Spidercamp

I hate my job for plenty of good reasons

I hate my job for plenty of good reasons. There's the embezzlement, nepotism, and casual cruelty toward myself (playing the part of Cinderella for going on eight years now) and anyone else who gets in the way of the selfish assholes I work for. I'm not quite ready to tell all on the internet - maybe after I quit in a screaming rage (scheduled for September). Today I am focusing on the fact that I can no longer stand obnoxious little kids, and that almost all little kids are obnoxious. Sometimes I pretend I only have one reason to be crabby. It conserves energy.

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Yesterday, Julian accidentally stepped on Zach's hand. Zach immediately ran to me, to tell on Julian, who started bawling his head off (instant pouring snot factory) because he figured he was in trouble. Patrick was not directly involved but saw the whole thing and wanted to serve as a witness. So I've got three five-year-olds crowded around me, all yanking on my clothing and SCREAMING their version of the story, all at once. It is like this every day and it is endless.

Not being in any kind of fucking mood, I ascertained that no one was actually bleeding and had my mouth open to say Go Play when a co-worker stepped in and started this amazing open dialogue among the four of them. They talked about responsibility and the importance of fessing up to one's actions, even if they'd caused an injury. He talked about accidents and how they happen to everyone. He got Julian to calm down and assured him that no matter what went wrong, he, as a grownup and childcare provider, would always be glad to listen to the whole story, and would never jump to conclusions about whether an injury had been accidental or planned, so there wasn't any reason to panic. He talked with Zach about how, while the grownups are always here to help with real problems, it's not really necessary to run to them with every trifling incident, and if his hand wasn't really hurt, why take time out from playing to come tattle? He even convinced Patrick to butt out of situations that didn't involve him, although he communicated this in a loving, sensitive way which had Patrick nodding happily and then running off to play in the dirt. And I just sat there gaping like a moron.

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This job is no longer good for me, and I am no longer any good at my job. When I say this out loud, people often protest, which is flattering. They say I am good for the kids and the kids are lucky to have me. But these assumptions are based on my attitude from two, three, seven years ago. When's the last time I said how relentlessly cute a child was, or what a funny joke a four-year old grinner told me? I am sure the cuteness is still out there, but I'm blind to it because all I expect is monstrosities and that is what I receive. They won't listen and they are cruel beyond belief to each other, and I'm just done caring about it. My job is not to correct wicked behavior or to set a good example or to teach anything. I am a babysitter and it is my job to show up, endure what I have to endure, and cash the checks.

In my gentler moments I feel a bottomless, aching compassion for these children of the wealthy, who are so much more neglected than the children of the poor. Enough money can buy you an infinite number of ways to forget you ever had kids. Nannies, maids, summer camp and TV are all historically reliable methods of ensuring your kids are raised by strangers. That stuff is for amateurs. The real pros are the extremely wealthy, who can afford to go on three-month vacations in France, leaving the kids home with whoever seemend like the best choice after a fifteen-minute interview. The parents come home and their kids are taller and they do not even notice.

That's not an imagined anecdote. That's a real story told to me by a little girl who is just starting to suspect her parents' disinterest in her. There is not one single thing I can do for her. I used to say, "there's nothing I can do for her except listen to her, and be her friend, and give her hugs," or some such fruity dream. Well these are not my kids and I am not the goddamn Fix All the Sad Children's Lives Fairy and I am tired.

I used to fall in love with strangers;

I used to fall in love with strangers; that was bad for my health so I gave it up. These days, upon the discovery of an interesting face, I'm more likely to simply dwell than swoon. I'm happy with the people I really have - I don't have to invent anything based on a glance or an eyebrow.

Still, I like to look at people and wonder, and I know what I'm in for when I go to the library. I think it has to do with being surrounded by unopened potential. I used to spend hours pretending to read but really watching people and trying to figure out why it was so impossible to connect with anybody, ever, which was a protective conceit I was stuck in for a long time. So all libraries are steeped in loneliness for me. Which is all right, now, when it's a choice and not the only possible way to spend a Saturday.

This morning I was staggered by the librarian. He might be fifty, vaguely Jewish, with a lined face and heavy sad eyes. It's the sad eyes that always kill me. I like men who are in their fifties. I don't mean that salaciously. I just like them. They bring good conversations. Maybe it's because that's what age my father is supposed to be.

This man must be one of the greatest readers I've ever met, judging from the way he handled and smiled at books. Ahh. You'll like this one. I felt awkward in my crummy t-shirt and ripped pants, until I saw that he was only in jeans, and realized that there was no condescension in his manner - he spoke to me as if I were a scholar, a princess, or his elder. He might have worn the crisp suit of a maitre'd, a polite professional, his gestures were so elegant and concise. All this across the scarred-up desk of what must be the smallest, shabbiest branch in the county. Full of drunks and derelicts, it's not a place to linger unless you have no place else to go. This library sits down the way from an underfunded homeless shelter, on a street known mostly for its abundance of prostitutes and crack. And this is where the Bookmaster lives?

Enjoy them, he said, and handed three books to me as if they were three pounds of Belgian chocolate.

