Random Items in No Particular Order Saturday, Jun 27 2009

1) This week I acquired two excruciating copyediting projects, both of which I considered turning down; but then I realized I couldn’t bypass the $1200 I’ll make by suffering through them, especially now that I may have to pay a real estate client $5000 for a mistake I didn’t really make, but which a judge will nail me for if it goes to court … so I’d rather settle with the client privately before it gets to that point.  Therefore, I’m working a second job to be able to afford my first job.

Anyway, the book I started on first is a political thriller (I use the term very loosely indeed) about a secret operative doing something with the Middle East.  It’s so incoherent that I can’t follow the plot, but at least it will be incoherent and properly punctuated by the time I’m done with it.  The author has no idea how to punctuate dialogue, and he runs it all together in a paragraph, so I have to both correct it and try to pick out who is saying what, in order to indent properly … which is more easily said than done, in many cases.  The dialogue itself is absolutely mind-numbing.  Every single time the main character — code name “Ricochet” — enters a new situation, there’s a dialogue block similar to this:

Ricochet walked into the bank.  There was a young woman behind the desk.  “Hello,” he said.

“Hello,” she said.

“My name is Paul Snow and I am here to see Mr. Wells Fartgo, the bank manager,” Ricochet said, using his operative name.  He did not introduce himself by his code name.

“I do not know if Mr. Fartgo is in,” the woman behind the desk said.  She picked up her intercom phone.  “Mr. Fartgo, there is a Mr. Snow here to see you.  Are you available to see Mr. Snow?  You are?  Thank you.”  She turned back to Ricochet.  “Mr. Fartgo can see you in five minutes.  Can you take a seat in the lobby please, Mr. Snow?” she asked

“Thank you.  I am very happy that Mr. Fartgo can see me in five minutes.  I will sit in the lobby until he is ready,” he said.

“Thank you.  I will call you when Mr. Fartgo is available,” she said.

… and so forth.  Except that before I work on it, it looks like this:

Ricochet walked into the bank.  There was a young woman behind the desk.  “Hello.” He said. “Hello.” She said. “My name is Paul Snow and I am here to see Mr. Wells Fartgo, the bank manager.” Ricochet said, using his operative name.  He did not introduce himself by his code name.”I do not know if Mr. Fartgo is in.” The woman behind the desk said.  She picked up her intercom phone.  “Mr. Fartgo, there is a Mr. Snow here to see you.  Are you available to see Mr. Snow?  You are?  Thank you.”  She turned back to Ricochet.  “Mr. Fartgo can see you in five minutes.  Can you take a seat in the lobby please, Mr. Snow?”She asked.”Thank you.  I am very happy that Mr. Fartgo can see me in five minutes.  I will sit in the lobby until he is ready.” He said.”Thank you.  I will call you when Mr. Fartgo is available.”She said.

2) Yesterday I drove down to Eugene to enjoy a wonderful performance of Haydn’s “The Creation,” which was part of the Oregon Bach Festival.  (Thank you, PP, for taking me.)  On my way down, there was a smartarsed little shit in a sports car behind me in the fast lane.  There was some road construction, so there was a lot of stopping and starting.  I had the proper three car lengths between me and the car ahead of me, but Mr. Convertible was riding my tail the whole time, and more than once had to veer off into the shoulder to avoid hitting me.  I thought about changing lanes to get away from him, but then I started hoping he would hit me; I’ve ruined my back bumper by misgauging the location of posts, rocks, walls, and similar nonvehicular inanimate objects when backing out of parking spaces.   How wonderful it would be, I thought, if he hit me and paid for my new bumper.  But of course, that didn’t happen.  I felt cheated.

3)  Recently I watched the film adaptation of Doubt whilst trotting on my treadmill, and I was very disappointed by it.  Meryl Streep was wonderful, as she always is, but Philip Seymour Hoffman was woefully miscast as Father Flynn — who is a good-looking, athletic, Pied Piper of boys in the original play.  I was enormously irritated by the painfully obvious visual “cues” in the film … oh, how very ironic that Sister Aloysius, searching for truth, keeps having to replace a burned-out bulb in her office!  Gosh, the film should come with an Anvil of Unsubtlety so the viewer can whack himself over the head with it at suitable intervals.  There was also a moment in the film that reminded me of something that annoys me in film generally speaking … characters who cry, and who have snot running out of their noses as they do so.  Does anyone *ever* do this in real life, when in the presence of someone they don’t know very well?  I really don’t think so.  Sure, sniffling would perhaps spoil the dialogue, but then again, so do snail-tracks of mucus on film.

