This is Maggie, not Dana... aka the Mix-up

If you have ever had surgery, you know that they repeatedly ask which body part they are to be cutting and mark it several times with indelible ink. I assume it is to make sure that there are no screw-ups in the surgery process. They also confirm and re-confirm your name and other items about you.
I have come to believe this is common practice among all health related trades.

See my most recent trip to the eye doctor..

Receptionist: "Maggie, Could you come to the window?"
Me: walks to window "Yes?"
Receptionist: "Ok, just making sure. The doctor will be with you shortly."
Me: sits back down
A few minutes elapse..
Doctor: "Maggie?"
Me: looking up hesistantly
Doctor: "Are you Maggie Reed? Ok, come on back."

So on to the topic at hand...

On Monday, I went to work like any other day only to remember at 7AM as I was unlocking the trailer door that I had a dentist appointment at 10AM in the city. So... I was supposed to be in the city today. And it was for a dentist appointment. When I go to the dentist, I make a good show of it. I blame my mom and her tablets..

that show plaque where you missed it when brushing. Having done a poor imitation of brushing that morning, I found myself searching for a drugstore open at 7 AM near my jobsite. I wound up driving to a supermarket I knew was open, purchasing a toothbrush and toothpaste and brushing my teeth in the ACME bathroom.

I then traveled into the city where there was no traffic (IMPOSSIBLE on any other day when I didnt have nearly 3 hours to kill!!) and found myself next to my old apartment listening to my audiobook and creeping out the families taking their kids to school by sitting in my warm car waiting for the next thirty-two minutes. In an effort to avoid raising uneccessary alarm in people, I wandered to a nearby coffeeshop in an effort to waste the remaining 1 hour and 53 minutes left until my appointment.

It took me 57 minutes to drink one cup of tea. I thoroughly creeped out the guy working beside me as I sat listening to Sookie Stackhouse on my ipod and watching the people as they walked on past. It took another 15 minutes to throw my cup away and leave the shop and another 10 to walk back to my car because I took the long way. I sat in my car again for another 20 odd minutes and then walked to the dentist who was a half a block away.

When I arrived, the xray machine was in pieces and standing in the receptionists area. The receptionist looked like people had been bothering her and when she asked if I was Dana upon being given a chance to talk to someone who wasn't the phone, the dentist or the technicians, I told her no. I was Maggie. She commented that I was really early (22 minutes... ) and to have a seat.

Given my ability to wait at this point, I put on my ipod and flipped thru a people magazine. I became aware about 12 minutes later that a technician was trying to get my attention. I stood up, took out my headphones, and followed her back. She would proceed to say nothing to me while I sat in the chair until after she had put the bib on at which point she asked me if I had any health changes. I responded that I was on new medication and that was the last word we would say to each other for the next couple of minutes.

She was a butcher.

Let me say: I like getting my teeth cleaned. I like the scraping and the smooth feeling you have for the next couple of days without really trying. But I do not like feeling like someone has jammed stuff in between your teeth and that someone has done needlepoint on my gums. Normally, also, when you cringe or tighten fists or go tense, people stop and ask if you are ok. Not the "Meat Chopper".... I had to talk with utensils in mouth to get her to notice that I was wildly uncomfortable to which she responded she would floss them and then it would feel better.

At about this point, I became aware of footsteps and the receptionist said to "Miss pokey sticks":

"Just so you know, you are working on Maggie. (audible pause during which I am guessing the butcher made some sort of gesture or face) Dana didn't show. So you are working on Maggie. It's been that kind of a morning."

I would like to know what kind of a morning makes it ok to confuse one patient with another and not figure it out until the cleaning was almost finished. Obviously one worthy of this blog.

DC Revenge

In retailiation for my office, I ordered this kit for the assailant roughly two months ago. It arrived today... I can't wait for him to start getting the David cassidy Newsletter!

Hendrika and the House

No, this isn't the title of my new children's book.

This is the story of my friend MC who sent me an email about his recently lost house:

"Ms. Reed,
Do you remember back when you had some issues closing on the house because you're 'people' had screwed up and it caused some delays and some headaches, but ultimately it worked out because you got the house? And I told you that I thought I was good that my guys had already covered some of the issues you had. I felt confident that I would have a smooth settlement. You should be thankful. At least you got the house. At least your 'owner' (I assume this was the builder) was in the same zip code. Hell, at least they were in the same area code. Shit! At least you knew where they were! I cannot claim to know any information as it relates to the location of my seller except to say I don't know where she is. That's right. My seller has been AWOL since Friday, June 26. There was no settlement. There is no house in Prospect Park. I am waiting to receive my deposit back but I can't expect to get my appraisal fee and home inspection money back. Oh yeah. I'm not sure if you'll consider this happening blog-worthy, but at the very least it should be considered for two reasons. The first is that as far as closing on houses go, you have a better track record than someone else you know. The second is that there could be an argument that the reason for my bad luck closing on a house is similar to the bad luck experienced by so many of your friends: my association with you. While I really believe it has more to do with some crazy, Dutch woman whose name may be Hendrika*, I cannot eliminate the obvious connection between my recent bad luck and your usually . . . challenging (right word?) karma.

