Wednesday, January 18, 2012

Imagine Jenny McCarthy As Your Masseuse, But Like, Not Really

I have to apologize for the serious lack of posts in Ye Ole Famous Last Word(e).  I'd tell you that I was busy dealing with the holidays, with my cluster headaches, with desperation apartment cleanings, with finding a new job (mission accomplished!) and finding my own replacement, but really, I hit a major writer's block and all of the above are just excuses.

I tried to break the spell, truly, I did.  There are 27 different drafted posts in my folder right now, of which three are maybe decent, but I kept opening them up, staring at them, typing a sentence, and then opening up Imgur in a new browser tab instead. 

"Katie," I told myself.  "You need to relax." 

So I did what any other downtrodden urbanite would do: I dialed up my regular masseuse and requested a massage in the immediate future.

Unfortunately, Marcus, former masseuse to the Women's Olympic Soccer team, was not available. 

And thus my trauma begins.

So I made an appointment at a small salon near our apartment and walked over.  I sat myself next to another woman in the reception area and continued A Dance with Dragons until a very small, skinny man with a mustache came out and immediately triggered my NOPE NOPE NOPE alarm.

In case you haven't noticed, my Photoshop skills are slowly but steadily coming along.

He started looking on the list for his next client. Not me, not me, not me, I thought.

"Jenna?" he called.  Phew, I thought.  Safe.

The receptionist came back into the room and announced that Shaena would be working with me.  I made my way to one of the rooms, "disrobed," as goes the parlance, and waited for Shaena.

For those of you who haven't had the pleasure of professional massage, I should stop here and tell you some of the normal things that you may hear your masseuse say:

"Let me know if this amount of pressure is okay."
"If you could just flip over now..."

Now, I'm someone who avoids small talk with my hair stylist (Selim, I love yooooouuuuu), so small talk with my masseuse while I'm lying almost naked on the massage table is not something that occurs in my small and mirrored universe.

Shaena entered the room carrying a clipboard.  "It says here you have headaches.  Have you tried taking asprin for that?"

I cursed the honesty that led me to write cluster headaches under "Current Conditions" on my form and immediately decided to let the matter drop and answered simply with "yes."

"Well, do you want me to give you this special massage that people tell me gets rid of headaches?"1

I grew suddenly and stupidly hopeful.  "That would be great," I said.  I closed my eyes, shivering a little bit in the cold room.  Shaena sat behind me and I tried to force myself to relax.  I felt her hands go to temples and then just....stop.  No pressure, no movement.  Just two sweaty palms, right up on my temples.  For the next five minutes.

Not to say that she started moving after five minutes were up.  After five minutes, Shaena got chatty.  "I don't like to take medication.  I avoid it as much as possible."  I was still naive at this point, dear readers, and made the mistake of engaging and engaging early.  "I know what you mean," I replied.

She needed no other encouragement. 

"I avoid doctors all the time.  No doctor better come near  me!" she declared, threateningly.

Now, remember when I said I knew what she meant?  Readers, I did not know what she meant.

Shaena launched into a whole anti-doctors diatribe, including a detailed description of her mother's three Cesarean sections due to her fused hips.  No, I do not know what that means or even if it is a real thing.  However, I assure you that Shaena has very passionate feelings about the issue.

In case you were wondering, Shaena has an older brother, Josh, who, if you were further wondering, they refer to as a "man-slut."  Don't worry for Josh, though.  He's thinking about proposing to Katie.

No, not me.

Also not me.

 Josh has a son, Dylan.  She remembers the day they found out that Lisa was pregnant.  He came downstairs to the basement where Shaena (obviously) lives, and asked her for five dollars and told her he was growing a beard.  "Oh yeah," he said.  "Lisa's pregnant."

Dylan looks so much like his father!  If you looked at a picture of him and of Josh at that age, they are identical!  Sheena wonders if Dylan is supposed to be a Jewish name.  Lisa is Jewish.

(At this point, Shaena abandoned holding my head to massaging my calves with her elbows.)

Shaena has a prefererence, what that day comes, to delivering at home.  An all-natural birth, with a midwife.  Remember, no doctors for Shaena.

At this point, Shaena has moved to my ankles and discovered a small scar on one of them, delivered courtesy of a pair of old ankle boots.  She then proceeded to ask me about every single scar on my body.  The reader should know that I have a pretty large scar on my wrist from the time a mirror fell on me on Friday the 13th.  TRUE STORY.   Of course, plenty of people see a wrist scar and assume it comes from self-harm rather than these rather dubious but true facts. Guess which camp Shaena fell into.

But oh, back to that Josh!  We all know what happens when Josh drinks moonshine!  Yes, we all found out that day a few years ago, when Josh called her and said that his truck was missing.

That crazy Josh!  How does one lose a truck, Josh??

Never fear, readers.  Josh didn't really lose his car.  Josh the celebrated "man-slut" would do no such thing.  No, dear readers, the police stole it.  


It appears the truck was towed for being parked in a no-park zone.  In defiance, Josh left this truck at the impound for over a month before showing up to retrieve it.  And then they tried to charge him an $800! So what did Josh, our intrepid hero do?

[Note: Shaena has stopped the massage and is excitedly telling me the story at this point.]


I know, I know, doubtful readers.  How can you steal a truck back from the impound?  And wouldn't there be an alert or something on the license plate?



The alarm went off.  We stared at each other for a minute.

"Well," I offered weakly.  "Wanna be Facebook friends?"

1 In retrospect, I now realize how hilariously ironic this question was. Also, here's a fun little arrow to click to bring you back up top.

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