Uncomfortable... Very Uncomfortable

I haven't been much of a blogger lately. This used to be a place for me to purge my soul, but I've been too busy to write out my thoughts. They still rumble around upstairs, but that's as far as they're getting lately, unless I unload them on poor Bruce.

But Bruce is at work right now. And I feel the need to unload. Just warning you.

I do not like door-to-door sales people. It's nothing personal. I'm sure they're lovely individuals who simply have possibly the world's worst job. But I am way too suspicious to appreciate their efforts, even on a day like today when it's flurrying snow and so cold outside that our dog's water bowl is more like a Popsicle holder.

For starters, I've done an awful lot of back scratching in the newspaper world when an editor had me write a business article to swap for advertising. And I've worked in public relations, which pays better than newspaper writing, but is far less fulfilling for me. Seriously, I have worn out the thesaurus on finding different ways to say "wonderful" and I doubt anyone is going to impress me with a new word in describing their product.

Also, for me, it's a patience thing. I don't do well with long, drawn out explanations of how great a deal something is, how I'm going to benefit from it, how a product will change my life, make me smarter, richer, thinner... whatever. Tell me in 10 words or less what you're hocking and then be on your way. Because when it comes right down to it, if I want something, I'll research it on my own time on the Internet and then find a supplier and place an order... if we can afford it at all!

I also don't enjoy someone I don't know knocking on my door when I am home alone, or home with my children, and making my warped mind wander back to the latest episode of Criminal Minds. I spend way more time mentally noting height, approximate weight, hair and eye color, clothing and possible speaking dialects, piercings and tattoos than I do listening to their sales pitch.

Even better than having my time interrupted and my suspicions aroused is when my three kids parade to the door to see who has approached our inner sanctum. That's when I realize that the kids are still wearing their pajamas, so I squint back at the sales person and wonder if they're either a pedophile or a kidnapper.

But, I remember, perfectly normal looking human beings have been convicted of horrible things.

It's pretty simple. I'm either going to have to quit watching TV, including the news, or I'm going to have to post a "NO SOLICITING" sign at our front door.

Because the older I get, the less patience I have and the more my mind is naturally inclined to turning into Stephen King's playground.