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Apr. 2nd, 2003 04:16 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lydyLife will keep ratcheting on, despite Minicon, spiders, and war. Sometimes, I think that is a good thing.
Minicon is, in case you didn't know, a science fiction convention held every Easter. In a fit of extreme foolishness, I volunteered to be co-head of Programming, this year. So, because my co-head and I rolled snake-eyes in the crap shoot of life a dozen times in a row, we are soooo far behind. Aieeee. Gack. Help.
As for spiders, I'm not really afraid of them. Not in any useful, rational way. I'm fucking terrified of them. I have a genuine phobia triggered by the sight of them. I can contemplate them in the abstract perfectly fine, but I cannot abide their physical presence. Last night, in the shower, there was A Spider. I let out a shriek, and then wondered what to do. I was half-soaped, my hair had conditioner in it; I was in no shape to flee the shower stall. Fortunately, the spider decided to crawl out of sight. All is well and good, I continue soaping. Two seconds later, there is The Spider, again. This time he is DROPPING DOWN TOWARDS ME ON A SILK THREAD. I scream. I scream again. I scream one more time for good measure. I grab the shower curtain, and pull it so that it is between me and the spider. I decide that the spider is _still_ too close, so I leap out of the bath. I'm now quite hysterical. Some small corner of my brain is marveling at the sheer idiocy of it all. That small corner, however, did not volunteer to reach in and turn off the shower, nor to deal with The Spider.
I flee the bathroom, and stand naked and dripping in the hall, covered in soap suds. I grab the phone, and dial the internal extension to DDB. We have an agreement. I scream real loud, and he kills the scary bugs. An answering machine picks up, which is strange, and I stutter into it, "David, there's a spider in the bath!" No response. No response. By now, I'm crying uncontrollably, and too afraid to return to the bathroom, so I take a clean towel out of the linen cupboard. I can't manage the manual dexterity to wrap it around me, so I clutch it to my front, and flee to the back stairs, meaning to go down into the basement and _make_ David come and fulfill his side of the agreement. At the head of the stairs, I see that his light is off. Has he left the house for some reason? Is he upstairs? What am I going to do?
I bury my face in the towel and scream and cry some more. This is really a most ridiculous performance for a 40 year old woman to put on, I think. Which is all the thinking my brain seems to be capable of. Steps on the stair. Pamela! I explain about the spider. "SPIDER!!! SPIDER!!! Bathtub, SPIDER!!!" Just then, DDB comes up the stairs. There's a brief conference, mostly via facial expressions, and Pamela goes to kill the spider while David stands quietly, which helps me calm down. Eventually, the hysterics go away. I gulp and gasp a bit, and Pamela returns to inform me that the spider is now an ex-spider and has been flushed away.
It turns out that I hadn't dialed David's extension, after all. I'd dialed Raphael's. And evidently, I hadn't said, "There's a spider in the bath," but rather, "AIEEEEE. SCREECH. GEEEEP" Pamela said that they could tell that _something_ was wrong, but no one knew what. Eventually, I managed to go back to the bathroom and rinse off the soap and hair conditioner, but I kept looking up at the ceiling.
Pamela's my hero.
As for the war, what can I say that hasn't already been said? I follow the news with sick fascination. It takes up far more of my time than I can afford. Frankly, I'd rather be scared by spiders.
Minicon is, in case you didn't know, a science fiction convention held every Easter. In a fit of extreme foolishness, I volunteered to be co-head of Programming, this year. So, because my co-head and I rolled snake-eyes in the crap shoot of life a dozen times in a row, we are soooo far behind. Aieeee. Gack. Help.
As for spiders, I'm not really afraid of them. Not in any useful, rational way. I'm fucking terrified of them. I have a genuine phobia triggered by the sight of them. I can contemplate them in the abstract perfectly fine, but I cannot abide their physical presence. Last night, in the shower, there was A Spider. I let out a shriek, and then wondered what to do. I was half-soaped, my hair had conditioner in it; I was in no shape to flee the shower stall. Fortunately, the spider decided to crawl out of sight. All is well and good, I continue soaping. Two seconds later, there is The Spider, again. This time he is DROPPING DOWN TOWARDS ME ON A SILK THREAD. I scream. I scream again. I scream one more time for good measure. I grab the shower curtain, and pull it so that it is between me and the spider. I decide that the spider is _still_ too close, so I leap out of the bath. I'm now quite hysterical. Some small corner of my brain is marveling at the sheer idiocy of it all. That small corner, however, did not volunteer to reach in and turn off the shower, nor to deal with The Spider.
I flee the bathroom, and stand naked and dripping in the hall, covered in soap suds. I grab the phone, and dial the internal extension to DDB. We have an agreement. I scream real loud, and he kills the scary bugs. An answering machine picks up, which is strange, and I stutter into it, "David, there's a spider in the bath!" No response. No response. By now, I'm crying uncontrollably, and too afraid to return to the bathroom, so I take a clean towel out of the linen cupboard. I can't manage the manual dexterity to wrap it around me, so I clutch it to my front, and flee to the back stairs, meaning to go down into the basement and _make_ David come and fulfill his side of the agreement. At the head of the stairs, I see that his light is off. Has he left the house for some reason? Is he upstairs? What am I going to do?
I bury my face in the towel and scream and cry some more. This is really a most ridiculous performance for a 40 year old woman to put on, I think. Which is all the thinking my brain seems to be capable of. Steps on the stair. Pamela! I explain about the spider. "SPIDER!!! SPIDER!!! Bathtub, SPIDER!!!" Just then, DDB comes up the stairs. There's a brief conference, mostly via facial expressions, and Pamela goes to kill the spider while David stands quietly, which helps me calm down. Eventually, the hysterics go away. I gulp and gasp a bit, and Pamela returns to inform me that the spider is now an ex-spider and has been flushed away.
It turns out that I hadn't dialed David's extension, after all. I'd dialed Raphael's. And evidently, I hadn't said, "There's a spider in the bath," but rather, "AIEEEEE. SCREECH. GEEEEP" Pamela said that they could tell that _something_ was wrong, but no one knew what. Eventually, I managed to go back to the bathroom and rinse off the soap and hair conditioner, but I kept looking up at the ceiling.
Pamela's my hero.
As for the war, what can I say that hasn't already been said? I follow the news with sick fascination. It takes up far more of my time than I can afford. Frankly, I'd rather be scared by spiders.
