Man Hands

I complained about a massage today.

 

How does one complain about a massage, you ask? With horrible guilt for insulting a person who's trained to make a person feel good.

 

I love this place I go. The gentrification of the hood where I live has brought an influx of what Russ and I call the Hipster Asses. Which is sort of harsh because I'm sure they are all wonderful people. But their mobile phone talking bushy beard no helmet wearing schtick while riding one speed bike with no hands through red lights is seriously obnoxious.

 

And yes, I was part of the second wave of gentrification 5 years ago, but I'm different.

 

Um. Right?

 

Among the negatives of gentrification (Hispter Asses, parking meters, raising rents and house prices) are all these wonderful and very handy businesses that have popped up.

 

No need to head on down to the corner market for a 10 year old Hostess Twinkie anymore. How about a gourmet cupcake? No problem. A four minute walk and I get a Red Velvet with cream cheese frosting in a cardboard box with a fancy shiny sticker on top from a white and glass store front that smells like Happy.

 

Would you like a bikini wax in a soothing holistic environment? Yes, please!

 

Or maybe a French beer along with your Quebec influenced $30 entree? Literally steps from the pissed stained front gate of my building.

 

Along this list of comfort items are "Spas". Which means massages or a facial by a young, good looking and earthy transplant from Ohio or Thailand.  The spa I go to includes a steam room and a sauna. Thank you again gentrification for convenient location of fancy massage parlors.  

 

I've been going to this wonderful place since the fall and I really do think they're great. But tonight...tonight was different.

 

I was greeted by... let's call her Corrina. That name has always irked me since Corinna stole books from the book faire in 5th grade and tried to get me to lie for her. From that day forward, Corinnas were always liars. I had to rename my Cabbage Patch doll. Her birth certificate said her same was "Corinna". I filled out the appropriate paperwork and officially changed her named to Millie after the Petrie's neighbor. That's how dedicated I was for eradicating the name from my life.

 

Corinna laid me down and started working. I knew she was working on my legs in theory because she was down near those parts.  I gently said, "I could handle more pressure." As in, "I'm no wimp. I want more. Seriously. No joke. More." She gave me more. I could actually feel hands on my body at this point.

 

I lifted my head a bit and said, "Actually, is there anyway you could push a little deeper?"

 

She stopped then, "Did you book a deep tissue massage?"

 

"No."

 

"You booked a custom massage, but you want a deep tissue massage, right?" she asked. It didn't sound passive aggressive but it felt it.

 

"Well, I usually book a custom massage but the ones I've had seem to go a little deeper, like Mark...," I was interrupted, quietly.

 

"So a man."

 

"No, that's not what I meant...," I was suddenly having to defend my need for a deep massage.

 

Corinna then went on to explain that she was massaging me as much as my muscles would allow and she didn't want to push through if they were resisting. I, on the other hand, didn't give a shit if she felt they were resisting. They didn't even know she was there. "Is someone massaging me?" they would ask. "No? Good. I'm taking a snooze. Wake me up when the massage starts."

 

I relented and told her, "Do what you feel is best," but 20 minutes into it I was just thinking that she was sending me bad mojo because she thought I said a massage from a man was better than a massage from a woman, and that I was some  pre-women's rights freak who loved her apron and Crock Pot more than she did her freedom to vote, work for a living and the Susan B. Anthony Dollar coin.

 

[I do love my Crock Pot.]

 

I struggled for the first half of the massage, debating whether or not to get up and say, "Hey, I'm feeling pretty uncomfortable with your hostility" but I was naked and oiled under a sheet and am really lazy sometimes.  

 

After Corinna gave me 50 minutes of her all and quietly left the room, I decided when she met me outside the room, as they usually do, I would let her know that the conversation made the massage very uncomfortable for me. But she wasn't there when I left.  Which was what I was secretly hoping for. Sometimes I'm both lazy and don't want confrontation. Especially when I'm oiled up and naked.

 

When I was asked at the front desk how it was, I shrugged and grimaced and the manager was brought out to listen to my sad tale.

 

I really did feel bad. The profession Corinna chose is supposed to be a healing one. A nurturing one. This lady gots attitude. And hates not having strong man hands from what I could gather.

 

I tipped her a good tip anyway all due to guilt and to hopefully counter balance the talking to she would be getting. Twenty bucks will get rid of that bad feeling, right? 

 

And I got back Saturday for a free massage from Mike. I like Mike. Sometimes I feel like he has 10 hands. He may be some sort of Warlock.

 

Mike's tip will come with a relaxed smile from a limp hand.

 

And I mean nothing dirty by that.

 

That sounded really dirty.  

 

 

 

 

 

Jury Duty

They caught up to me. I've finally been in one place long enough and they got me.

And even though Tom, the 65 year old pharmacist who tutored me on how to be an adult when I was shit head 18 year old, trained me to throw out my jury summons ("It's not like they can prove you actually received the summons!"), I got the invitation this month, 20 years later, and I RVSP'd like a responsible member of the American community.

I expected it to be horribly inconvenient and horribly boring. I brought snacks, plenty of books and magazines. It would have been a perfect opportunity to learn Sudoko. I wish I'd thought of that earlier.

