Spidercamp

Up too early after a horrendous night of shallow sleep.

Up too early after a horrendous night of shallow sleep. "So THIS is what morning looks like," "there are TWO six oclocks??" Funnily enough we were not grumpy and didn't clash, just dragged our miserable clothes on and trudged out to the car. The sky was gorgeous at that hour but I can do without it.

It's not hard to put Logan onto airplanes. The airport used to be a place of serious tragic romantic angst for me, which was a dumb habit because frankly it was all angst spent on lesser men. Not to mention the fact that with this one, the important one, I know he's always coming right back home.

For all my talk about how I need time to myself, I still wonder, what happens if I crash this week? What do I do when I don't know what to do with myself or if I just get terrified? I'm not expecting a foolproof safety net. Nobody can be that for anybody anyway. But it's nice (I'm selfish, ok) to have him down the hall. Today all I can halfway rely on is a cellphone.

A goodbye kiss so nice I could feel it even as I left him on the sidewalk and merged onto the highway. For a second I thought maybe I was supposed to remember it because he wouldn't be coming home.

It's just a couple of days and I'm not panicking, not overreacting. Just a little chilly, and it's not even afternoon.

guess i'll go eat worms

The last time I've been this consistently miserable about a job was the bookstore, which didn't have the occasional charm of children, but where I was thanked every so often, so I suppose they're about the same.

At the bookstore, near then end when it was getting really bad, I would hide in the bathroom for as long as I thought I could get away with, and longer. I spent a lot of time in the bathroom wondering whether a loose hair or a few skin cells might have drifted down to settle on the floor. Something with my DNA in it, to prove I really had been there, that I existed.

These days it's insult on top on insult, though I am grateful to be avoiding injury. At the bookstore, one winter there was no heat in my department, which was walled by glass windows on two sides. I wore my hat and coat all day long for a month. I couldn't work with gloves on, so my hands were what suffered. My skin got so dry, despite my nightly aloe-in-socks-over-hands treatment, that when I made a fist, the skin on all my knuckles would crack and bleed.

More common were the small daily injuries sustained by endlessly schlepping merchandise. We used to play a game when new people transferred to our store from other locations - in the breakroom we'd examine the new person's hands and see if we could guess their previous department by reading their wounds and scars. Bruises and paper cuts indicate a person who has worked shelving books. Long thin paper cuts mean magazines. Little triangular bruises mean cds. Burns mean coffeeshop.

Ultimately the store manager, whose pathetic attempts at sexual harrassment I refused to entertain, tried to frame me for shoplifting. It didn't work because I was quicker than he gave me credit for. I went home shaking and changed my answering machine message to reflect the fact that I was never going back to work again and anyone calling from Borders could fuck off. It was a foolish gesture I really couldn't afford, but that was the end of that.

It's sad to have to look back on terrible jobs just to make the current job seem slightly less crappy. Whatever; I'm disgusted and I want to wallow and this is what the internet is for.

book slaves and courtesy

Re "I don't know what it is about the clerks at the Mysterious Galaxy store..." I'm pretty sure I know exactly why the people in that photo look so crabby. As a former bookstore employee I am still sometimes horrified by how hard I slaved for so little reward.

Authors' events are among the most stressful possible days for a bookseller, right up there with the week before Christmas. An immense amount of legwork happens behind the scenes before any author event. From the easy stuff, like figuring out a logical traffic flow and setting up chairs, to the more challenging obstacles of how to convince a book group to move its meeting to a different night, or how to politely persuade camping customers to move out of the area you'd like to put the lectern in, it's a lot of extra work on top of the usual living hell of ringing phones and impatient ladies looking for "that book, you know, uh, I think the cover is blue."

And when all the above factors have been worked into a cohesive plan, that's when the author's publicist will call to say he can't bear to speak from a lectern, or he demands his audience be seated in a circle on the floor, or he simply must have a tankard of watermelon wine before his reading. (I'm sure Wil Wheaton is an absolute doll in this regard. I'm only speaking in generalities based on statistics.)

Absolute best-case scenario: the author is genial and undemanding, the event flows smoothly, the customers who are not interested in the event are understanding about any inconvenience, and those who are there for the event are thrilled. That sounds good for everybody, right? Well, maybe. Even in this pie-in-the-sky fantasy version, which, trust me, never EVER happens, author events are designed to bring more people into a bookstore. It's impossible to guess how many people will show up, and often it's just too much for the staff to handle. The bigger the crowd gets, the higher the chance that any given customer will not be able to find a staff member to help her find a book. She may not be able to move around the store comfortably. She may have to wait in a very long line. All these things build frustration, which often gives way to anger and rudeness, and before you know it, booksellers are running back and forth, out of breath from trying to do everything at once, and still being yelled at for things which are simply not their fault.