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And Another Delightful Client Thursday, Jun 25 2009

This fellow wasn’t rude or abusive, just … almost unbelievably delusional and maddening.  He called three realtors, of whom I was one, to give a price opinion on his house.  He didn’t like the price I came up with.  This was part of our conversation:

Him:  You know that new construction around the corner?  Those tall skinny houses?

Me: Yeah.

Him:  How could those possibly be worth more than my house?  My house is worth more than those, I’m sure.

Me:  Well … those houses have twice the square footage of yours.  They have three bedrooms, and two and a half baths, whereas you have two bedrooms and one bath.  \

Him:  But all the bedrooms are upstairs.  I don’t like stairs.

Me: But you see, the bedrooms being upstairs isn’t an issue unless you have a problem with stairs.  Of course, I understand that you’re disabled and that wouldn’t work for you.  But a lot of people like to have all the bedrooms upstairs, as that gives a nice separation of public and private spaces.  Plus … those houses are, as I’ve said, twice the size of yours.

Him: But it’s not just the inside that matters, is it?  I have this nice yard, and a patio where I can barbecue.

Me:  And those things certainly enhance the way you can enjoy your home.  However, most people live inside their homes most of the time, so a larger house is worth more than a smaller one.

Him: Well, I guess I just thought this house would appeal to a nice older couple.

Me: At the right price, I’m sure it will.

Him:  Oh, remember when you were here last time, you told me that most buyers will put a camera down the sewer line to see if it’s broken? 

Me: Yes.

Him:  Those other agents didn’t mention it.  They didn’t think it would be a problem.

Me:  Well, every single transaction I’ve had in the past five years has involved a sewer scope, so I can pretty much guarantee you that it will happen.  The fact that nobody else mentioned it to you is a failure of diligence on their part, not an alarmist overreaction on my part.

Him: My sewer is working fine.  If  a buyer finds that it’s broken, I won’t fix it.

Me:  So … you do understand that a leaking sewer is an environmental hazard that will kill a sale if you’re not willing to negotiate about it, right?

Him:  I don’t care.  It works just fine for me, and that’s what I’ll tell the buyer.

Me: OK … that’s probably not going to be a realistic position to hold, but if you decide to lose a sale over it, I suppose I can’t stop you, though I would strongly advise you against taking that attitude.

Him: Well, young man, I don’t mean to hurt your feelings or criticize you, but I have to tell you, the other brokers came in $40K higher than you did.  They used comparables from over there in the Cairncross neighborhood.

Me:  It doesn’t hurt my feelings that the other brokers you called don’t know how to analyze comparables.  You can believe me or not, but — they’re wrong.  They pulled information from a completely different neighborhood.  As you can see, I pulled comparables that are within 10 blocks of your house. 

Him:  Well, I’ll say this for you … at least you were on time.

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I Fucking Hate My Fucking Job Tuesday, Jun 23 2009

I really don’t know if an actual post is necessary after that title line, but here goes.  This is a hard situation to explain without going on and on and on, but … I’ve had the most stressful two months in real estate that I’ve ever had.  Ever.  One major source of stress has been a transaction with an 83-year-old seller, whose belligerent nephew is co-trustee of her property.  She hadn’t sold a house in twenty years, and it was a steep learning curve for her.  The nephew fancies himself a high roller, and would call me from Idaho (where he lives) every so often to tell me what I was doing wrong and how I was cheating his aunt.  We’re still in a strong buyers’ market, and this house was a fixer.  I listed it at the perfect price, and it sold fairly quickly.  (Incidentally, one reason I’m sure it was the perfect price is that the competing realtor, who didn’t get the listing, gave the seller the exact same price, and she’s a very smart realtor whom I respect completely.)

