October 23rd, 2012

pook pook


I'm in deep production mode for a friend's Steampunk Halloween party this weekend.  Bob finally made me stop cutting things out, saying I needed to rest.

He has a point; while I drove down with him to War of the Wings, I did not actually attend the event, preferring instead to stay in a crappy hotel room feeling a lot of hate for my thyroid.  I sort-of slept for most of the day, but it sucked on many levels.

And another thing - there was no Gideon's Bible in the room.  I was somewhat discombobulated; while I only read the Bible for the sex and violence, it was really odd staying in a hotel with no Bible.  God knows why (ha, ha); I really don't care.  It's not like something important was missing, like the remote for the TV.

Speaking of TV, I realized how spoiled I am at home with a flat screen TV - the TV in the hotel had all the clarity and definition of a late 1980s model television.  I'm guessing the TV's age from the decor in the room, which appeared to have been decorated a good 30 years ago.  It wasn't as bad as the hotel I stayed in once where there was a large and vibrant mold colony in the corner ceiling, and the soaps had been swiped from the HoJo next door, but it was dreary, and not the sort of place I would choose to be ill in.

Mind you, it didn't have giant black hairy spiders, like the hotel in Germany we stayed at when I was a kid.  My sister and I refused to sleep until my mother had hunted down and killed every single spider in the room, and even then, I insisted on leaving the light on, so if one of those fuckers came at me in the night, I would at least see it coming.

Spiders...  When I was a child, I would spend weekends at one Grandmother's house, and holidays at the other's.  Both houses had roses growing up them, which may make you think "ah, picturesque English cottages, with roses!", but the reality was GIANT ASS BLACK HAIRY SPIDERS that got inside and lurked in the bedrooms.  Every night, I would go hunting with my hairbrush, knowing that somewhere, waiting for the light to go out, was a giant black spider with nefarious intentions towards me.  One memorable night I found three of them, and went into a frenzy of hairbrush-fueled spider death.

Bob didn't believe me about searching for the spiders before bed, until we stayed at my mother's house in Norfolk, and we found a really healthy specimen of spiderhood hiding on a Victorian print of a little girl with cats, trying to look like a fifth kitten.  It was the right size, but most kittens have the good grace to stop at four legs and two eyes.  The only thing that comes close here is wolf spiders, and wolf spiders aren't jet black.  I got my spider phobia from one of those bastards crawling on to my leg while I was reading in the garden, and I didn't notice it until it was on my bare thigh.  I haven't been able to bear spiders crawling on me since then, and I'm not really that happy about any kind of large-ish spider coming near me, either.

Anyway, so that's why I wasn't at War of the Wings, except for a little while on Friday.