While I worked at the bookstore, we hosted book-signing events for David Sedaris, Jimmy Carter, and Tom Wolfe - all of whom I'm sure had interesting things to say, but none of whom I could muster up any enthusiasm for, because I was so exhausted. So I'm not surprised to see a bookstore staff look as unimpressed as those in your photo. They're facing a room full of potential assholes.

It is, of course, these people's job to organize author events, and a customer should expect to be treated as courteously on an event night as he would normally be. It is the customer's job to behave rationally and to realize that an increased number of fellow customers may screw up the ratio of bookseller-to-public, and to remain reasonably patient and calm when faced with delays or inconvenience.

And to CLEAN UP HIS OWN DAMN TRASH. It's the worst kind of heartbreaking insult for a bookseller to spend a day exhausting herself over an author event for people who will not thank her, then have to clean up their cups and kleenexes and spilled lattes. Anyone who's worked in retail for a month or so develops a very good eye for people heading for the trash can, and for people walking blithely away from their own sticky garbage left on a chair or a shelf. The people in your photo are tired out from needless janitorial work and have been yelled at all day for problems beyond their control. Rudeness begets rudeness.

An interesting experiment, the next time you attend a reading and see the booksellers sulking, would be to go to the information desk and say "Hey, I just wanted to thank you guys for putting together this event - I really love this author and it was pretty cool to hear him read from the new book. So, thanks - I appreciate it." Though I am not a sucker, this approach always used to work on me, and now that I'm a civilian, I use it myself. If the person you're talking to is any sort of human, her jaw may drop, her face will certainly soften, and she will be willing to go to the ends of the earth to get you whatever you need.

I thought I was ok

I thought I was ok, but then my body went all wrong and I had to go to work anyway because I'm a good person and did not want to screw my co-workers. Half of it was my own fault - lack of sleep and food - the pain and loss of blood were not my fault at all. I drove to work on adrenalin, which didn't last, and I got paler and shakier over the next couple of hours. A lot of the people I associate with are very small, and every time I stood up from kneeling it was a new swimmy adventure in holding tight to balance and consciousness.

Of all people, it would be Zach who took my elbow and put me in a chair when I really had no other option but to collapse into it. "Why don't you get out of here, go home and get some rest?"

I may sound silly, rhapsodizing over a kid I used to know, who grew up. I know they get taller. I know how it works. They come back and jingle their car keys at me all the time - I love it. This one's different because he's always been intuitively concerned with the comfort and happiness of the people around him, and now I get to see that concern expressed in more adult ways. When he was ten he'd help me pick up crayons; now he guides me smoothly to a seat like a professionally trained gentleman. I'll need to thank his mother.

---

Fainty or not, I did a good deed. This poor kid had never been to the after-school program before, and was trying to hide the fact that she was crying and pretty freaked-out. I can spot these a million miles away, and I'm good at it, so I went to talk to her. Her name was Gwen, a name I associate only with a heartbreakingly beautiful baby I've never met. She's not a baby anymore, either.

I said, What's up, Gwen? and she just fell apart. I've never been here before, and I don't know anybody, and I don't know what the rules are, and I don't know what to DO! I put my hand on her shoulder and I said, "Hey Gwen, my name's Jessica, and I'm here to make sure all the kids are ok. I'm very nice, and I promise not to yell at you no matter what, and I want you to have a good time. Let's get you a snack and then we'll find you some kids to hang out with. Ok?" Because I am good at this, it came out like, "Hi, I'm Superman. What seems to be the problem?" And she was fine.

---

I've never seen any Jimmy Stewart westerns, but apparently he made quite a few of them when the money got tight. In every one, he rode the same horse and he worse the same hat. The horse's name was Pie. Like I needed another reason to adore that guy.

The internet thinks Bugs Bunny is Clark Gable, but we're pretty sure he's Cary Grant.

