About a month ago, I had a small cherry angioma taken off my neck. It was tiny but became problematic and had to be killed. Now a second little sucker has made itself at home close to my right shoulder. It’s still fairly unnoticeable, but I’m not a fan, and I’d like it removed too. In that vein, I went to see my dermatologist today, expecting him to agree to my demands and just zap the angioma right there and then. Turns out, not so much.
Last time around, I accidentally scratched the one on my neck, and it bled incessantly. My dermatologist was out of town, but I made an emergency trip to his partner, and she stopped the bleeding by just cauterizing it on the spot. She was concerned about the lack of clotting, and post-procedure, she sent me to LabCorp for a test. Several hours and one sloppy blood draw later, I started to make my way home in the 100 degree heat. The blood loss coupled with not having had anything to eat or drink since breakfast led to a chain of events which culminated in my suffering a vasovagal reaction (lovingly known now as the Raisin Bagel reaction) in the Dupont metro station and being rushed by ambulance to the ER. I never lost consciousness, but it was a very scary ordeal.
Fast forward to today when I had to bring my regular dermatologist up to speed. He said I have two options. I can either leave the new angioma alone (not going to happen), or I can come back with a friend at a later date. He explained that he doesn’t want me leaving his office, passing out on the metro, and falling and breaking my teeth. His exact words. I tried to explain that I never passed out last time around, and that now knowing the causes and symptoms of a Raisin Bagel episode, I was certain that it wouldn’t happen again. Even though I can be very persuasive at times, this guy was good. He wouldn’t budge.
So now I have to wait a month and enlist a friend to join me at the dermatologist’s office on a Friday afternoon in early September. How obnoxious. My apologies to whomever that unlucky friend turns out to be.
And I’m swearing off raisin bagels on principle.
I got together today with a friend whom I haven’t seen since she gave birth to her second son. She brought the nugget to lunch and let me dote on him a bit. Here we are getting acquainted:
How can there be a severe thunderstorm watch in effect until 7pm, but this is the hour by hour forecast:
Weather.com should be renamed Whatever.com.
My landlord sent an urgent email today saying he’s lost the copy of my lease and needs me to scan it and send it immediately. We’ve got a couple of issues with this demand. First off, I don’t own a scanner. Second, I can’t find the lease. I know it was a dinky little thing signed in about four minutes three years ago. As I’ve mentioned before, my landlord lives abroad so the whole deal went down between me and some young guy who was kind of tending to the building at the time.
Since then, there’s been no sign of anyone who serves in any sort of property management capacity. If something breaks, I’ve got to call around to find someone to fix it and then just deduct that from the rent. There’s no compensation for the time and energy we – my neighbors and I – spend keeping this place from collapsing around us, but we know we generally have a good deal and are willing to – well – deal.
That is, until now. My downstairs neighbor and I think maybe the landlord is in a dire rush to reevaluate the leases (He asked for my neighbor’s too) because of the high utility bills this summer. If that’s the case, neither my neighbor nor I is jazzed about assisting him in this venture.
To be fair, I have been looking. I found the lease for my apartment before this one. I found some old pictures that should never again see the light of day. I found cassette tapes (!) that I may pop in tonight for old time’s sake. (There are some mix tapes from old boyfriends that should be good for a giggle). Speaking of past boyfriends, I turned up a lot of cards and notes from some of them too. I found a nail file, two metrocards, a pitch for a TV show, and a fake resume my friends and I made up in college. The name on the top: Ima Plyin.
I do have the check receipt showing I paid the landlord a security deposit and first month’s rent back in August 2007. That will come in handy come move out time, I’m sure. But I’ve gone through all my files and all my folders and every box of stuff, and that lease is nowhere to be found.
My landlord is not going to be happy. Maybe I can smooth it over with a mix tape.
UPDATE: Landlord reports he’s renegotiating his mortgage with the bank, needs proof of payment, and has misplaced all our leases. I’ve let him know I can’t find mine and will suggest he use a record of deposited checks at the first of each month as proof that the same person has been paying the same rent on the same apartment for the past three years.
