The Concrete and The Clay

I am dementedly tired. I don't get any sleep lately unless I am Benadryl'd into oblivion, and I prefer not to. For three weeks now, my sinuses have behaved like they're rented. I have an appointment with a fancy-shmancy ENT next week, but she is "out of network." Does this mean I'm going to have to pay a million dollars for her to look up my nose with a flashlight? This was the conversation I had with her receptionist yesterday:

Her: So, what's the problem?

Me: My nose is stuffed. I can't breathe. Day or night.

Her: So...you have sinusitis?

Me: (pause) My nose is stuffed.

Her: So...you suffer from allergies?

Me: (longer pause) Um, my nose is stuffed?

Me: (if I weren't so polite): Um, I'm sorry. You seem to be under some misapprension that I, too, am an ENT. If I were, I'm not sure I would be calling your boss, especially since she's out of network. I think I would just diagnose myself, and write a nice little prescription for some particularly lovely drugs, and call it a day. However, I am not an ENT, nor a medical professional of any kind. Ergo, I am calling you for an appointment, so I can get an opinion that ACTUALLY MEANS SOMETHING.

Today is my eighth wedding anniversary. By some thundering coincidence, it's also David's. Isn't that cool? I can't believe I've been married EIGHT YEARS. Especially since we've been together almost ELEVEN. Before this, neither of us had been with anyone longer than a year. So we must be doing something right. We're going out to a new French restaurant (it must be some kind of California-style French, because the menu looked good rather than scary to me) and I will be wearing the flower earrings my thoughtful husband gave me at breakfast this morning. Ain't he sweet? But he's taken.

In honor of our anniversary, I took myself out for a massage this morning (you're probably thinking, "Gosh, that girl has massage every day of the week. What a life!" but it's actually been a month--I'm on a plan.) I had managed to snag an appointment with Amanda, who's my favorite, and it was pretty great. And because I'm feeling magnanimous today, I didn't even get ruffled when she finished by whispering in my ear:

"All set, Stephanie. How are you feeling?"

Well, I was feeling fine, thank you very much. I'm not sure how Stephanie was feeling at the moment. (Steph? How were you at about 12:30 today?) Normally, I really get my hackles up when someone calls me the wrong name. I'm not saying that I'm right to get my hackles up, just that I do--it's probably some deep-seated insecurity rising up from the roiling sea of my soul--but today I was feeling pretty darn good and decided to see the situation from a fresh angle. She caught herself right away.

"I mean, Samantha. Where did that come from?"

I laughed. "Actually, I get that all the time." (It's true!)

"You do? I wonder why."

"You know, long name...lots of syllables..starts with an S." I positively giggled with delight over my equanimity. I was ready to tell her that, as a child, a lot of people called me Amanda (it's true!) because I was horribly, painfully shy (it's true!) and when anyone asked my name I mumbled it straight into my shirt. I guess it came out like "Amanda" because the large person would inevitably give my shoulder a hearty smack and boom, "Well, Amanda, that's a lovely name!"

And it was. It is. Just not mine. At which point I would be horrified into a state of rigor mortis and wouldn't even correct them. So I was Amanda for much of my childhood. Believe it or not, there were NO Samanthas then. None. I know you're thinking, "That Sam--always with the exaggerating." Not this time. I met my first Samantha peer at 25.

So, here are some questions for you today, Readers. Do you have an anniversary, of whatever kind, coming up, and how will you celebrate?

And do people ever get your name wrong?

P.S. Bonus points if you know why this post has the title it does.