Perfect Storm

At the end of July we hosted a party for my daughter who had graduated from high school back in May. It was a HOT and HUMID July afternoon, pretty par for the course for summer in the Midwest. I had decided that I was going to cater it all and not worry about a thing. It has been a stressful year and even harder summer, with lots going on in our family and little time to worry about the details of a backyard event. However, I did want to pull off a great party for my daughter who has worked so hard to get where she is and deserved a day of attention and celebration.

Lucky for me, Ted worked nonstop to get the yard ready. If you know us, you know we have a large backyard with a decent sized ~~swamp~~ wetland taking up a corner of it. There are random groundhog/skunk/raccoon holes all over it. Add a swing set, multiple trees, and a huge slope leading from the street level to the lower-level walkout basement, and he had a lot of work to do. Also lucky for me, I have a sister who came into town a day early to help with the indoor work. (Not lucky for me: A dog that has had extensive gastrointestinal issues which results in steaming cow pies in our yard and frequent sulfurous gas emissions.)

The day of the party we were in pretty good shape. That morning, we woke up at 8am to get the final decorations on the tent before the party started at 2pm. It was a steamy and hot already. (For the record, I am terrible in the heat. I sweat like a sumo wrestler in a sauna.) Franny, my sister Melissa, and I began by carefully moving the rented tables and chairs onto level ground to avoid the large divots in the yard. We gently placed the royal blue fancy tablecloths on the tables and made sure they hung evenly all around. Ted and his brother had strung outdoor lights throughout the tent. Franny assembled around 20 lanterns of different sizes and hung them evenly and symmetrically from one corner of the tent to another. Melissa spent a lot of time stringing together a banner of paper triangles to hang as bunting around the perimeter of the tent. We all worked hard as the time slipped by until around 12:30pm, when we felt we were done. We were drenched in sweat and disgusting.

We had about 45 minutes to get ready before the food arrived. Ted ran to the store to get ice and Franny ran to Target to get a last-minute item. Melissa and I went upstairs to shower. I even had time to sit on my bed after the shower and take a short break before the work began again.

Now, I realize this a long, boring build-up to my story. But you need to know the extent of the work that was done before disaster hit. And it hit fast and furiously. At 12:45pm, around an hour and 15 minutes before the guests would arrive, and after four hours of prep, Ted arrived home from getting ice to see a truck in our driveway and the tent guys packing up our tables and chairs.

Apparently, the owner “Steve” (I’m going to protect the poor guy and not use his real name), got his dates wrong. He thought pick-up was the day of my party, not the next day. The tent was halfway disassembled. The lights had been cut down and were tossed aside. The flags Melissa had so carefully strung and hung were ripped off the tent and lying crumpled on the ground. The tablecloths were in a pile in the dirt. (I really wish I had taken a picture to show you the extent of the damage, but the fury that overtook me prevented me from being calm enough to take a photo).

All I can say was I thought I was in a dream.

I don’t know how to explain what came over me, but I ran down to the yard yelling like I was possessed. It’s possible that the stress of 2026 funneled into my brain, personality, and mouth all at once and was released on that poor guy. I won’t repeat what I said, but it ended with Steve (a big, tall, burly man) sitting on a chair re-stringing those delicate flags with his beefy hands.

Side Note: I don’t know how a person could look at a tent that was strung with lights and banners and flags and lanterns and see tables covered in pristine clean tablecloths and maybe if you looked around notice that there wasn’t really any garbage laying around and not be able to deduct that maybe A PARTY HAD NOT HAPPENED YET. Why he didn’t stop short and think, “Hmm..maybe I should double check my dates,” or “Hmm..maybe I should knock on the door and ask them if they want their lights or lanterns or tablecloths before I rip them off this tent and throw them all on the ground,” I just don’t know.

We had a little over one hour to get the place set up again. Except this time, we had two very frightened tent workers helping us. I can’t comment on anything during his part of the day because I actually walked away and let the rest of my family handle it. What I can comment on with confidence, is that none of us ever really recovered from the heat. The next hour was such a rush that I started sweating again and never stopped. I did not wear what I was planning on wearing. I did not wear my hair down the way I was planning. (In fact, in the pictures from the party my hair is a disaster. Why did no one tell me?) My makeup ran off one hour in.