Of all the boneheaded misguided verbal poop of the Olympic commentators

Of all the boneheaded misguided verbal poop of the Olympic commentators, here's the most amazing. Katie Couric, oh how I hate that moron Katie Couric. During the parade of nations at the opening ceremonies, when the Iraqi athletes walked out (to cheers), Katie Couric said, "Iraqi athletes have a tortured past, literally!" You could tell she thought she was just the cleverest. THAT IS NOT FUNNY.

A Google search for "Katie Couric" + "tortured past" proves that I did not mishear this or make it up. Complaints may be sent to nbcolympicsfeedback@nbcuni.com. Or me, I'm a good listener.

---

Dentist, fourth time in four weeks. No details, but: the lady asked me if I thought I needed anaesthetic for a relatively simple procedure. She didn't think I did. I guess I thought I'd try to be a big man, so I declined. I found out that I am not a big man. Just an idiot.

---

Something great happened on the radio today. Some station was going to play Ma$e's whole new album straight through with a minimum of commentary. I was listening to it because I'm a sucker for the "Welcome Back Kotter" sample and also because of my immense love for the streets. The dj came on between songs, and it was just supposed to be a station break and song ID, but then he mentioned that Ma$e has not only been saved, but is a pastor, which started this tremendous debate between him and some woman at the station.

He shut the music off altogether and they debated Ma$e's spirituality and place in modern urban music for a HALF HOUR. It was great. They took callers and the argument kept escalating. A lot of people felt that Ma$e sings about money too much to be respectable as a man of God. Finally the dj said that though Ma$e may not be a traditional religious figure, he is certainly doing his best to convey a message of self-sufficiency and self-worth to the youth of America. And, "he don't cuss, he ain't singin about hos, guns, or crack, and these days, that's as good as preachin'."

who kept me in the building last week

Martina, who has a killer grin and loves me wholly for no good reason other than I haven't given her a reason not to, was drawing a picture. I thought it was a snowflake or a spiderweb - lines radiating from a center. Then the lines forked, and it looked sort of like a bug, and then she enclosed the whole thing in a circle, which looked a little like a doily, so I asked. What is that, kiddo?

This thing? Oh, that's the Sun of Liberty.

---

Generally it doesn't do anything to my heartstrings when kids get physically hurt. I mean, I care, I do what's appropriate, patch em up, dry the tears, make sure they're basically ok. Barring serious freak accident, it doesn't upset me. Kids who cry because they're upset, though - that can do me in. Carley woke up from a nap and cried like her heart had broken in her sleep. There was no convincing her that she would ever be happy again. She wanted her mom but she made do with me.

Four years old is so tiny. Four just got good at walking last year. I knelt down to hug her and she was still shorter than me. She sobbed hotly into my neck and I picked her up and she just didn't weigh anything at all. I let her cry until she was done, and then I told her about worms for dinner until she laughed, and then miraculously everything was ok again.

---

When Olivia told me her whole name, I misunderstood. It sounded like she was only telling me her first and middle name. A lot of four-year-olds don't know or can't remember their last names, and in a Catholic school they're all Mary Katherine, Katherine Elizabeth, Elizabeth Mary. Still, I was wrong, and Olivia got exasperated and said "I'm only four! But I know my own name, ok!" and I knew we'd be friends.

My days have been too filled with endless demands to have room for any real conversations with the kids. But it's an easy thing to pick a favorite when Olivia never causes trouble on purpose and is sweet beyond reason. She's not perfect, but she's wonderful. I asked her whether she thinks her life is mostly happy or mostly sad (a question that often gets suprising replies), and she said, "Happy! Because I remember everything and I'm free like a feather!"

Somehow I've earned myself a daily hug from Olivia, a fierce one, usually from a running start. This is the kind of helpful kid who would, and did, walk into a chaotic and filthy room and yell, "Hey! That's a big mess! Want me to help clean it up?" It had been a hard day with no help in it; I could have just cried.

That afternoon, I assumed the tall guy scooping her up was her dad, until he turned around and I saw his face and had just enough time to think, Too young, must be her big brother, before it hit me and I knew who he was and I had to sit down. He saw my face, laughed, and came over to hug me, which was important - you can't push it with
teenagers, they're like deer.

Zach. Zach is one of the best kids of all time, and I assumed I'd never see him again. One of the earliest heartbreaks of the job. We talked every day when he was ten. I knew some secrets nobody else knew. I knew who he liked. Born with an inner ear abnormality, he wore a massive hearing aid which earned him no end of teasing. Like any kid born with the burden of an unwieldy name, red hair, or physical deformity, he got strong fast. Little guy was tough. He didn't fight - wouldn't - but he didn't let the teasing touch him. When nobody his age would play with him, he'd read, or practice drawing, or teach a new game to a younger kid. It was like he automatically knew how to keep himself happy and busy. It was no sweat.