The realtor on the other end of the transaction, whom I’ll call Brigid, was an escapee from the fools’ brigade.  She didn’t notify me when her client changed lenders in the middle of the transaction, which pushed our closing out by a week.  Then, she gave a copy of the inspection report to the underwriter, which is a major no-no.  The underwriter then decided that several thousand dollars’ worth of repairs needed to be made to a house that we’d wanted to sell as-is.  Through an incredible miracle of spin doctoring, I managed to talk the underwriter back out of this.  This caused another week’s delay.  Then the buyer had to go out of town for a professional conference, and couldn’t sign documents, so we’re out yet another week.  It was in the seller’s best interests to try to get this deal closed, as a sale fail is the kiss of death, especially on a house like this that’s had a lot of stuff come up on an inspection.  By law, you have to disclose all known defects to the buyer, so once you have an inspection, you know about a lot of defects you weren’t aware of before.  This inevitably impacts the price that the house will sell for when it goes back on after a sale fail.  It took me two hours in conference with the seller, her nephew, his wife, and some other guy whom I didn’t know in order to coax the seller to do the right thing for herself, which was to give this deal enough time to close.  It closed today, which was nothing short of miraculous.

So I called the seller to tell her congratulations, and she started asking me why we hadn’t sold the house for more, and why we’d agreed to any repairs, and wait a minute, her neighbor would have bought the house without asking for repairs … and she hadn’t really fully understood anything that had happened.  This was news to me, as I’d explained it to her meticulously, and we’d had back-and-forth conversations that sure seemed like she was getting it.  I was really poleaxed by this.  As always, I started second-guessing myself.  Had I cheated this old lady?  I was under the impression that I’d sweated bullets and wept blood in order to get her what she needed, and to do the right thing for her.  I felt pretty low about this, as it’s impossible for me to retain any sense that I’ve done a good job once someone tells me I didn’t.  I know how overwrought I was about this deal, and everything I had to do to make up for the other realtor’s mistakes.  I even cut my commission by $2000 to pay for the faulty electrical panel to be replaced, since the property had sold quickly enough to save me a lot of money in advertising expenses.  But I guess I didn’t do a good job after all.

While I was in this state of mind, I got a call from Brigid, who informed me that although I’d provided a key for the front door, the screen door to the property was locked, and the buyer was “really pissed.”  I was on my way to a chamber music concert, to which I had some fairly expensive tickets.  I just shouldn’t have answered the phone, but … that was my stupid fault.  Then the buyer called me to tell me that she was really pissed, that she wanted access to the property Right Now.  I told her, truthfully, that I had no idea the screen door even had a key.  I called the seller, who said it was impossible for the screen door to be locked … the movers had been in and out this morning, and the only person who had a key was her, and she hadn’t been over there to lock the door.  I checked my watch.  There was no way I could get out to her retirement home to get the key, and still make the concert.  I called the buyer back and explained this, and told her that the seller was about a ten minute drive away, if she wanted to meet the seller and get the key.  Just to give a little perspective, this stupid shit happens all the time.  One of my buyers showed up at a property with her moving van on Christmas Eve, only to find that the seller had left town and taken all the keys with him.  Another of my buyers, just this week, opened her new garage to find twenty years’ worth of Christmas kitcsch still there.  A seller of mine moved her washing machine, and in the process, broke a huge pipe … on the morning when the buyers were supposed to move in.  Life isn’t completely predictable.  It wasn’t that unreasonable of me to suggest that the buyer drive ten minutes to pick up a key, particularly since she wasn’t even moving anything in yet.

However, she felt that it was completely unreasonable.  I can’t even begin to describe her tone.  She told me I had no right to a personal life, and that I should leave the concert and go get the key; that it wasn’t her problem I had some “asshole intellectual” thing planned for my evening.  She told me that I was thoughtless, a terrible realtor, and a terrible person.  She told me that she had already called my office manager and my title company to tell them how unprofessional and careless I was.  She reminded me that she is a first time buyer who had paid nearly half a million for her house (well, it was actually $400K, but evidently she felt inclined to round up) and that it was inexcusable that she couldn’t get in.  If I didn’t get her that key by tomorrow at noon, she’d sue me.