But in the end, it made a good story for everyone who walked through the door. “Did you hear what happened with the tent?” We all had a good laugh as it was fixed before the guests showed up and it looked nice enough that no one noticed. And as with every “I can’t believe this happened” incident with me (and they seem to happen often), mid-way through I was thinking, “This might make a good blog.” But was there enough material? Well, I shouldn’t have worried about that, because what happened the next day left me with no question.

Monday was a dark and overcast morning. It was obvious from the skies and the forecast a storm was coming. I wondered when the tent guys would come to pick up their things and was surprised they hadn’t arrived early in the day. I decided to go outside and make sure all the tables and chairs were completely underneath the tent. I was hoping to get some kind of refund for the trouble the day before, and the last thing I needed was the owner saying his tables were water-damaged and we could call it even.

At around 11:30am it started getting really dark. If you live locally, you will know that in some areas it was dark as night outside that day. Suddenly, the alerts went off loudly in unison on all the phones in our house. Tornado warning. Now, I will admit that I am lazy about tornado warnings. I don’t always take them seriously and go into the basement like I am supposed to. But this time was different. It was very windy and by now black as night. My friend Maggie was visiting, and she and Franny and I went into the basement with the dog and took shelter.

Now, mind you, I have a walk-out basement. So, even though we are “taking shelter,” there are two glass windows and a glass door that lead to the very wooded yard, so I am not sure how safe it actually is. But there we were. It was loud and windy and rain was pelting down and by the now the power was out and it was VERY dark. It was a little bit scary, and at one point I even thought I heard voices, but in a dreamy sort of way, like if you were in a horror movie and strangers show up at your door during a storm looking for shelter while running from aliens.

Except this horror movie was real life and the tent guys were outside my house. it was real life and suddenly Franny yelled, “The tent guys are outside!!”

Yes readers, the oh-so-bright tent gentlemen were back. Taking down my tent in the middle of a tornado.

I went to the door and opened it. Three grown men were wet and shivering on my back patio like stray dogs.

“THERE IS A TORNADO OUTSIDE. GET INSIDE” I ordered them. I was dumbfounded. I am sure I looked like a disappointed and confused mother. What on earth where they doing there? None of them moved. “Oh we’re okay, we’re just going to —” Steve started to say. “GET IN THE HOUSE NOW! WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?” I interrupted.

Suddenly Steve looked to his right, “TREE FALLING!” he shrieked, and the next thing you know, he and his lackeys were running into my house while a tree crashed about 10 feet from where he was standing.

I was done with this mayhem. I started barking out orders. “Come in the living room. Don’t touch anything, you are wet and dirty. Don’t sit on my couch. Who is in charge?”

Turns out Steve was the owner. He went on to explain that according to the radar they checked, the storm had passed, so they decided to head to my house to collect the tent and tables. I mean, you don’t need radar to see that it is pitch black outside and windy and rainy and that a tree just fell down next to you. But anyway, there they stood in my basement for about a half hour until they felt it was safe to pack up and leave.

Epilogue: A few days later, the weather report showed c that an actual tornado had touched down in our area. In fact, according to the map, the path of the tornado literally passed through my property. I have to believe it touched down the minute I had opened the door and the tree fell. This is because it matches the time stamp of when I snapped a pic of the Steve and his crew in my basement. (Yes, I took a picture of them. I was already concocting the blog in my head as it was happening.) Unfortunately (or fortunately for them), the power went off as soon as I clicked so the picture is dark, which might be good because I don’t want them to sue me.

I know you are all going to want to know what the rental company was so you can avoid them, but I have used them twice now and I’m not going to ruin a guy’s business because of one mistake. He rectified it immediately and gave me a partial refund and was very apologetic.

Then again, when Ted said, “I’m sure you must feel horrible. This probably never happens to you,” Steve look at him and answered, “Eh, about once a year actually.”

I can’t make this stuff up.

**The path of the tornado,. X marks my house**

humor, Uncategorized

Tick, Tick..Boom!

It was an ordinary Friday morning. Which meant I was running late.

