking basement, but if you haven't, I'll enlighten you on a little fact: It doesn't fucking belong to you. You may live there, but it belongs to the spiders.
They showed up small at first, completely non-threatening. Well, I guess I should say that even at their maximum sizes, these were still your average house spiders- as far as I know they're not harmful at all, and an average person who is not completely petrified of spiders, they're probably pretty useful at keeping the rest of the bugs and pests away. But I am not one of those people. Nay. Not even close. I see a spider and I absolutely fucking freeze in fear- I cannot move, even to run away screaming. They shake me to my very core and in one moment I am casually walking my unnecessarily large can of Twisted Tea to the recycling bin, only to be followed immediately by the sharp jolt of panic and anxiety that rushes my body upon noticing the spider just chillin' somewhere within ten feet of me. If I even see pictures of large spiders on the internet, I'm struck by the irrational fear of them crawling through my screen by the billions and using my body as a playground, and I'm left contorting in weird positions and cringing at a completely harmless computer screen. I even wanted to attach a picture of the kind of house spiders I'm talking about here, but that proved completely impossible immediately upon googling "house spider." Nope. No, thank you.
Unfortunately, Robin had moved into the apartment in February, which with its proximity to work, at the time made the apartment seem perfect. But when the warmer months started to come, we realized that we really weren't as alone in that apartment as we thought we were.
See, it was clear that the guy who owned that house was making nothing short of a buttload from his tenants. The house looked small from the front, but when you saw it from the Smalley view, it absolutely towered. It was a fucking beast, with about four floors and what I'm sure was more than one apartment per floor. The studio where Robin lived was, quite literally, the basement of this house, which had been converted into the quaint little apartment. And I don't know if you've ever lived in a mother fucking basement, but if you haven't, I'll enlighten you on a little fact: It doesn't fucking belong to you. You may live there, but it belongs to the spiders.
They showed up small at first, completely non-threatening. Well, I guess I should say that even at their maximum sizes, these were still your average house spiders- as far as I know they're not harmful at all, and an average person who is not completely petrified of spiders, they're probably pretty useful at keeping the rest of the bugs and pests away. But I am not one of those people. Nay. Not even close. I see a spider and I absolutely fucking freeze in fear- I cannot move, even to run away screaming. They shake me to my very core and in one moment I am casually walking my unnecessarily large can of Twisted Tea to the recycling bin, only to be followed immediately by the sharp jolt of panic and anxiety that rushes my body upon noticing the spider just chillin' somewhere within ten feet of me. If I even see pictures of large spiders on the internet, I'm struck by the irrational fear of them crawling through my screen by the billions and using my body as a playground, and I'm left contorting in weird positions and cringing at a completely harmless computer screen. I even wanted to attach a picture of the kind of house spiders I'm talking about here, but that proved completely impossible immediately upon googling "house spider." Nope. No, thank you.
The spiders got bigger and more abundant as the summer went on. I'd crack my eyes open in the morning only to be greeted by a 6 on the 1-10 spider scale chilling on the ceiling, giving me that look like it was just waiting to perfect its aim so that it would land right in my mouth while I slept, peacefully dreaming of fluffy dogs and pink alcoholic beverages. They became so abundant that while setting up WiFi in the apartment, the only name that seemed proper was what we had appropriately named the apartment:
Luckily, Robin is my knight in shining armor. Or, he's just not afraid of house spiders. I would spot them, he would kill them. Or sometimes he would spot them, his eyes would widen, and he would quietly get up without saying anything, because he knew he couldn't spill the beans that there was a spider near me. His favorite method of disposing of them was using the long handle of his Dyson vacuum; he would suck them up and then keep his finger on the trigger for an extra five seconds or so, just to make sure that sucker was fully sucked. He kept the apartment, my body, and my mouth as free of spiders as he could, never flinched no matter the size, and performed ritual "spider checks" every morning and night in all the corners and haunts we knew they liked to frequent.
One of those haunts we began referring to as "Big Momma's House," because of the week that Robin went to Spain with his family. I of course stayed at my own house that week, because it was deep into summertime at that point and the spiders were in full swing, and being that Robin wasn't around, I couldn't be left to kill spiders on my own. I later learned that I would regret this absence of maintenance, because on the day Robin was scheduled to return, I went to his apartment to tidy up, so that he would have a nice place to return to. However, I got about halfway through and was promptly evicted by what to this day remains as the biggest spider I have ever seen in that apartment, because half her size was taken up by her massive pregnant belly, which looked like it was ready to burst and send billions of little house spider babies spewing over every fucking centimeter of that apartment. And even more fortunate and strategic for Big Momma, she didn't prefer just any old corner- she preferred the Dyson corner, which rendered her unsuckable. At least for me. Me, I promptly dropped literally everything I was doing, grabbed my bag and my dog, and left the apartment, partially debating if I should douse it in gasoline and throw a lit match in on my way out. Big Momma was so impressive that she even got a spooked "HOLY SHIT" out of Robin when he first laid eyes upon her glory and the sheer magnitude of her baby-filled ass. I waited outside while Robin did the deed, and only after I heard the Dyson run for a good ten seconds did I feel it was safe to re-enter the Basement Full of Spiders.
One of those haunts we began referring to as "Big Momma's House," because of the week that Robin went to Spain with his family. I of course stayed at my own house that week, because it was deep into summertime at that point and the spiders were in full swing, and being that Robin wasn't around, I couldn't be left to kill spiders on my own. I later learned that I would regret this absence of maintenance, because on the day Robin was scheduled to return, I went to his apartment to tidy up, so that he would have a nice place to return to. However, I got about halfway through and was promptly evicted by what to this day remains as the biggest spider I have ever seen in that apartment, because half her size was taken up by her massive pregnant belly, which looked like it was ready to burst and send billions of little house spider babies spewing over every fucking centimeter of that apartment. And even more fortunate and strategic for Big Momma, she didn't prefer just any old corner- she preferred the Dyson corner, which rendered her unsuckable. At least for me. Me, I promptly dropped literally everything I was doing, grabbed my bag and my dog, and left the apartment, partially debating if I should douse it in gasoline and throw a lit match in on my way out. Big Momma was so impressive that she even got a spooked "HOLY SHIT" out of Robin when he first laid eyes upon her glory and the sheer magnitude of her baby-filled ass. I waited outside while Robin did the deed, and only after I heard the Dyson run for a good ten seconds did I feel it was safe to re-enter the Basement Full of Spiders.
I tell you the story of the Basement Full of Spiders in, ironically, somewhat of a nostalgic sense, because this month, Robin and I took the next step in our relationship and moved in together, to a beautiful apartment on Decatur Street in the Old North End. So far, there are no spiders, but then again, it's March. However, it's definitely not a basement, so I remain hopeful. I tell this story because this morning, on my commute into work that took a little longer than two minutes flat and didn't involve any particularly stellar views of the lake, I realized that our WiFi network at our new apartment was still named after the studio, and that it was time to change it, in honor of the Basement Full of Spiders, and to retain the integrity and the validity of the basement, and all the spiders that dwell there.
So goodbye basement, and goodbye spiders. May the tenant who follows us not harbor a fear of spiders, or, for the sake of full disclosure, the occasional house centipede. But those guys are another story.
So goodbye basement, and goodbye spiders. May the tenant who follows us not harbor a fear of spiders, or, for the sake of full disclosure, the occasional house centipede. But those guys are another story.