The waitress was bitchy

The waitress was bitchy and told us we had to leave. Granted, we'd only ordered coffee and had been camping at our table for almost three hours; still, she was bitchier than necessary. I asked her if she had any idea who she was talking to. She said she didn't, and she didn't care. We laughed and left.

Trump wanted to give me a magical key, but it was locked in his briefcase, and the combination was his birthday, which he'd forgotten. He realized how dull his life had become, and stood looking down at the pavement.

To cheer him up I suggested we lose the chauffeur and drive ourselves around in the limo. Trump was enthusiastic and it soon became clear he did not understand traffic laws. I gently reminded him that we needed to respect the other cars. He thanked me and started driving in big circles in the middle of the highway.

It was at the gas station that we were taken hostage. A bad man with a gun tried to make me renounce Trump, but by now I was fond of the poor robot and wanted to take care of him. (Trump had said "There's so much emotion in real life!")

I refused to turn my back on my new friend. He was so lonely and I was the only one who understood. The bad man with the gun allowed me to go to the bathroom. When I got back, the bad man and Trump were both gone. I was worried about this only until I remembered Trump's affiliation with Abraham Lincoln, and also his ability to become invisible, and I knew everything was going to be ok.

A story I can't say out loud.

A story I can't say out loud.

My godfather has three daughters, all grown, all with kids. Two of the girls stopped speaking to him years ago, and he doesn't know why.

It shocks me to learn this. Although I don't see him that often, Paul is one of my favorite people in the world. He gave me my first nickname - at the age of six I became SPIKE. He taught high school for forty years and was one of those teachers everybody adores. He tamed a bunch of vandals by inventing a chess club just for them. He retired so he could fix bicycles which he sells to poor kids for a quarter. He's a big, kind man. Of course, I don't know what it's like to be his daughter.

Becky is the oldest. Her Olivia is two, and Paul had never seen her until a couple of weeks ago, at Paul's mother's hundredth birthday party. I don't know whether it was planned or accidental, but Olivia ended up in Paul's lap. They talked for a while, and Paul asked her if she had a grandfather. She nodded and pointed across the room, to her other one. Paul said he'd like to be her grandfather too, would that be all right? Olivia said yes, and hugged him, and Paul just sat there and cried.

This kid named Rachel

This kid named Rachel tells me about what she bought at the book fair. One was Anne Frank's diary. So we talk about that for a while. She sort of knows the idea behind it, but she doesn't know the whole story, how abruptly the book cuts off, or why.

She says she can tell who's read the book and who hasn't, just by saying the title to people. If someone hasn't read it, he just nods. Anyone who has read it says, Ohhh, and falls quiet. I did this too, and she wants to know why.

It's an odd feeling, wanting her to experience this story and also wanting to save her from it. Rachel looks at the photo on the cover and says, "She was pretty," and starts to read.

---

I want to destroy hardly any of the people who live in my building. I met another good one yesterday. Tony is 300 pounds of Brooklyn accent and called me "just a little girl" within the first three minutes, but he said it with an easy laugh and had such sad eyes that I didn't mind. He offered to "talk" to my hateful neighbors for me, with an eyebrow thing that let me know that by "talk," he meant "cream." So he's my new best friend.

This morning I cut my thumb and surprised myself

This morning I cut my thumb and surprised myself by bursting into tears. I see kids do this all the time - it's what a five-year-old might do if she knew it didn't really hurt that much, but she'd had a hard day and just couldn't take one more bad surprise.

That was sad and stupid, so I went to work, where I spent my day yelling at actual five-year-olds, the worst-behaved children on the planet, the children of the wealthy, who grow crueler and more conniving by the day. I am no role model, nothing I do can change the fact that these kids are slowly growing into the assholes of tomorrow. But I can sure as hell make them sit in the corner all day. Nobody out-assholes me.

Easter: You see a whole world

Easter: You see a whole world of things I don't notice, slid into conversation in parentheses. Birds in that tree. Girl. She's running alongside the road, a tremendous flag of dark hair flapping out behind her. After we see her we don't talk for a few minutes. We listen to light rock because it can't hurt us. We're just two kids in a car, everything's driven by fear. You're worse off than I am. I've never been so glad to see this highway.

out like a lion. funny

out like a lion. funny how habit is stronger than pain. like when the electricity goes out and i still keep swatting at the light switches and would probably do so evenif switches were replaced with razor blades. i keep trying to do things with my right hand even thuogh i know is going to be OW FUCKOW everytime. saddest one handd shower in the world. throw some soap around and hope the filth sloughs off. it didnt.typeing and clicking are ok becausse that can be mostly thumb and index. anything else hurts like a mofu and makes me an asshole. today i kill everybody with my feet.

rain, brokwn pavemtn, FELL

rain, brokwn pavemtn, FELL last night , hard, was walking fast,caught most of myweight on palms, SUCK. no broken bones, couldnt believe it, and hardly any broken skin only serious OUCH , deep bruises and stiff, swollen cant move most of hand so typing is alittle fucky ,sit around with fucking bag of ice have to go to work anyway. suck.