It was 7:30am and I was still in my bathroom putting on my makeup. I had to make my lunch, eat some breakfast and (hopefully) grab my Starbucks Vanilla Cream Cold Brew and still be at work by 8am.

Which meant that per usual, my hair would go up into a ponytail, causing me again to wonder why I spend close to $200 every three months at the salon when I don’t use my hair to its full potential.

As I pulled my hair back, I noticed a black-ish scab on my hairline. Right in the middle of my upper forehead.

“That’s weird,” I thought. I didn’t remember bumping my head or scratching a mosquito bite there. I couldn’t recall a late-in-life pimple (oh yeah, I still get them) popping and healing.

I scratched at it, but it didn’t move. I scratched a little harder. Nothing. I moved closer to the mirror (because yes, I can’t see a thing due to terrible eyesight). As I moved my head toward the mirror, a terrible thought occurred to me.

TICK!!!

As I got closer, I could see that the black spot was not a scab, it was a tick. Even worse, it was a LIVE tick. Yes, I had a live tick embedded in my hairline, its body firmly attached to me with its eight legs flailing around.

Now, I am fairly calm in a crisis. I can make rational decisions and take over and lead the people to safety if need be.

Exception: Once, when my kids were around 2 and 5, our family was in the kitchen together. Ted and I were preparing lunch when I looked down at my feet as saw a mouse there. (The only thing I have been able to conclude from the multiple times I have played this trauma over in my head is that someone let the dog in from outside and didn’t notice she had a mouse in her mouth. I assume she was leaving this treasure as a present for me.) Anyway, the second I saw that thing I screamed (and I mean SCREAMED) and went running into our office, leaping on top of the desk while shrieking at the top of my lungs, leaving my children alone, fully embodying the “save thyself” mantra. It was not my proudest moment.

So let me rephrase that. I am fairly calm in a crisis that doesn’t include a live animal.

Back to the tick.

By now I was freaking out. Sobbing and crying and panicking but still, of course, conscientious enough to text my coworkers that I would be late and by the way there was a tick in my head.

Now, I work in a grade school. Occasionally, we see a student come into the nurse’s office with a tick attached to them. In fact, just the week before, the school nurse, Olivia, had removed a tick from a student’s head while the poor boy was wailing and crying. At the time, I was fascinated with the whole procedure. But truth be told, I was also internally shaming him for overreacting. Mind you, this was a 10-year-old.

One week later and God was teaching me a lesson in empathy and humility.

I texted Olivia that she needed to get to my house now and remove this thing. We decided to meet at the school where the official tick-removing tool was. I was in no shape to drive, so Ted took me and dropped me at the door. Thankfully, my coworker, Diane, was already closing all the blinds in the nurse’s office and readying the room as if I were having surgery (which I kind of was). Less than 10 seconds later, Olivia had popped that sucker right off my head and placed it in a to-go bag for me.

After doing all sorts of research, I discovered that it was a male dog tick and was pretty harmless since it had not been attached long and left no mark. I am going to assume the culprit was the female husky that sleeps all over the house and rubs her body in any gross thing she can find in the yard. This is the first tick experience in the 24 years of living in this woodsy yard, so I am going to pray it was a one-off.

It has been a couple of months, and I still find myself itchy and paranoid and checking my dog periodically and trying to stay away from trees and bushes. I worry about every mark and piece of dirt on my skin. The other day I saw something small and black on my desk and jumped out my chair only to realize it was a crumb from the mint chocolate chip protein bar I was eating.

Overall, I would place this experience somewhere between the Fall of 2014 when we had lice in our house and having myself cut open twice during my C-Sections. Lice lasted much longer, but for some reason didn’t freak me out quite so much. Having C-Section’s is a longer recovery, but at least you end up with a baby at the end.

Then again….those babies stay attached to you much longer than that tick did…..:)

aging, Being greek, humor, Uncategorized

Happy Camper?