From TVNewser, here’s Monday’s numbers for the coveted 25-54 demographic:
Congrats, CNN. Shedding experts, abandoning integrity, and chasing Fox has you winning the race to the bottom.
My friend Steve works for NASA, and today, he invited me to a presentation by the astronauts from the STS-132 Atlantis crew and ISS astronaut TJ Creamer who spent almost 6 months in space.
The guys were relatively entertaining, and the pictures they took of themselves in space were cool to see. But the overall event dragged a bit, and the Q and A was definitely too short. I didn’t get to ask my awesome question which would have gone something like this:
“I understand the Russians often bring vodka with them to the ISS. Have there been any studies done on the physiological effects of alcohol on the body in space?”
That’s the edited version. Steve thought, “What’s it like to get drunk in space?” was a little too raw.
Steve and I also had a lot of fun making fun of some really random comments that came out throughout the hour. One in particular lent itself to endless ridicule. Apparently, the International Space Station is an award winning space station. Award winning? What’s it competing against? In what competition?
The mind wanders. Have at it. We did.
I just fired off the following email to the DC Taxicab Commission. Based on past experience with the commission, I am not hopeful that anything will come of this, but I figured it was worth a shot.
To Whom It Concerns,
Last night (7/23/10 at 12:25 am) at the corner of 9th and F Street NW, a Yellow Cab on duty refused to take my friend and me to XXXXX. The cab number was 5454-1212. I don’t have any more information because the driver sped off.
As many of the cabs do, he slowed down, rolled down the window, and asked where we were going. When I said, “XXXXX,” he shook his head, said no, and drove off. He was clearly on duty and simply refusing to take us where we needed to go.
This happens time and time again in DC, and having had several conversations with cab drivers about why this is, it seems many taxi drivers only accept fares when they think they can get a lucrative return fare, especially on a weekend night. One evening, a girlfriend and I stood on Connecticut Avenue as three different cabs slowed down, asked where we were going, and then refused and sped off when she said “Capitol Hill.”
There must be some repercussions for this sort of behavior as it seems to be not only common but also acknowledged by other drivers as routine. I can understand not wanting to accept a fare if the person is rowdy or intoxicated, but two sober women just looking to get home late at night hardly seems like a risk in any capacity.
Please do something.
UPDATE: I could have sworn the cab number was correct, but then I realized we may have caught the cab phone number and added in an extra digit. Oh well. We’ll get ’em next time.
My landlord lives abroad and just sent my downstairs neighbor an email complaining about having received an unusually high electric bill.
My neighbor emailed him back explaining two things. 1. We are having a record hot summer here in DC and 2. All of our apartments have old a/c units and windows so inefficiency is to be expected.
This is why having all utilities included in rent is a tremendous blessing.
HUGE night on the culinary front here at home. HUGE. I successfully made a salmon dish I actually liked. Granted, it was simply salmon with a dijon mustard glaze (and by glaze I mean olive oil and dijon mustard spread over top with a spoon). But it was tasty, and coupled with basmati rice and vegetables (also made by me), dinner was good.
As an aside, I now have enough cooked basmati rice to feed India. That stuff expands unlike any rice I’ve ever seen.
(Image is not my salmon. Who serves salmon with grapes?)
My month on Match.com expires today. The final tally looks something like this:
Profile viewed 1899 times
Emails received: 135
Winks received: 107
Guys I agreed to meet in person: 2
Guys I actually met in person: 1
The guy I met wasn’t a love connection, but he was smart and kind and we had a nice time chatting so I’m ending this little adventure on good note.
After giving it one more go, I’m convinced Internet dating’s not for me. Just like some people don’t go to bars and others don’t join clubs, online isn’t the right venue for me to explore romance. It’s strange because I am a huge fan of online connectivity in general and appreciate how we can create intimacy in what’s essentially the least intimate space imaginable. But I now believe that for me, the randomness of chemistry exists only in person, and there’s no substitute. That said, I do know a good number of people who’ve succeeded in finding love online, and I would never discount its potential for others.
It’s just not my thing.
And I am totally okay with that.