Of course she has no basis whatsoever to sue me, but I was really upset.  I don’t handle angry people very well, and I was already in a pretty fragile state of mind.  There was no way I could possibly enjoy the concert now, so I called the seller to ask if I could come over and get the key.  The seller told me there was no key … she’d looked, and it didn’t exist.  I was shaking so badly with frustration and anger that I probably shouldn’t have been driving, but nevertheless, I drove over to the house.  The buyer had already left.  And with one try, I opened the locked screen door, which hadn’t been locked at all … it was just stuck, having swelled a little in today’s humid weather.  I stuck two catalogs in the door to hold it open, and called the buyer.  Of course, she didn’t answer her phone, but you can probably imagine the substance of the message I left.  It wasn’t the message I wanted to leave, which would have been Thanks a lot, you stupid fucking bitch, for ruining my entire life. I realize that would have been a little over the top.

But I think I’ve had as much as I can take for one day of people telling me I’m a terrible person who doesn’t know how to do my job.  Maybe I need another job, where I’m not such a terrible person.

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They Don’t Pay Me Enough Friday, Jun 19 2009

One of the unique features of the POD publishing company I work for is that the author is assigned a personal representative upon deposit of a nominal fee.  When I’m not editing, I am in the role of Author Care.  Some authors need more care than others.  Some are unpleasant nutjobs, and some are rather pleasant lunatics.  I currently have an author in the latter category, of whose correspondence with me over the past two weeks there is a representative sample below.  Names and some identifying details have been changed to protect the innocent, but the exact sense is quite intact.

From: Guildford Gossage

To: David Rochester

Re: “Fables”

Dear Mr. Rochester,

I know you will be very pleased to learn that I have successfully secured my deposit with your company, and that my “Fables” will be ready for publication in March of 2010.  I trust that these tales of wonder and wisdom will stand the test of time.  I am also working very hard on my second project, an epic novel titled “Legendary Altercation.”  I am always in need of encouragement, and would very much like to hear from you.

To: Guildford Gossage

From: David Rochester

Re: Publication

Dear Mr. Gossage,

DelusionalPress is delighted to have you as one of our authors.  I look forward to being able to read your manuscript when it is ready, and applaud your industriousness.

From: Guildford Gossage

Re: Mystical Coincidence

Dear Mr. Rochester,

How it gladdened my heart to hear from you!  I thank you for your kind consideration.  Today when I was making my way home from the Soho boite where I regularly take my luncheon of a Thursday, I saw a lone tattered figure in the park, coaxing a melancholy tune from a nose-flute.  I know not whence he came, nor what his purpose.  I was immediately inspired to write a story about him, which I shall add to my “Fables.”  I feel guided by forces beyond my understanding.

From: David Rochester

Re: Publication

Dear Mr. Gossage,

I’m glad to hear you’re still hard at work — and how you must enjoy living in an atmosphere so conducive to your flights of fancy!  I envy you.

From: Guildford Gossage

Re: A Delicate Matter

Dear Mr. Rochester,

You will be pleased to know that I have secured the services of a professional typist to prepare the manuscript for “Fables.”  I have approached someone known to me to write the introduction, as I fear it would be too forward to introduce my own maiden voyage onto the seas of print.  What is your opinion on this matter?

From: David Rochester

Re: Publication

Dear Mr. Gossage,

I think it is quite appropriate for you to ask a trusted friend or colleague to write your introduction.  Many authors find it to be overly self-congratulatory to write their own introductions, although sometimes an author will have a philosophical statement or other explanation to make.  However, such material can easily be included in a prologue.  I do look forward to reading your manuscript when the typist has finished with it.

From: Guildford Gossage

Re: An Astonishing Climax

Dear Mr. Rochester,

I wished to tell you that I am hard at work on “Legendary Altercation.”  I envision the climax of the piece as a great battle — a heroic clash of hitherto undreamed-of scope and detail.  The most exciting parts have yet to be written.  My manuscript is currently at forty handwritten legal-sized pages, and at this time there is no end in sight.

… to which I am desperately tempted to respond:  “Evidently your closing remark is true in more ways than one.”