This past summer, I revisited the Metropolis of Detroit Summer Camp (MDSC) for Orthodox youth that I had attended as a child and young adult. Starting at age seven, I would stay each summer for two weeks at this camp located in northern Michigan. I started sending my own kids there when they were in grade school, and for several years Teddy has been a lifeguard there. My sister, Melissa, and I have a deep love for MDSC. We had often spoken in recent years of going back as cooks so we could relive our youth (minus the swimming lessons and hiking through tick-infested forests). This year, the camp was severely short-staffed and was considering for the first time in their 75-year history of cancelling a couple of weeks of camp. As a result, Melissa and I decided to take the opportunity and go back as kitchen staff. Both our daughters were also going to be there as staff members. How fun would it be to go back to summer camp as an adult?

Not too fun it turns out.

The day we arrived at camp I was excited, but also a little nervous. As I arrived at check in, the director looked at me and said, “So you and your sister can decide which one of you is going to be a cook and which one is going to be a counselor.”

I’m sorry, what?

Apparently, they were so short-staffed that one of us was going to have to move to the junior girls (ages 7-10) cabin to be a counselor all week. There I was at a church camp, volunteering in an environment that helps to spread the word of God with selflessness and sacrifice, and all I wanted to say was, “I’m sorry, I came up here to hang out with my sister and bond over hamburgers and french fries, not watch a bunch of 8 year olds.” I went to find Melissa to discuss what we should do.

“I don’t care either way,” she said. “You decide.”

Being a counselor would mean going to swim lessons, doing arts and crafts, playing athletic games, and generally being a mom for a week. Cooking for 80 people would mean getting up at 6am, spending the day in a hot kitchen on my feet, and preparing food and doing the dishes. So, generally being a mom for a week. I chose counselor.

I chose poorly.

They placed me in a cabin built in the 1950’s with no ventilation or air. There were three sections: The left side was large, airy, and had real beds and mattresses. This is where Melissa and my daughter, Franny, were. The 10 junior girl campers were on the right side of the cabin in a similar room, but with bunk beds made of metal with thin mattresses.

My co-counselor, Emily (20 years old), and I were in a tiny, cramped, windowless, dark room between the two larger rooms, separated from the campers by a curtain. (Her name has been changed, not for privacy, but because we were at a Greek camp and if I use real names I am going to have to differentiate between Maria One, Maria Two and Maria Three and George the camper and George the counselor.) I was on a bottom bunk so low I couldn’t sit up without getting my hair caught in the metal spokes from the top bunk. The mattress was a three inch piece of foam I assume is similar to what they use in prisons. Oh, and did I mention the camp doesn’t have cell service? Everyone is supposed to give up their phone upon arrival, but I don’t think they dared ask me for mine after the bait and switch they pulled on me. But it didn’t matter anyway. The only way you could use your phone is if you could find out the secret wifi password, sneak to the top of the flagpole hill, stand in a certain spot, and make sure no one saw you doing it.

The embarrassment of being three decades older than the rest of the counselors happened almost immediately with the staff introductions. As your name is called, you are supposed to do a cute choreographed dance or chant with your co-counselor. This is adorable and fun if you are 20, not so great when you are 56. Emily and I decided to do a Disney channel spoof where we take the pretend wand and outline the Disney ear…and end in a crossed-arm-white-girls-trying-to-be-hip-hop stars pose. As you can see from the picture I was way off with my timing.

As if things couldn’t get worse, modern days have afforded the camp a Media Director. This position was filled by an adorable young man who spent his days going from activity to activity taking photos and uploading them to the camp website. Suddenly I felt sorry for celebrities who are constantly dodging the paparazzi. It is impossible to be “on” all day. You never knew when you were going to be in the background of a snapshot. I found out quickly that my “resting face” leaves me with little to no neck, and a chin that blends right into my sternum. I believe the clinical term for this ailment is referred to as “jowls.” (See pictures below.) By the way, when you look up the word “jowls” to make sure you are using it correctly, it directs you to pictures of Mastiffs and Great Danes.

The evening activity that day was a game of Gaga ball at the field. I am familiar enough with Gaga to know that I was not going to be able to match the energy and speed of the campers. I decided I would wait until they had a Wordle tournament or bird-identification test to show my real talents. I climbed into the pit, which I’m sure wasn’t a pretty sight. (Thank goodness the media director wasn’t around for that one.) Suddenly I had an idea.

