Damn Swede

And by “grass” I mean it hurts a lot.

When I got home from work, I went down the front stairs to pick up the mail.  Because of the slipperiness of the stairs and the snow on my boots, about half way down the stairs I slipped and fell.  My feet went out from under me and I landed directly on my ass about five stairs below where I was standing.  I was on the phone with my friend, who offered to send help, but I declined.

I spoke with my sister and she said to use “moist heat” to treat the pain.  Is it just me, but does that sound dirty?  I really don’t know what to do.  It hurts to sit.  It hurts to walk.  There is a major throbbing in my backside.  The wine isn’t even distracting me.

Does anyone have some moist heat?

When I was taking a break from advertising, one of the jobs I did was sell a gutter protection system. I know what you are thinking. A gutter protection system ensures that you will never have to clean out your gutters again. I sold the industry-leading system and was also trained to inspect gutters and roofs, identify problem areas and recommend solutions. Leads were generated via newspaper and radio advertising, but for a year and a half I would show up on an unknown doorstep with my kit.

I still can’t believe I did that.

An introvert by nature, for many years of my life the thought of making conversation with unknown people was terrifying. In fact, I thought this “trial by fire” method would help me overcome some of those insecurities and I was right. This job not only helped me confirm what I knew to be true - that I was not cut out for sales - but also taught me several valuable presentation and persuasion skills that I still use today.

Oh, but the stories!

There was the woman who fell asleep during our conversation, the run-in with the mafia, the decorated war hero author, the federal judge and several meetings with middle-age Mr. Corporate America, who could not believe a woman was sent to do a man’s job and looked for ways to stump me in order to prove they were right. (When I could answer them, they resorted to just plain being rude.) I usually did well with old men and women, but for different reasons. Old men liked to flirt with me (a reoccurring theme in my life) and old women thought I was adorable and appreciated the companionship.

One elderly woman in particular I will not forget. Her husband of over fifty years had recently passed away and her children did not live in the area. It was no longer safe for her to clean her own gutters and there was no one around to do it for her. Of the two hours I spent in her house that day, I think we maybe spent 20 minutes discussing the features and benefits of the product. The remaining time was spent sharing our life stories; mostly me listening to hers and chiming in when appropriate. When she spoke of her late husband, we both got teary. Finally we completed the paperwork and it was time for me to go. As she hugged me goodbye, she said, “You’re a joy to know.”

I could not wait to get to the car and call my boss. “I’m a joy to know, I’m a joy to know!” I exclaimed. “Yes,” he replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “You are a joy to know.”

I was reminded of this today when my priest’s wife told me at coffee hour today that I am “just fun to be around.”

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In other random thoughts, I have found a way to be even more productive. (In an earlier post I described my love for laundry because I am automatically doing two things at once.) Today I am not only doing laundry, but also making bread in the bread machine and watering plants/taking out the trash/blogging all at the same time. I decided today was a good day for fresh made bread, so I can have grilled cheese and tomato soup for dinner. It’s going to be good.

I could also add procrastinating to the list of things I am doing, but that doesn’t see all that productive. I have to do the minutes from last Monday’s parish council meeting and today’s all parish meeting. But first, maybe I’ll change the laundry . . .

At least twice a day for the last week I have been getting nose bleeds. Fortunately, I notice this happy occurrence when I blow my nose and not by a trickles of blood dropping on my computer keyboard. Who gets nose bleeds any more? My creative lead partner, who is known for his tact, looked at me and said, “What? Do you have a cold or something? Your nose is all red.” When I explained the recent phenomenon, he replied, “That’s embarrassing.” Um yeah.

Even more embarrassing was the advice a different coworker gave me. “Stick a ball of Kleenex under your top list. There’s some sort of pressure point that will make your nose stop bleeding.” I complied and my other coworker could not stop laughing at me. She grabbed her phone quickly and snapped a picture. So not only was my nose bleeding, but I also couldn’t swallow because I had cotton mouth. Literally.

Speaking of bleeding . . . several sirens just went flying past my window. The last time this happened it was New Year’s Day and the first murders in the city of Chicago had just taken place. While I was busy organizing my office, a mere two blocks away four people were duct taped and shot execution style - a drug deal gone awry. The violence. I can’t take it. I sincerely hope it isn’t something like that tonight. I’m all mad and stuff. I want to do something to stop it, but I don’t know what.