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My Day Thus Far Has Included … Friday, Jun 19 2009

… my mother telling me that my aunt with Alzheimer’s has taken to referring to her air conditioning as “the refrigerated radiator,” which is, I think, going to catch on in our private lexicon

… my giant idiot cat eating a rose and then thinking better of it, resulting in flowery spew all over my office

… my realization that all the cement contractors in Portland have incomprehensible accents

… my potentially having to pay a client $5000 for something that isn’t entirely my fault, but if it goes to court the judge will nail me because judges hate realtors

… my making the mistake of giving a critique to a friend who sent me a chapter of his novel, only to be told that “the people at Harvard” didn’t share my criticism, and that he would “take some consolation” from that fact

… my mild annoyance at being rudely awakened from an interesting dream by my clock radio playing a song I hate

21 Responses »

 

Random Items in No Particular Order Sunday, Jun 14 2009

1) There’s a very good reason why people don’t normally give housewarming birthday wakes.  Wakewarming days.  Birthwakewarmings?  Birthhousewakes?  Anyway — I recommend that you keep your occasions politely separated.   It’s too confusing otherwise.  Plus, it’s just odd to take a condolence card and and a birthday card to the same occasion.

2) One of the nice contradictory things about me is that although I’m mildly OCD, I don’t mind toast crumbs in bed.  This makes for pleasant mornings with Someone.

3) If you want to do something entirely unnatural with your air supply and end up maybe accidentally killing yourself, I highly recommend sneezing in the middle of a hiccuping fit.  Not that you can really schedule this kind of thing, mind you, but trust me, it’s memorable.

4) Thank you, Jackie, for sending me those issues of “Opera News.”  I had a moment of nostalgia for the bad old days back at Oberlin, when I would look forward with pitiable excitement to each month’s issue.  I had a little ritual involving a bagel and coffee, and my magazine.  That was when I still had some vestige of youthful dreams; I thought that perhaps someday I might write for that magazine.  Now I am cynical and have invested in the idea of premature death as a retirement plan.  So … yeah.  Thanks for that, Jax.

5) The thing about weeds is that they grow back.

6) It just occurred to me today that my crazy aunt in California, who has now been diagnosed with Stage 4 Alzheimer’s, looked astonishingly like the young Barbara Stanwyck, back in her heyday.  I’ve been trying to figure out for years who she reminded me of.  My aunt had a better figure, but the face was extremely similar.  And, like Stanny, she was a head-turning stunner in a slightly off-kilter way.   Like this:

7) I turned 37 last week, but I’ve been thinking of myself as 40 for so long that I really didn’t notice.  In fact, I was agreeably surprised to realize that I’m not 40 yet.  I wonder whether I’ll care when I really do turn 40.  My guess would be no, not really.  I certainly didn’t give two shits when I turned 30, though I’d been told that I would bid a gut-wrenching farewell to the carefree bachelor joys of my twenties.  That’s the up side to never having a youth … you don’t miss it when it’s over.

8 – Professional used book dealers have a characteristic appearance of papery oddness, lack of exposure to sunlight, dustiness, and social ineptitude.  They are an odd group, with questionable teeth, and hair that appears to have been carelessly affixed with mucilage.  I’m not sure that their clothing is made of substances found in nature.

9) Lawyers make curiously docile real estate clients, though you’d never guess at such a thing.

10) I own a small brass paperweight in the shape of an armadillo.  So there.

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Two Conundrums Saturday, Jun 13 2009

1) Every year it comes to my attention that the creators of Father’s Day cards assume that the person buying the card actually likes his or her father.  There do not seem to be any “lip service” cards, nor any that say “We work together, so I’m pretty much forced to get you a card.”  They are all along the lines of  “You’re the best” or “Thanks for all your support!” or “Thanks for teaching me to drive and sending me to college” or “Thanks for bailing me out of jail and lending me that rent money.”  There are none that say “You owe me at least $20K for therapy” or “Thanks for nothing, asswipe” or even “What the hell made you think you should be a parent?”

Someone is really missing a niche market, here.

2) Tomorrow I am going to a combination birthday party/housewarming/wake.  I really don’t know what attitude to adopt.