“Hey,” I said to the closest kid to me, a boy around 10 years old. “If you cover me during this game I’ll get you an extra dessert tonight.”

God bless this child who spent the next ten minutes protecting me like I was a tribute in the Hunger Games. Every time the ball came near me, there he was, expertly deflecting it in another direction. This lasted the whole game until eventually it came down to him, me cowering behind him, and another counselor. Suddenly, my protector was out, and it was just me staring at a young man about 20 years old and the size of a tank. He gently rolled the ball toward me and hit my leg. That’s all it took.

I didn’t matter though, because at dinner that night I excitedly bragged to everyone that I got second place in Gaga ball while I discreetly took an extra piece of cake from the kitchen and handed it to my savior for the day.

And that was just day one.

If I wrote every crazy thing that happened it would be the length of a book, so I have split this blog up into two parts. I hope I have set the scene for you, because it’s going to be a bumpy ride. I am going to make you relive everything I experienced. It will be long. It will be hot. You will want to stop reading by day two. You will count down the days until it is over. Stay tuned next week for more escapades.

aging, fashion, humor, Taylor Swift, Uncategorized

The Eras Tour (Samantha’s Version)

Unless you’ve been living under a rock, you are aware of the phenomenon that is the Taylor Swift Eras Tour. I was lucky enough to be able to attend her concert with my niece Natalie when the show came to Chicago.

First came the outfit planning. I can honestly say that I spent more time trying to figure out what I was going to wear to this concert than I did to my nephew’s wedding, which was occurring the following weekend. For that one person out there who isn’t aware, there was a whole thing about which Era/Album you were going to represent via your outfit. This concert was not just a concert, it was a collective event for Swifties.

I made the mistake of telling a young teacher at work that I was unprepared and stressed and might just have to channel the Evermore Era and wear a flannel shirt. Not as cool or sexy as the black biker shorts and bralette she was going to be wearing from the Reputation Era, but at least I would be comfortable. When she responded “That’s OK, that’s what my mom is wearing,” I realized I had reached an ultimate low. I mean, I know I am a mom, and I know I am old enough to be HER mom, but I still didn’t want to be reminded that I was going to be DRESSING like a mom.

Add that to the fact that this was early June and I get sweaty just by telling an exciting story, I decided to forgo the flannel shirt and wear pink and represent the Lover Era.

Natalie came into town the night before and we set to work on our friendship bracelets. Apparently, there is a line in one of Taylor’s songs about friendship bracelets. Not a whole song, or a song title, or an album title, just ONE LINE about making friendship bracelets, and the next thing you know we’re all furiously pulling out our bead-making kits from the 6th grade. I mean, Nena had some great lines in her songs, but you didn’t see me showing up to her concert in 1983 with 99 red balloons did you?

As soon as we arrived at Soldier Field Natalie insisted on getting in a line longer than Peter Pan’s Flight at Disney World so we could get “merch.” (this is what you call over-priced t-shirts, posters, tote bags, etc.) You can get the same stuff online but it is not the same as the experience of waiting in a long line with others who have the same obsession as you. One hour later when we were three spots closer, they closed down the booth because they had run out of all the merch. One thousand disappointed females in sequins and cowboy boots and fedoras (I did not see ANY flannel shirts) dispersed to their seats.

As we wandered through the stadium looking for our seats, every once in a while a concert-goer walked up to Natalie and asked her to trade bracelets. This was the part of the night I had been waiting for. The trading had begun! What style bracelet would I get? Which one of my own was I willing to part with? I waited eagerly for the tweens and teens to ask me to trade.

Reader, it is a mystery why no one wanted to trade with a sweaty mom wearing heart-shaped glasses and a sparkle headband. Needless to say, I went home with the same bracelets I arrived with.

Finally, the moment arrived. Taylor appeared and the concert began. Almost immediately, she started singing her hit song, “Cruel Summer.” I was happily singing my heart out with thousands of teenage girls and their moms, when suddenly Natalie started screaming “THE FIRST BRIDGE! THE FIRST BRIDGE!” When I tell you I was confused, I mean that I was confused. But I didn’t have time to ask her because suddenly the part I had been practicing for weeks was upon us. I quickly FaceTimed Franny so she could witness me nailing the line.