Yes, folks. I am irritated.

My otherwise pleasant day ended on a frustrating note, which included a lecture on how things should be done. And the thing is, I could not agree more. I myself have given the very same lecture, and that is what frustrates me the most. Stupid mistakes that shouldn’t have been made. That I know better than to make. I wasn’t paying attention, which is why it happened, and I have no one to blame but myself.

The ride home only compounded my frustration. The part of my car that runs the heat is connected by duct tape. Every once in a while the tape loses it’s stickiness and I have to reattach the part. Today, in the freezing temperatures, the part fell off and I had no heat. I pulled over in a gas station to fix it and I thought my fingers were going to fall off. Fall off.

Once I got back on Ontario Street, it took about twenty-five minutes to go the three blocks to get on the expressway. I immediately got off the expressway and took Augustana west to get home. The problem is it snowed during rush hour, not allowing the salt trucks enough time to clear the roads so it was all slippery. I was following a late model car. One of those boxy numbers that looks like an old cop car or one of those cars on “Pimp my Ride”. Because of my car accident this summer, I am super-paranoid about being rear-ended. This, combined with the snowy roads, meant I was giving plenty of space to the car in front of me - at least one to one and a half car lengths. On the side streets of Chicago, this is more than generous. I was surprised to see the car in front of me stop at a green light. I was a little over a half block away, so when I caught up, so I was even more surprised when the boxy car floored the gas, slipping and sliding as he tore off.

Wait a minute. Was he trying to make me miss the green light? If so, why? I had to catch up with him in order for him to try and ditch me at the light.

When I got to my turn on Western Avenue, I pulled up next to him. I was hoping a peek would give me insight on the earlier curious behavior. As I turned to look at him, I found out it was an elderly man driving the car. An elderly man who was cursing me out? Yes. In fact, he was cursing me out. I looked at him strangely. “I don’t even know what you are talking about!” I exclaimed, as my own paranoia about the inclement weather prevented me from doing anything even remotely dangerous or questionable. “Oh yeah right,” was his response and he continued on cursing me out. I turned my head forward and kept it there, not wanting to engage this crazy old man further.

As I sat there, I fumed. Why are people so mean? I didn’t do anything. I would tell you if I did.

To be honest, I have no idea.

But I thought it odd to see a clown, in full makeup and costume (big red shoes and all), cross Division Street on Sunday afternoon.  And I have to say that the first question that popped in my mind was not the title of this post, but was instead “Where is his coat?”  This, dear friends, is conclusive proof I am turning into my mother.  It was after all negative zero degrees, according to the bank clock on the way to church.  Negative zero, by the way, is a curious temperature.  Didn’t we learn that zero is neither negative or positive?  Isn’t it just zero?  So confusing.  And damn cold.

Oh my, it’s a mirage
I’m tellin’ y’all it’s a sabotage 

I am a terrible self-saboteur.  I torment myself, mostly in the form of not going to bed.  Case in point:

I went to Chesterton this weekend to visit Bobby & Paige, who are back from Texas.  I felt a responsibility to attend church at my parish in the city, having several meetings and brunch with a friend post-Liturgy.  The natural breaking point seemed to be leaving when everyone went to Vespers, but I didn’t anticipate the newly-instituted Happy Hour and ended up a little tipsy for church.  After returning home, Bobby kept telling me to stay and tried to seal the deal by opening another bottle of wine.  We watched a movie and at 10:30 I packed up my stuff to return to the city.  Bobby stared at me in disbelief.  “Just so you know, I do realize this is crazy,” I said to him.  “Yeah, it is,” he replied. “I don’t really understand it.”

I got home close to midnight and considering that I had to get to church early for choir practice, one might think I would head straight to bed.  Nope.  One-thirty.  AM.  Ridiculous. I wasn’t even doing anything worth mentioning!

Sigh.

Sunday night.  I am tired.  I have to get up early in the morning to make copies and prepare for a meeting.  You think I would go to bed early.  Do I?  Sure don’t!  I stay up an hour and a half after my planned bed time.  I don’t think I ever woke up today.

Then there is tonight.  What am I doing now?  Am I getting ready for bed?  No, of course not.  I am lying on the couch, watching TV and writing this blog.  I think I am going to sleep a little later than I usually do tomorrow morning.  I ain’t gots no meetings.  Holla!

Oh my.  This is what happens when I don’t sleep . . .