*On a humorous note, instead of moping around yesterday we went out and looked at 16 houses. Yes, 16 in one day. And we spoke with one realtor and our issue came up. We said, "We had a bad experience with a deal in Prospect that fell through today when the seller left town." She responded, "By chance, was this person's name Hendrika?" We answered, "Yes! How do you know her?" She replied, "I was her agent when she bought that house." Funny how small of a world it is.

Getting back to business, we have decided not to tell anyone (except the absolute must knows like our realtor, mortgage guy, and parents) when the next house will close. We've decided that there's a possibility that someone else's bad karma jinxed us. (And that is not a jab at you. Please note, I have had nothing but generally good luck since I've known you so I think your bad karma thing is a load of hogwash.) In the future, we will send out a note, call, whatever, when we are physically standing in the house with all papers signed and checks cashed. Only then will I feel confident enough to say "I am a homeowner."

Have a wonderful holiday weekend! I'm off to Alaska to get my head clear and start my future.

MC, we wish you the best of luck. Buon viaggio!

The Really Robbed Co-worker

So I have learned thru our unseen co-blogger MK that there is a co-worker of ours who deserves an unlucky and upsetting shout out...

Turns out, LF, might have worse break-in luck than I. In the last six months, LF has had:
1. Her apartment broken into and only her camera and laptop stolen. Nothing was taken that belonged to her roommate. Can anyone spell "Inside Job?"

2. Her boyfriend who lives in NYC was down for the weekend and managed to get his car stolen from right outside her apartment.

and if that's not enough,

3. Apparently, when her family was out at her own father's FUNERAL(!!), their house was broken into!!

That, my friends, is truly unlucky and upsetting.

LF, my heart and any good karma I have built up goes out to you.

Free Hampster Coupon

Two weeks ago, I bought a guinea pig. I have been a hampster owner since I was 3 so the switch to a slightly larger fuzzy creature isn't a huge leap. He was so cute and reminded me of Manny the Mammoth from Ice Age so I bought him.

( I know you see the resemblance)



However, in contemplating my new edition to our family, I was reminded of all the hampsters gone past.

Hampsters live short little lives, in comparison to other pets, so I have had opportunities to have more of them than, let's say, dogs.
It all started with Peaches, a pinkish orange and creme hampster who ate onions when I was 6 but managed to survive and lived at least 3 years despite having her(?) paws put in paint and being forced to run on my mom's casio keyboard to write music.

**I don't think there was anyone between Peaches and Cinnamon. Please note that I have always had cute little dwarf hampsters not those big long rat looking hampsters. Fat hampsters are always acceptable. Long hampsters are wierd looking.**

Cinnamon was the mousiest of the bunch and had less tolerance for being caged. Cinnamon escaped several times, along with two hermit crabs who were never recovered. Cinnamon also lived for a solid three years at a minimum. Cinnamon also ate plastic like nobody's business. He(?) chewed the crap out of his ball lid connection and it was often a source of his escapes.

I went hampsterless for a solid period of time, having school and dogs to take up my time, but in college, my mom decided to bring me a surprise.

It was a warm day, in late fall and she had come to watch me play rugby. I was still the proud owner of a 1973 SuperBeetle which was parked at the field and she had brought along a little gift for me. Leaving it in the car as she left after the first half, the little gift in a cage with some water, proceeded to die.
As SG, my aussie friend put it, "Oh, Mag! You have a hampster puddle!" (read that in an aussie accent and you will laugh for days!)

In tears over my new but dead pet, SG and I drove, in a dramatic fashion, back to the pet store where my mom had purchased said hampster.

When we walked in, the owner clearly had never encountered a sobbing American and a peeved Australian with a puddle of hampster before and in minutes found himself handing over, written on a cash receipt slip, a coupon for a free hampster as this one had been one of the last ones in the store and he was officially out.

Two weeks later, I received a call that hampsters had arrived and purchased Dirk Digger*, a legend in the architecture school and a true pocket hampster. The best hampster coupon story EVER!

*Dirk would one year later be killed by a few children responsible for keeping him while I was away in the summer. He was survived by a hampster whose name shall remain unsaid who bit, a lot, like I had canvas gloves for people to pick him up. I think my roommates fed him vodka before I moved to Rome.

** Author's note: Mom, if this is the first time you have ever heard of this story, don't worry. Dirk ended up being the best hampster a college architecture class could ever ask for.