“He looks up grinning like the Devil,” the entire crowd screamed, except for me who was screeching out the wrong words two beats behind everyone else, all while FaceTiming Franny and looking around Soldier Field for that damn bridge.

(And if you’re wondering, yes, I did learn later that the part of the song I had been trying to learn is called (surprise!) a “bridge.” Taylor is known for her bridges and this was the first one she sang at her show. Hence: THE FIRST BRIDGE! I mean, it all makes sense now.)

Side Note: Natalie of course nailed it. This is because Natalie knows every word to every song. And I don’t mean this as in “Natalie knows all the words” in a casual way. I mean this as in a very literal “I seriously think that she might know the entire catalog of Taylor Swift songs and that with her kind of photographic memory maybe I should take her to Vegas.”

As the concert progressed I realized there were many songs where special chants, claps and dances were added that everyone in the audience seemed to collectively know but me and probably some other middle-aged moms who are not on TikTok. But I was still trying to figure out the actual lyrics, never mind made up ones that the secret Swiftie society created. I imagine this would never happen in the 80’s before social media (except for maybe during Billy Idol’s Mony Mony where added phrases created much excitement to high school dances).

Finally, we got to the surprise songs. Taylor introduced the acoustic guitar song by telling the crowd, “This one is pretty new.” In fact, it had been released 9 days earlier. She played about three chords of it and Natalie began to literally shriek, “IT HITS DIFFERENT!!” And by shrieking, I mean imagine it is 1964 and the Beatles have just arrived. (For those of you reading who don’t know who the Beatles are, think One Direction). Why I was surprised Natalie was able to identify a song just released the previous week after only three notes, I don’t know. In a shocking turn of events, she also knew all the words.

After three hours of music, dancing, and singing, the concert ended. Whether you like Taylor Swift or not, no one can deny she puts on a heck of a show. It was phenomenal.

***Stay tuned for parts two and three of my Taylor Swift blog trilogy: One: I attend the Taylor Swift movie by arriving 3 1/2 hours early and end up initiating hesitant movie theater-goers to get on their feet and dance. Two: I spend $20 (again) to watch the movie on TV while wearing my Taylor Swift 1989 cardigan sweater. That hasn’t occurred yet, but knowing me, something will happen to write about.***

aging, humor

A Massage a Day Keeps Relaxation Away

Various high-end products used during my massage. Not pictured: Unlabeled bottle of oil.

A while ago a couple of friends and I decided to get massages. We were treating a friend who needed a little pampering and thought a massage and dinner would do the trick.

“Don’t be scared by the outside, as it is in a strip mall that doesn’t have much,” said my friend who made the appointments for us.

What she should have said was “Don’t be scared by the outside as it is in an ABANDONED strip mall.” Or maybe even ‘If you choose to look at the website, don’t be scared by the cover image of two sexy lady massagers massaging one smiling man.”

We walk in and are met by a woman inside who quickly asks us to pay upfront and also include the tip. I push down the thought that this particular establishment must have experienced a lot of clients “Massage and Ditch out the Back Door” to make it a rule to pay first.

As she leads us toward the massage rooms, which are basically right off the entrance, she ushers both of my friends into the same room. It is all I can do to not burst out laughing as I would have paid double to hear about how their “couples” massage went, but they quickly clarify that they will be needing separate rooms. Thankfully I am led into a room by myself and asked to undress and lie down with the towel over me.

Now, if you ever have had a massage, it is your choice how many underthings you leave on. I prefer to leave on my underwear but take off my bra. I don’t care if someone is touching my bare back and I prefer not to have someone working around my bra straps and getting them all greased up with massage oil.

At this point I would like to ask my children (and quite frankly any of their friends who might be following me) to STOP READING NOW. I do not need them to have any of the following images of me in their mind at all, ever, at any time in their lives.

