Damn Swede

As I entered into adulthood, I became acutely aware of how much my aunts and uncles love me. To be honest, I couldn’t understand why; I didn’t have do to anything. It didn’t make sense to me - I was just the daughter of their siblings.

Now my siblings have kids and I understand. These small people are a part of me, even though they didn’t come from me. And I gush over them as if they were my own. This week I told everyone who would listen about how Elijah tried to rally the car on the way to church in honor of his own birthday and how Benjamin has taken to introducing himself as “the nicest boy ever”. Previous weeks told tales of Anna, Priscilla and Lydia or Nathaniel, Issac and Mary. “Those kids are sound amazing,” is the response I usually get at the end of my tales and I nod in agreement.

I woke up this past Saturday to the smell of Swedish pancakes and coffee and I joined my family at the kitchen table for breakfast and chit-chat. Once everyone had enough to eat and the kitchen was prepped for cleaning, my mother began acting very nervous. “We need to have a family meeting,” she said as she pulled additional seating into the family room. “I’ll go find Dad but go ahead and have a seat.” My sister and I tried to coax it out of her but she refused to say anything except that my brother already knew. Simultaneously our heads turned to him. “What is it about? The will?” we pried, but he also kept tight-lipped. “It will make you sad . . . and a little mad,” he offered. My dad emerged and as a family we sat and waited.

The story unfolded. My cousin’s life took a dramatic and unexpected sad turn. Troy was right, we were sad and mad. Sometimes more mad than sad. The kids who were playing in the basement opened the door. “Get downstairs!” my sister and I yelled in unision. The door quickly shut. “To be fair,” my mom pointed out, “we never told them they had to stay in the basement.” My dad continued and the door knob shook again. “If you open that door, you will be in trouble!” my brother-in-law warned. “Unless it is Issac, because he is too little - I call!” my sister-in-law protested, protective of our youngest nephew.

The story ended. We sat in silence. My love for my cousin grew as did my respect, admiration and empathy. The protection exhibited by my mother and sister-in-law was the same kind of protection I wanted to pour on my cousin. The night before I drove past where my dad’s sister’s family used to live - about twenty minutes from where I grew up. “I bet if my dad’s brother’s family lived here instead, we would be a lot closer,” I thought to myself, oblivious to the news I would receive the next day about her family. Less than twelve hours later the distance between a Las Vegas and Chicago childhood melted away. The visit I promised last summer mentally moved to the top of my priority list.

Later that day my sister, sister-in-law and I went shopping. Looking to kill twenty minutes, we pulled into the Dominick’s parking lot to grab a forgotten dinner agreement. My sister waited as a spot near the front became available. As she started to pull into the spot, a woman in a Lexus SUV began to honk as if the spot was hers. “I was here first,” my sister asserted to us in the car as she parked and we got out. The woman pulled up and rolled down her window, “That’s very nice. Have a great day,” she said icily. “I was waiting first,” my sister said as we walked in the store. The woman argued back, “No you were not there first . . .” and I felt my pulse race and my cheeks flush. Instinctively I felt my finger point and my direction shift as I walked towards the Lexus, “Yes she was there first! And you got a better spot of the deal, so what is the problem!?” I decided not to wait for her response, as I could feel a string of curse words begin to form on my lips.

The instinct to protect our loved ones is natural.  For me, it washes over my insides like a wave; making me simlutaneously nauseous and heated.  I don’t always know how to express how I feel, but I do try to show it.

Rumor has it that there will be layoffs this week at work.  Normally, I wouldn’t be worried considering I am well liked and respected among upper management and clients alike.  But “they” say that each department will be effected . . . and the odds are not so good.  There are only ten people in my department; at least in the Chicago office.

If I think about it, it will make me crazy.  So I just won’t.

In related news, I think my legs are broken.  My church does full prostrations during the mutual forgiveness portion of Forgiveness Vespers and there were about 40 people there.  My previous church did not practice this same tradition and last year I held my niece during the service.  This was the first year I participated fully and I am not sure if I have known pain like this before.  That is probably not saying much, having never broken a bone or been in a major accident.  I think I should take a hot bath.  That would help, right?

Broken, broken, my legs are broken.

On Thursday we were all so excited to hear the trickles of water coming out of our faucets. As neighbors, we gathered in the hallway excitedly discussing the promise of a stronger water pressure in a few hours. Following strict instructions, we left all the faucets open all night. When I woke in the morning, the bathtub faucet had stopped trickling. I turned it to full blast but nary a drop came out. I did, however, have freezing cold water in the bathroom and kitchen sinks. Once again I heated pots of water for a sponge bath and got ready for work.

My only consolation was that I was on my way to visit my friend in Atlanta. Not only, as my coworker pointed out on a particularly cold day, is it almost 100 degrees warmer but there was a promise of water. Lots of fresh water flowing from faucets in varying temperatures. Again I had the feeling of being drunk on clean. As the water in my friend’s shower washed over me, so did relief. I stood there wondering what the next step was in my normal shower routine, a routine I had performed once over the last week. As I stepped out of the shower, I wandered around the bathroom in a similar daze to the one you get after 90 minute deep tissure massage.

I returned on the red eye this morning and went straight to work. There I had the opportunity to check my email and confirm my suspicions. After five full days, the water in my building had been restored. What’s more, over the weekend the water had the opportunity to heat so we even had hot water.

I noticed my eyes getting droopy in the afternoon and decided to leave a little early. Nearly falling asleep in the cab, I expected that I would lay down for a quick nap before I started to unpack. But as I opened the door I could hear the water. I checked all three faucets and was amazed to find hot and cold water at full pressure. When I try to explain this to people, they look at me like I am crazy. “What do you mean you forgot how to shower?” they ask with that “Duh!?” expression in their eyes. But you really don’t know what you have until it is gone. And I was so excited by the discovery that I immediately began to clean. My sister would be proud, as I pulled out Shaklee’s Basic H and began spraying down every surface I couldn’t clean last week. Two loads of laundry went in, with a third on the way. A suitcase was unpacked, trash was taken out, clothing put away, mail was sorted and a new pasta recipe I wanted to try last week was made for dinner. Water is an amazing thing!

Now I think I am going to draw a bath and watch last night’s Desperate Housewives in the tub. Because I can.

It started slowly at first, during the last ten minutes of an especially tense CSI:.  I lay cuddled on the couch, allowing myself to enjoy the show before I started to pack.  An email at 3:00 promised water “in a few hours” and when I arrived home at 6:30 I found the toilet working but still no water.  Panic set in, wondering if everyone else had water but me.  A quick phone call to my condo president confirmed that the whole building was still without water.  “All of Andres’ pipes are frozen and every time they think they have it fixed, another pipe bursts.”  A stop-gap measure was planned to allow the majority of the building to have water.

And it came, a slight trickle that was at first unrecognizable.  It gradually built and though it is not quite a full-force, it still is a respectable stream.  The plumbers will be back tomorrow to yet again try and fix the problem.  Hopefully for good!

It’s not that I don’t have any place to go.  I could just as easily go to my parents as I could to my sister’s, my brother’s, my brother’s in-laws’, my friend’s or my co-worker’s.  The only problem is that none of those places are home.  Sometimes you just want to be at home and this week is one of those weeks.  I just want to sleep in my own bed and not plan my outfits in advance.  And part of me feels injustice about the fact that I pay assessments and this situation is not being fixed.  Like suffering is somehow showing them. (Insert fist-shake here)