My Fair Lazy - Jen Lancaster [33]
You wouldn’t think this tiny little masseuse would have such strong hands, but she does. Bet she would kick so much ass at a thumb-wrestling match. Okay, she’s touching my shoulders, and OW, I don’t like that AT ALL and now she’s massaging my head and HEY, LADY, YOUR HANDS HAVE OIL ON THEM AND I JUST WASHED MY HAIR. Oh, great, I’m going to be a big, greasy lemon head for the rest of the day because I am not showering again because I just showered an hour ago and I have better things to do than lather, rinse, repeat all the damn day and I kind of still have a book due and JESUS CHRIST, you are going to pop my head clean off!
I’m paying a buck a minute for this?
Okay, okay, I’m not being terribly Eat, Pray, or Love right now. I feel more Eat, Aim, Shoot. I need to clear my thoughts and relax and be in the moment but it’s really hard to do when this little person is SNAPPING MY SPINAL CORD. OW!! And how am I supposed to relax when I’m only wearing underpants and a sheet? I know this person is professional and sees people undressed for a living, yet THIS IS STILL REALLY UNCOMFORTABLE FOR ME IN EVERY SENSE.
You know what helps me relax? A shirt. Some pants. Maybe FULL UNDERWIRE SUPPORT. And what’s the deal with this music? It’s just one long pan flute solo? Is it more than one guy playing? When does he take a break? And why does it have to be all New Age-y? Why can’t they play opera? From what Poppy says, opera is very nice and it tells a story that maybe I could concentrate on while this little tiny person is MURDERING ME ONE HANDFUL OF BACK FAT AT A TIME.
I wonder if she’d rather work on a person who’s heavier than a really skinny person? I bet massaging them would be like gripping a Baggie full of chicken bones, while I probably feel like a Stretch Armstrong doll. Do they still make those? And what’d they fill them with, anyway? I remember how mad my grade school friend Donna was when I bit a tiny hole in her Stretch doll to see what he was made of, and if I recall, it was some kind of green goo and MOTHER OF CHRIST, I THINK MY ARM’S DISLOCATED NOW. You know what I like? I like when I’m lying on the bed on my stomach reading and my six-pound cat Maggie walks on my back. Sometimes she makes little biscuits and it’s soft and sweet and DOESN’T FEEL LIKE TORTURE. FOR GOD’S SAKE WHY NOT JUST WATERBOARD ME WHILE YOU’RE AT IT?
Um . . . yeah.
Apparently I still don’t like massages.
But I do have something new to talk about. So there’s that.
Last year, Fletch and I agreed to make the big move out to the suburbs. However, we’ve yet to decide which one is the real us. We hemmed and hawed so much we had to renew our lease to buy more time. But this is it—when this lease is over, we’re leaving the (773) for good.
Last weekend we were up in Winnetka looking at a stately stucco home within walking distance of the lake. The house was at the top end of our budget, and we’re not quite ready to make an offer, but we took a peek anyway.
“I don’t know about this place, Fletch,” I said.
“Why not? It’s practically perfect,” he replied, having already mentally set up his media room in the finished basement. “Too expensive?”
“Nah, that’s not it. First of all, where are the rats? I don’t see evidence of a single rodent. If Loki doesn’t have a backyard stocked with vermin, how’s he going to keep up his excellent killin’ skills?”67
“You make a fine point,” he agreed, getting into the spirit. “I’ve noticed there’s no garbage on the sidewalk—what are the rats supposed to eat once we import them?”
“Listen.” I paused for a second to take in all the quiet. “The windows are open and cars keep driving by, but none of them is blasting salsa music. Where’s my relentless mariachi serenade?”
“No thumping bass line