The massage starts out like any other massage. She works on my back for a long time. It is fine, typical, not much news here. Except here’s the thing: I am an over-thinker. Like, give me an hour in a quiet room and I’m going to start thinking about all the things I need to get done for the day. It’s not really an anxious train of thought, more like a “working massage,” if you will. It’s just who I am. It’s unfortunate. It doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy the massages, I just often feel that I am still tensed up as I am trying hard to relax. My mind starts to wander…

I wonder who is playing this massage flute music? Do flutists get commissioned specifically for massage soundtracks? “Okay, Hans, this next piece is for the massage parlor on 14th Street, just make it soothing and generic, but it has to be about 50 minutes long.” If I Shazamed this song would it come up with something like “Flute and Harp Massage Remix/Mashup”?

Back to the massage. As she finishes my upper back area she pulls the towel down a bit. And down a bit more, and more, taking my undies along with it, until I realize I needn’t have contemplated whether or not to leave them on as they are basically as low as they can go.
“Okay?” She asks.

“Uh-huh,” I lie.

Now if you think at this point I am relaxed, think again. Instead, I am now worried about numerous things I won’t go into. After what seems like an eternity, the masseuse finishes my back and starts working on my legs. Phew, I think, the uncomfortable part is over.

Nope. Think again. Think again.

She moves the towel to the side, basically giving me a homemade thong, and goes to work. Now, maybe this does not come as a surprise to some of you, but for someone who generally goes to get massages NOT IN STRIP MALLS from establishments NOT NAMED JUST ONE LETTER, I was a bit surprised. Also, when someone is working in this area and you are tense, I don’t need to tell you what part of your body clenches up.

Finally, she finishes my backside and leans down and says something. Unfortunately, with my head far down in the oval opening and towels around my face, I can’t really hear her, but it does not sound like “roll over.” She says it again.

I lift my head to hear better and the circular cut-out face paper towel comes with it.

I catch a few words…”Hot…towel…clean”

I am now looking at her with a paper ring framing my face, stuck to me with sweat or condensation or who knows what. (I wish I had a picture of myself looking up at her. Don’t think I wasn’t tempted to grab my phone and take a pic of myself, as by now I was mentally writing this blog and trying hard not to forget every funny thing that had happened).

“Okay,” I say.

She comes back in with of course a HOT TOWEL to CLEAN my back. She rubs my back hard as if I were getting a Turkish massage, and ends with a strange karate chop on my back and tells me to flip over.

I mentally prepare for what to say if she decides to pull the towel down to my waist again and leave me topless on the table. I quickly make a list of phrases in my head like “No, thank you,” “No please” and “NO TOUCH” among other things. I prepare to wrestle the towel with her if I have to.

Thankfully, she leaves the towel on me and begins with my arms and shoulders, kneading and rubbing for a short while until she finishes with a flourish by grabbing my fingers in a weird enlaced “Titanic in the backseat of the car” clasping kind of way. She then takes my wrist and shakes my whole arm hard, wiggling it like I have no bones. I worry she will break all my arm bones and I will be the first person who needs a cast after a massage.

On to my legs. Dear Lord, when will this be over. Let’s just say I was really hoping when I shaved my legs that morning I did a thorough job. Her finale is to move my legs into a frog-like position while massaging them as I panic and pray there are no hidden cameras in the room. She tries to do the same floppy wiggle with my legs, but as they are considerably heavier, it just ends up that she picks my leg up by the ankle and drops it with a loud THUD back to the table. She gives my legs a karate chop, which I now assume is the universal massage sign for “all done.”

I assume incorrectly. Still to come is a head massage. I agree to this, but then panic as she pours a bunch of oil into her hands. We are supposed to go out to dinner after this. I don’t need a hair full of oil.

“No oil,” I say.

When I decided to leave out verbs as I spoke, I have no idea. It’s like I’m Kevin from The Office. (Why waste time say lot word when few word do trick)? She either ignores me or doesn’t care, as she proceeds to rub my head. She focuses hard on my angry 11s over and over which I suppose is a lot cheaper than Botox but makes me feel bad about myself, as if she was trying her darndest to rub out those pesky wrinkles that simply won’t go away. It suddenly dawns on me all of the places she has touched with her bare hands before ending with my face.

Finally, it is over. She leaves the room, taking the unlabeled bottle of oil she has been using with her. All I can think is….

I can’t wait to get home so I can relax.

Never a Dulles Moment

Finding the absurd in the ordinary

Category Archives: humor