Basement Remodel Ridiculousness

basement remodel

Below is a short list of things I’d prefer to do in lieu of cleaning out our basement to remodel it:

  • Complete a colonoscopy without sedation
  • Give birth again
  • Drink from the same glass a 105-year-old woman with cold sores was using
  • Work at a daycare facility
  • Express a fat labradoodle’s anal glands

But I signed up to help my husband and I’m not a quitter. 2 years ago, we had about 2′ of water in our basement and ruined everything. It was horrible! We haven’t had the money to remodel it again and we were waiting for it to flood again. About a year ago, we had someone come look at it and he did whatever magic he does and it hasn’t flooded since. Before he did what he did (honestly I don’t know if he was a plumber or a shaman) if it rained hard, there would be a little water in the basement but it’s been dry since him and we are ready to commit.

The Clean Out

Not gonna lie, I’m scared of the basement. First of all, there are visible signs of mold. We once had a panicked cable guy race back up our basement stairs because he was convinced he saw black mold. What he really saw were my husband’s hair trimmings that he didn’t clean up. Ahem……

bugAnd I just feel like I’m going to run into a snake. Like some how a snake is down there. I’ve heard of people running into snakes in their basements and I guaran-fucking-tee you that the day that happens to me is the day the for sale sign goes up. Then there are quiet potentially the worst bug ever invented down there. And before you all correct me, I know this isn’t a centipede but I have no idea what they are. Ok, if you do know, tell me. Here is one of those little ass holes in action to the right. WORST.BUG.EVER!

I came 100% dressed for the occasion. I had shorts and a tank on, along with rain boots that went to my knees and long yellow gloves. When I came down, my husband and sons looked at me as if I had worn a prom dress for the occasion.

“Look, I told you I’m scared of this place and I don’t want to do it.” Was my excuse.

This answer must have sufficed as they turned back around and continued to work.

I dragged an Ikea table to the center of the basement. We had bought it for a nickle and it was a pimp that walked with a limp because one of the legs was about to fall off. I declared the table my staging area where I would go through every single bin and trash the trash and keep what needed to be kept. Throughout this process, several family members (all) had to be reminded this was my staging area and not a place for pops, cell phones or anything other than the damn bins!

At first I gingerly picked through bins, afraid of creepy crawlys. 2 hours into it, I was taking my rubber gloves off as my hands were sweating more than a horror in church on Sunday.

“Let’s go! Let’s do this!” I belted out like an overly enthusiastic student in a spin class. I was pumped and making headway. My husband was even impressed with the change in my attitude and how much I accomplished.

Then something happened that hadn’t happened since April- a foot cramp. And not any foot cramp, a can’t see straight, screaming, banging my head on the wall foot cramp. I had those giant boots on and my foot was so contorted I couldn’t even get them off. Some how, I crawled upstairs and managed to draw a hot bath. I finally got my boots off, took off my bottoms and left my tank on as I sunk down into the water. I left the tank on because let’s be real, don’t you feel 20 pounds fatter in the bathtub with your fat rolls layered on top of each other? I’m already in pain, I don’t need the emotional scars of seeing my fat rolls.

After I recovered, I put my clothes back on and went back down to the basement.

“Are your shorts on backwards?” My husband asked. I looked down to find that the little American flag that usually rests on my right thigh, gone.

“Maybe,” I said annoyed, as I stuffed Christmas bows into a gallon size bag. Was I that oblivious to not realize the drawstrings were now over my butt? I did the same damn thing last month on vacation but only with my t-shirt.

“What the hell is wrong with me!” I blurted out. My husband spoke up.

“Don’t! Just don’t!” I barked as I took my shorts off, flipped them and put them on the right way.




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