It Never Rains in Southern California – That’s Why Everything Leaks

Ok, it is my turn to whine about weather and keeping the office dry. This time we had an inch of rain – nothing to most folks outside of my little slice of heaven, but it was a positive drenching in parched Southern California.

And I thought all was well. I popped into the office to set up for a string of clients, the rain soaking my little-used rain jacket – and I noticed the door seemed a little sticky. The threshold was wet. Hmm. Well, it was raining out.

I made some phone calls and realized while I was talking to my favorite acupuncturist that the doormat inside was dark with wet. Hmm. It should just have a footprint or two….

Oh Dear! The rain was flooding in from the soaked threshold right onto the wood floor. The laminate wood floor.

Thank heavens I had a nice batch of freshly laundered hand towels. I mopped up the entryway only to see the water flood in again. I stepped over to the sink. And heard a squish. As I walked across the office, water sprang up in between the laminate planks. Not good. Apparently when I opened the door that morning, I had broken the seal between the door and threshold. All that water was wicking in underneath the floor jamb and soaking the laminate.

I  had a new set of designer bath sheet towels (off the screaming discount aisle, dontcha know) and I put them to use. The landlady and super came over and clucked. Fans. We need fans.
My first client was in the middle of a book tour and had done six conventions in like five days. “We can still do the massage, right?”

Ah, sure. We’ll be fine. I did massages while the super sopped incessantly in the reception area. At the end of the day, I felt a bit frazzled as I loaded my soaked, now-brown towels into the hamper in my car. The building crew would take care of it.

The next day my first client was a new client. I escorted her over the towel dam and through half-removed sponge-bob oak floor and the giant hair-dryer fans. She filled out the intake. I realized I could not talk to her about why she was seeking massage with the fellows there.

“We’re going to use the office next door while the guys sort this out,” I told her. The acupuncturist next to me graciously donated the use of a room. Nice table. A face cradle from about 1980, the kind with three hard pads on a square fixed frame. I don’t think they use the prone position much. My fancy-adjustable-memory-foam face cradle didn’t fit the holes.

Lucky for me (!!!) she was coming in for chest pains. After running up a nice bill at the doctors, this lady was here to find out if trigger point could get rid of her chest pain, which radiated down her left arm.

“I’m beginning to think I’m crazy,” she said. “They can’t find anything wrong.”

“Well, you might be crazy,” I told her, “And it is quite possible I’m crazy too. But it may have nothing to do with this pain.”