I got stuck in an elevator- at Christmas time

So I found this started blog post that I apparently got distracted and never finished (surprised anyone?)... and thought, "Why not share this doozy with the world?" Merry Christmas in April, folks.




This is not a big deal. I kind of like the thought of wasting a day or two in an elevator. But the elevator at our downtown office has never broken on me before. I am not personally claustrophobic so when the woman approached myself and MC, my co-worker, our reaction to her seemingly crazy question of "Does this elevator get stuck often?" was one of almost incredulous, "No... never happened to either of us and we ride it all the time."


**Please note that this was our company's Operation Santa Claus day and that MC was dressed as Santa and I as a too-tall elf (If I can find the picture, I will attach it..)

No sooner did we pack Santa, myself and our new claustrophobic friend into our elevator, than four more ladies joined us. Now, this elevator is rather large and while I run the risk of sounding prejuidiced against the jolly, I have seen many large men pack into this elevator at closing time having apparently eaten their desks before entering. Note that I had not been stuck during these trips with the un-famished. So the 7 of us, ladies chattering away about the luncheon they were heading to, MC and I trying to not sweat to death and our claustrophobic friend headed upward. But between P1 (parking level one) and L (lobby for office), we skipped S (Store level). Dramatically panicking because it had skipped her level, our new friend pounded the buttons as the elevator came to a stop and the doors did not open.

MC has recently been in charge of an elevator contract and tried to begin to explain that it was not a big deal, that we deal with elevators all the time (althought I can see after our first incorrect statement that the elevator never gets stuck, why she might not believe us) and BAM! Claustrophia starts slamming buttons and pounding the door and shouting.

In true time elapse, we might have been stopped for three and a half whole minutes. The ladies all tried to calm her down while MC stood watch over the buttons so she couldn't do anymore damage and I spoke into the speaker. Thirty-five percieved minutes later, we were returning to the parking level where we explained to everyone to follow us and wandered out and around and up the stairs from P1 to S and then where they could find (insert place they were planning to go here).

Lesson learned: Don't allow the claustrophobic lady in the elevator with the bad-luck elf.

Trippy

(these are not actually my knees but they look close.)

This past weekend I suffered several injuries. Anyone who has been around me for any length of time knows that graceful or agile is not exactly the words which quickly come tot he tongue when asked to describe me. Instead, in a National Championship game broadcast, I was once described as "rumbling, bumbling, stumbling". Nice.

So why I was suprised that I would suffer injury trying to be lithe and athletic on Sunday is a little beyond my own understanding of myself but the whole event was rather hilarious, so I thought it should be shared...

It all started Saturday when in a fit of fake rage, I threw a punch thru a doorway with my elbow. I honestly wasn't sure I didn't break it until Sunday morning. I failed to recognize my surroundings and was much closer to edge of the closet than I realizes. When I threw said punch, I slammed my elbow into the reinforced edge of the closet causing my elbow to give since the reinforcing wouldn't and I collapsed in pain that didn't relent until I fell asleep that night. When I woke up, I still couldn't use it too well in terms of putting pressure on that arm but I was obviously not broken.*

It was a sunny Sunday so we decided to go running seperately (see above for descriptive terms of my athleticism and you'll understand why I often run with myself). I was enjoying the sunshine, listening to Sookie, and running amongst the throngs of people in town for the regatta on Boathouse row, when I found myself suddenly airborne. With reaction time close to a blind deaf slug, it was helpless to try to react and instead I allowed myself to come to a heavy stop on my hands and knees. A man doing step-ups on a bench stopped and stared. No one managed to snicker until after I stood up, an event that made me look like a lop-sided tripod due to my elbow injury from the previous night not allowing me to put weight on that arm. When the man recognized that I was able to walk, he went back to his step-ups on the bench. I wanted to throw a rock at him, but the pain streaming thru my hands was stopping me from doing anything besides blinking back tears of embarassment. I quickly started to run, toughing it out when I realized the blood streaming down my knee was probably pretty disgusting.

(I should take this moment to comment on my running attire for the day. I choose to wear bright red shorts and an almost hot yellow t-shirt. So assuming your friend missed my theatrics, you could quite easily remember and point out the girl you just totally saw bite it in the biggest way.)

I managed to tough it out another half mile or so when I saw a bench and stopped to check out the damage. A man walked past my obvious attempt to stop the bleeding and then doubled back, asking if I was ok, if I needed a ride anywhere or if not, that he had a bandaid in the car. Feeling a bit like a five-year old at the playground being asked if I would like some candy, I released my yellow shirt now stained with blood and told him I was fine and continued on my run. I made it home and washed the rocks out my knee and spent the rest of the day trying to not run into things or fall anywhere else.

*(My elbow is currently the size of two elbows and rather blue in color, in case you were wondering).