This came in handy when his parents' marriage suddenly imploded. It was a rough time for Zach. There were a lot of fights. The custody issue never went to court, and the divorce went more smoothly than many, but his mother was sad for a long time, and then his dad moved across the country and was more or less gone forever. Zach was doing ok but he wasn't the same.

It took a long time for his mom to start dating again, and I hoped she'd pick the right guy. She did. They were married less than a year later, and Zach couldn't stop talking about how awesome his stepdad was.

I'd never seen that kid happier than when he told me, in a gleeful whisper, that his mom was going to have a baby. Within a couple of years he went from seeing his family collapse, to helping build a new one, and getting the chance to be a big brother, something he thought he'd never have. He was so excited, just out of his head with joy. He was thirteen and he didn't even try to be tough about it. And then she was born, and I saw Zach one last time before he wouldn't be at the after-school program any more, because his mom would be staying home to take care of both kids.

The last thing I remember him saying was, in a dreamy sigh, "Olivia. Isn't that the most beautiful name in the world?"

And now here he is, twelve feet tall and shaped like a man. He scoops up his little sister and asks about her day, and asks me how she was, which is far more interest and involvement than I see from most parents.

I spend so much time trying to correct the lessons inadvertantly taught by overindulgent parents (It is NOT actually ok to hit anyone in the face, you can NOT just take other people's stuff, you may NOT have 11 snacks). It's a unique pleasure to see a kid who was so evidently raised right, and to know that I had nothing at all to do with it. Again, I could have cried, but I didn't, not quite. I stay quiet, but I'm out of my head with joy.

I looked up an old boyfriend

I looked up an old boyfriend to see if I could find any current photos, and was pleased to see that he's looking pretty ragged these days. Pale, greasy, and satisfyingly chinless. I try not to hold on to too much spite, but this guy turned out to be quite a tool and it's always nice to be reminded that I'm better off now. I'm better off for many reasons, most having to do with Logan being great, but also I'm glad I'm not dating a zombie.

---

I think my assistant quit. The new potential replacement was there on Friday. She tottered around in heels and a pink miniskirt taking pictures of the kids and cooing over how aDORable they are. At one point, to help out, I guess, she wiped the snack crumbs off a table, then just stood there polishing the surface over and over with the rag. When a kid got clocked in the eye right in front of her, she glanced up when she heard the bawling, and kept polishing the table. I think her vapid stare is going to come in really, really handy.

---

Latest in a long list of dental tragedies: I broke a tooth while flossing it.

Today I sat my boss down and told her

Today I sat my boss down and told her all the things I think she's doing right, which is a lot, and yeah I laid it on a little thick, but it was all true, and I was banking on the theory that not many people have thanked her yet for all the work she's putting into this new job, which also turned out to be true. So she was very quickly overcome with emotion, and she touched my hand and then she had to dab at her eyes with a kleenex, and it was then that I gently threatened to quit if I didn't get what I wanted, which was a transfer out of the hellish world of preschoolers. And I'm pretty sure I got it. We'll see.

Four-year-olds can be so charming (I'm pretty easy to charm) in one-on-one settings, but I haven't had any of that this week. It's just not possible in a group this big, with no help - my assistant does not actually assist. I don't mind wiping noses and tying shoes, but I'm used to those things being interspersed with jokes and stories and conversations - now, it's nothing but frantic maintenance all day long. With twenty kids this young, it's all I can do to keep them from punching each other, crying, and eating bugs. There's no time for appreciating any one child - they blur into a massive hateable uber-brat with an endless number of untied shoelaces and an endless supply of tears, snot, blood, and impossibly escalating noise. It's not a monster I'm prepared to fight.

All of this reveals my lack of patience and lack of suitability to very young children. I KNOW. I'm ok with this being my fault. I'll admit to any character flaw imaginable, if it'll get me out of this situation.

There have been a couple of kids this week who didn't know it, but whose words or hugs kept me from walking out in disgust. (One I thought I'd never see again, and I had to sit down - my legs went weak when I realized who it was.) They'll get credit. But first, dinner and sleeping, because it's my turn.

I just hate it.

