Clueless

3 May 2007

[Full disclosure: I started this post on Thursday (hence the edited timestamp) but it’s taken me a while to get it right…]

I got home from a rehearsal last night at about 10:30 and did my typical winding-down things: checking e-mail, petting the cats, asking C. how his day went. With that last item I’m never sure what I’m going to get – C. can be monosyllabic or talkative depending on his mood (as can I; we’re both basically introverts). Last night he was pretty chatty, almost unusually so. He told me what had gone on at his rehearsals and lessons in the evening and then kind of circled back around to tell me that his school had been on a field trip that day, and so he had most of the day off since he wasn’t on chaperone duty.

In the same rather roundabout way he got to mentioning that he’d taken the time to wash his car (the sexy red 1988 BMW 325i convertible that he loves to distraction*) in the late morning, and as he was working on it his upper back started seizing up – since October he’s been having repetitive stress problems in his right shoulder from conducting, of all things – so he decided to call around and see if he could get seen by a licensed massage therapist on short notice. He said he found one place that could take him at noon, or more precisely, that he could just walk into at any time, and that was cheaper than the place that couldn’t take him till 1 p.m.

At this point in the story it occurred to me to wonder out loud whether the place was any good if they weren’t booked up, and to wonder silently whether C. had thought to ask himself the same question at the time. Apparently… not. As he finally came out and admitted after a little embarrassed hemming and hawing and nervous giggling:

“Dear… I think I had a massage at a brothel.”

My first reaction was disbelief – he had to be having me on, right? But he went on to describe how he got to the place (called Crystal Massage, which should have been his first clue) and was greeted by a woman in a nightie, then escorted to room 3 and told that his masseuse was named Lucy. Or Luci, or Lucie, or however a “massage parlor” “masseuse” would spell it. His escort, as she was putting new linens on the “massage table” (OK, fine, apparently it was an actual massage table) asked him, in heavily accented English, “Is your first time here?” C. answered that it was, and she gave a conspiratorial laugh. Should have been his second clue, yes? But no… he suspected nothing.

He kept his pants on, so he tells me, since he was just wanting his shoulders worked on. Lucy/i/ie (also in a nightie, as it turns out) walked in, saw that he was half-naked (OK, half-clothed, fine), and asked, also in heavily accented English, “You no want down there?” C. answered in the negative, and Lucy/i/ie – wait for it – walked out of the room and walked back in wearing a jacket over her nightie. What should have been his third clue was actually his first. Finally!

Why did he continue instead of leaving, you might ask? Well, he’d already paid for a half-hour, of course! He went on to get pretty much the worst massage of his life for 20 minutes (“I thought you had been trolling the Internet for a licensed massage therapist,” I teased him). But upon hearing him complain that he’d paid for 30 minutes, Lucy/i/ie apparently got mad enough to start really digging in, so the last 10 minutes were actually useful.

By that point I was laughing my head off. And of course I’ve been busting his chops about it since then, which he has graciously taken in the spirit in which it is intended: all in good fun. Turns out I’m the one getting the *ahem* happy ending here, ’cause oh, am I going to get some mileage out of this one. Any crap I get for anything from now on, and I’m going to be all “well, at least I didn’t accidentally get a massage at a brothel!”

*For those of you who actually read this far, and because I’m feeling guilty about the edited timestamp, I have a special treat:

BMW

Meet C.’s pride and joy, parked in front of the house I grew up in, in Brooklyn, NY, right after he purchased it from a guy in Queens, and before he drove it back to CA. On I-80. In the dead of winter. He’s crazy, but I love him.


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Open Letter

27 April 2007

Dear obnoxious BART commuter:

There’s no way that you could know that I generally dislike making small talk with complete strangers. That said, making snide comments to your seatmate in the third person is precisely the wrong way to get me to turn my head from my knitting to acknowledge you. Bonus wrongness points for mentioning Madame Defarge.

I can ignore you for much, much longer than it will take for you to get bored with trying to get a rise out of me, so why don’t you try a different tack, like maybe asking me a direct question? You don’t even need to compliment the knitting; just ask me about it and I’ll answer you politely, and maybe even chat for a little bit if I’m feeling extraverted. Here, I’ll even save you having to come up with something:

  • How come you’re using so many needles?
  • Is that knitting or crochet?
  • What are you working on?
  • What’s the point of knitting socks when you can just buy them? (Some knitters will be annoyed by this one. I’ll answer it, but you may not get small talk afterward.)

And because I’m feeling generous, a tip for dealing with future female knitters you may encounter: If you see one working on something that looks like it might possibly be for a baby, do not assume she is pregnant, especially not out loud. I did not turn and poke you in the eye, but others may not be as restrained.

Thank you,
dulcian


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