28 Responses »

 

In Which I Am Greatly Acclaimed Sunday, Jun 7 2009

I spent this morning babysitting for Elissa’s daughter Charlotte, who is now two and a half.  The last time I babysat her, she was still more or less preverbal.  Now she’s a real live toddler who walks and talks and has opinions about things.  This was a much different type of babysitting.  Also, the last time I was in attendance, it was evening, and she went to sleep soon after I got there.  I was pretty sure this wouldn’t happen at 9 AM, so I came armed with a 20-ounce coffee, knowing I’d probably need it.

Charlotte is a very easy kid to be around; she lives in a family that is very dedicated to reading aloud and to storytelling, and so she is in that curious phase of early childhood development where reality and fantasy are indistinguishable, and she has an almost-continual running monologue made up of sentences she has heard in her favorite stories.  My babysitting consisted mostly of listening to her, and waiting to see whether anything she said might be indicative of something she needed or wanted in current time.  Unlike the last time I was with her, she has now proceeded to being able to tell me pretty clearly what she thinks should be happening, so I don’t have to guess.  At one point, she informed me that she wanted something to drink.  I took her approved drink out of the refrigerator, and she imperiously told me: “Put it in my little cup.”

The little cup was nowhere to be seen, so I asked her if she could show me where it was.  She rolled her eyes a bit, but went over to the drawer where it is kept, and pointed.  Once I got the little cup out, I could see why she’d insisted; it’s very cute.  Then we went down to her playroom so she could draw on her easel, which has a dry-erase board on one side, and a chalkboard on the other side.  I never had a chalkboard when I was little, and I always wanted one, so it was a little difficult for me not to want to play with Charlotte’s toys.  But I didn’t want to be rude, so I sat down and read one of her books instead.  It was a good book about a kitten that gets its tail caught in the screen door, so it has to go to the vet.  I learned that the vet isn’t such a bad place.  While I was reading this, the family cat, Mac, came in, took one look at me, and decided I was the love of his life.  He hopped up in my lap, wrapped his arms and legs around my waist, buried his face in my shirt, and purred for all he was worth.  Charlotte was much engrossed with “drawing” on her chalkboard (this involved much random scribbling) so I told Mac the story of the kitten at the vet.

Then Charlotte wanted to go upstairs, so we did.   This was a good idea, because I needed the rest of my coffee.  While I was drinking it, Charlotte announced, “David catch Charlotte!”  She then ran into the laundry room, giggling hysterically.  The rules of this game seemed simple enough; she would run away, and I would chase her in a desultory fashion so that she didn’t actually feel chased, as I was afraid that if I really chased her, she’d run too fast and fall down.  Then I would express great astonishment that I’d been able to catch her, and give her a big hug and pick her up and swing her around a couple of times.  This was toddler comedy gold.  We did this until David, who is 36 going on 70, got kind of worn out.  Then Charlotte crawled up in her stroller and announced, “I’m ready to go.”

I would have taken her for a walk, but I’d left Elissa’s house key at my place.  Plus I hadn’t asked permission to take Charlotte out of the house, so in hindsight, I wouldn’t have gone even if I’d had the key.  However, Charlotte clearly expected something to happen.  So I wheeled her around the living and dining room for half an hour.  It was familiar scenery, but viewed from this novel perspective, it seemed to entertain her.  It was pretty boring for me, though, so I absentmindedly started to sing, as I sometimes do when I’m fussing around my own house.  Charlotte seemed positively transfixed by this, so I sang her some opera, transposed down a fourth so she didn’t have to endure my glass-cracking spinto range.  “Do that again!  Do it again!” she ordered, when I was done.  So I did.  “I like your songs,” she informed me.  I don’t know when I’ve had a more enthusiastic audience.

Thanks to the 20 ounces of coffee, I then really really had to use the bathroom, and I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do with Charlotte.  Last time, she was asleep and safe by the time Nature called, so it wasn’t an issue.  This is one of those questions I just didn’t think to ask.  I weighed the risks of leaving Charlotte alone for maybe a minute vs. leaving the door open and risking some blight on her young life vs. taking her in the bathroom with me and perhaps somehow scarring her psychologically and irreversibly.  So I opted for the fastest piss in the West, hoping she couldn’t kill herself in the 30 seconds it took me to get in and out of there.  She was, thankfully, still alive when I got back out of the bathroom.