I just hate it. My job. It's not the new director's fault - she seems like a very kind woman who will eventually do a great job of running the place. In the meantime, I'm helping her create a brand-new program, and it's taking a lot of time and energy and I just don't care that much about the place anymore. And I am so tired of little kids. My day is spent entirely with 4- and 5-year-olds now, and I couldn't hate it more. I miss people who have reasoning skills. I miss having conversations. I want to talk about politics, health insurance, and the price of gas.

Yesterday I said that everybody would have a chance to go get a drink of water and they all raised their hands and wanted to know if they could go get drinks of water now. I told them everyone would have their turn, we were going to the fountain one at a time (to prevent injury. The children of the wealthy idiotic, who are not used to encountering any obstacles between themselves and whatever their precious hearts desire, fight like street kids. I've seen blood drawn in the first twenty seconds of an argument over a beanbag.). Every hand shot up into the air. What's your question, Caroline? Caroline said she wanted a drink of water. I said, yes, in just a minute. It's not your turn yet. Every one of you is going to have a drink of water, if you just wait two minutes. Every hand stayed in the air. I said, I don't want to hear any more questions about water. Julian, what's your question? Julian wanted to know if he could go get a drink of water.

The HILARIOUS part is that this is actually a much trimmed-down version of how it actually went. I was sending kids to the fountain one by one during the water speech, which I gave eight times before just wanting to cry (I compromised by not crying, but not saying another word to the kids, no matter how they nagged). I gave the speech in a nice clear loud voice to the group eight times, and I told each (EACH) of them individually, No, No, No, here's why, NO.

That day I had seventeen children in my group. Today I had twenty-three.

I have an "assistant" who is twice my age and worthless. She and I took the kids out on the playground and a construction worker came running over to say, in very broken English, that we could not be there, because something something something. The poor guy was trying to be helpful, using a lot of gestures, smiling and laughing at our inability to understand each other. He was working there; it was his turf and he could have just shouted us away. I wanted to return the favor, so I left Belinda with the kids while I ran inside to find someone who spoke Spanish.

On the way, a woman in the parking lot leaned out of her car, screaming about the niños. She was jabbering in Spanish and seemed pretty freaked out, so I said something painfully stupid like "Ok, Español, ok!" and pointed to the building, and ran inside. I asked five or six people if they spoke Spanish. Nobody did. But the last one knew someone who is fluent - BELINDA. Rock-eatingly useless Belinda who just stood there and never said a word.

Today before work I was feeling very low about the idea of going back to that place. I was getting sorry for myself, which is pointless, so I had a stern little chat with my brain and I decided to take control of my crummy job. Sure, I've taken on a commitment - to stay at least long enough to help the new system onto its feet, and to ensure it's properly staffed before I leave (quitting would be quite a blow to the staff, which right now is a whopping 4 people). But I'm not married to the place and this job does not own or define me. It's just something I'm doing right now, part-time, in the interest of my co-workers and my new boss, who are all good human beings, and in the interest of a lot of children who need all the kindness I can scrape together for them. This job is tiresome as well as wearying, but I'm doing a good thing, not to mention covering my financial ass until I can make a living solely with my writing. I realized that this job doesn't control me in the least - even when unpleasant, it's a job I am choosing to do.

This new attitude granted me a reasonably upbeat drive to work, and was revealed to be a bunch of happy bullshit when I parked my car and discovered I had a flat tire. Unrepairable, ripped open, instantly flat. A freak accident I couldn't repeat again in a million years (unless I do it again tomorrow): punctured by a wood chip from the kids' playground.

Too much happened

Too much happened today and I ache all over. I have to do the same thing tomorrow. I don't want to.

---

Yesterday I did something I was afraid of, because I was afraid of it. In fact I volunteered. It was hardly anything, so I'm not too impressed with myself. But still. Afterwards, even before I was breathing right, I immediately needed chocolate. Not wanted, needed. It's always interesting when I'm reminded that I'm just an animal, and a girl one.

---

I looked at a rough stone wall in passing and was absolutely sure I saw two deer - a poster, a photograph - but I didn't, they were not there.

---

I will never forget that once in the seventh grade Mrs. Rackley accidentally used the word "fuck" in front of the whole class and scandalized us all forever. And I won't forget that she told us about her horses back in Maine, whose backs would cake with snow when they stood still to eat. Once their bellies started processing the food, though, the snow would slide off in clumps and sometimes she could see steam rising from their skin.