After that, Charlotte wanted to go back downstairs to her easel.  She gave me a pen and said, “David draw a bug.”

“You want me to draw on your easel?” I asked.  This was almost too good to be true.

“Draw a bug,” she repeated.

“Do you want to draw a bug?” I asked, wanting to make sure I really understood the protocol.

“David draw a bug!” she insisted, clearly a bit impatient with my seeming recalcitrance.

“OK,” I said.  I drew a dragonfly.

“Fly!”  she said, delightedly.  “Draw another bug!”

I drew a ladybug, and a butterfly, and an ant, and then I was out of bugs I knew how to draw.  “How about a spider?” I suggested.

“That’s not a bug,” she said.

“Technically, no — it’s an arachnid.  But I don’t know any other bugs to draw, so … do you want to draw a bug?”

“No.  David draw a spider,” she said.

“With or without a web?” I asked.

“With web.”

So I drew a spider with a web.  “Do you want a fly caught in the web?” I queried.  She thought that was a good idea, so I put one in.  “The spider will eat that fly, you know,” I said.  She clearly thought this idea was disgusting.  “But you don’t have to eat one,” I hastened to assure her.  At this point, the easel was getting pretty crowded.  I didn’t see a dry-eraser anywhere, so I tested how the board was cleaned by licking one fingertip and rubbing.  Everything came right off, all over my finger.

“David, go wash your hands!” Charlotte ordered.  She had a point, so we went back upstairs and I fixed my hand, and got a damp paper towel for the easel, which I cleaned off.

“Draw … a popsicle!” she commanded.  I did, and then she wanted me to draw her eating it.  Luckily, she was able to see herself in an image that wasn’t exactly a triumph of realism.  Then she thought I should draw a house, and put her family in the windows.  Her visual sense accepts that her family’s faces are comprised of a circle with two dots.  At that point, Charlotte’s parents and little brother came back home, so my career as a famous artist, singer, and cat whisperer was over for the day.

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Weekend Tragedies Saturday, Jun 6 2009

1)  A prominent item on the news today informed me that a man was shot and killed in the parking lot of the condominium complex where I used to live.  He slashed his wrists and then called 9-1-1 to report “a bloody man with a knife” in the parking lot.  He then went outside with the knife, which he refused to drop when the police arrived, and was shot by the police.  Or at least, this is the official story.  It was very strange to see that familiar scenery in news photos.

2) I do get a lot of laughable material from the POD publisher, but my current project, while it needs a lot of work, isn’t laughable at all.  If I’d known what it was, I might have passed it on to a different editor, but — having started it, I’ll finish it.  It’s the memoir of a woman, now in her middle thirties, who has had a life of unremitting tragedy and degradation.  Events in her life include being sodomized by a family friend at the age of six, being forced by her mother to sleep in the hall closet for six months when she was seven, being sexually abused by her mother’s boyfriend for two years before she turned ten, having her first pregnancy and dropping out of school at the age of thirteen, having four children total due to ignorance and an inability to say “no” to anyone who seemed the least bit affectionate, and losing all of her children to street gangs and drugs.  The purpose of this memoir, as she says in the preface, is to allow people to learn from her mistakes; despite everything that has happened to her, she is quite aware of the choices she made.  She is a very intelligent woman and an effective storyteller, but her lack of formal education means that each sentence has several errors that require correction.

I am finding this material so painful to work on that I finally skipped to the end and started working backwards, as the events are less coherent (and therefore less disturbing)  that way.  The writing needs so much work that there’s no way to just skim over it, as I’ve done with some of the other books I’ve edited.  After every page, I am tempted to ask my manager to reassign the project.  Then I ask myself what kind of coward I am, exactly … if this poor woman could live this life, surely I can edit for her.  And I care about it being done correctly.  Making this woman look as good as she possibly can is the least I can do for her.  It’s hard, though.  I don’t want to see this.  I want to run away from her life … but not as much as she wants to, I’m sure.

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Photos Wednesday, Jun 3 2009

The first perfect blooms from my garden, making my desk more tolerable.

Daria P. showing off her olka-dots.

The insufferable basking.

Daria's wild head.

A weasel ball.

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