I don't know why I was so surprised to see that the city has this jury duty program down. The summons have explicit instructions on where to park, and signs are posted downtown to make sure you park in the correct lot. The summons tell you how to walk the four blocks to the courthouse including whether or not you go south or turn left,  and they tell you what to expect once you arrive and where to wait. Once you're settled in the jury waiting room, you're told exactly what will take place through out the day, hour by hour, minute by minute.

I had no questions. None. They answered everything before I could ask. I prepared my cozy cushioned seat in the back (Habit from my school days. Always the back so I could talk.) with the view of Dodger Stadium, nesting, with my big coat and bag of distractions.

 

Interestingly enough, others did have questions. Now I don't know if they just felt that since, well, someone asked if they had any questions, why not take advantage of this unusual situation. Or if these were actually real concerns for the questioners.

"What if you're sick?" a very tall and very thick gentleman asked from the side of the room.

It was explained to him that if he were to fall ill after he had been put on a jury, there would be a number for him to call in.

"But what if say, I hurt my back tomorrow, like throw it out...."

It was like a 4 year old was preparing his parents for an future lie he was going to tell them, "So mommy, say a cookie went missing from the cookie jar..."

From the front of the room an older woman who I can only assume was a retired grade school English teacher-they have a certain look-said she brought her lunch and wanted to know if that was okay. And also, "Where can I eat it?"

In denial that these were people that I walked among daily, and that they may be thinking the same thing of me, I fell asleep sitting up for an hour or so, fading in and out as I listened to phone conversations going on in every direction. Personal phone conversations that made me feel like I was sitting in these people's houses eavesdropping when I should really be leaving the room, mouthing, "I'll leave you alone!"

"When did you ever see me take someone off the street and use their food stamps?" And within 30 seconds during the same conversation, "You take onions and dice them. Simmer them at a low heat..." 

When I wasn't sleeping I sat in awe of people. At work, I'm in a room with one other person. To be surrounded by this amount of people from every sort of neighborhood within a 20 mile radius was overwhelming and amazing.

Including the guy asking his friend on the other end of his iPhone whether he had any "bud" and could meet him for lunch, or the two woman, strangers, who look at each other and smiled knowing smiles while watching highlights of the Democratic debate on the rabbit eared television in the back of the room. The college girl who's dad paid $5 an hour for her to online shop for 6 hours on one of the 5 computers in the room,  and the lady who actually got a huge smile on her face and was hi-fived by another woman after she found out she was going down to the ninth floor where the high security cases are heard. 

 

Me, I kept my nose in the book, looking over the top of the pages to watch the scenes going on around me, and had my ear buds firmly in my ears, avoiding any and all conversations. I saw some people on the verge of making contact but I averted my eyes just in time and was able to put up my invisible but obvious barrier against unwanted small talk.

At 3:58, 7 jury panels had been called leaving just a handful of us left in the cavernous room. At 3:58, some man with a microphone behind a closed door called out our names one by one and told us we were clear from jury duty for the next year.

And that was it.

I hope they catch me again.

I Am Not A Runner Part Two

I'm probably a runner by now but I can't not fully admit it to myself until my 5th race.

I ran my third one this weekend with a broken ass. That is not an official diagnosis. But I do go to the physical therapist tomorrow morning and have a feeling that will be the official diagnosis.

Update: That is, indeed, the diagnosis.

My 3rd race (in my quest to officially be a runner according to the official I'm A Runner chart in my head) was in the mountains where I grew up camping. Number one reason for our parents bringing us here to camp was without a doubt because it was conveniently located an hour from the house. Back then, my dad drove the Dodge Sportsman van through the winding narrow mountain roads of the Santa Cruz Mountains. The four kids would slide on the bench seats in the back attempting to keep their heads as close to "out the window" as the pop out windows would allow, and looking into a the horizon in order to prevent the motion sickness from winning and splaying our breakfast of sticky Danish rolls over the side of the vehicle.

As adults who don't own a van, Russ and I drove my Jetta through the redwoods and nobody was sticking anything out the window as we took the curves of the tiny mountain roads. Except a lit cigarette in a drought area.

I kid. Of course.

We arrived a day before the race and took a short run on what we thought would/should be the trail, ate a heavy meal--which may not be recommended before a big run.I'm still unclear about that--at the hotel and passed out in the flip flip required sticky hotel room. After we stripped the bed of the coverlet.  And as is my way, I made sure we left the hotel early enough to get to the race 45 minutes early. I needed to case the scene, drink some more coffee and go pee about five times before we all run for a long, long time.

We lined up with the rest of the runners and a girl came up to Russ and introduced herself as a fellow running blogger person that is online friends with his sister. Nerdz. And I say this as one of them. She recognized Russ from photos. Then someone with a megaphone yelled, "Go!" and we were off.

The 10K, 15K, 25K and 50K runners all started at the same time with the 10K runners running the loop off to the right. The rest of us going left. Twenty lanes of traffic all merged into one steep, root infested lane. When you've got that many salmon swimming up stream at the same time (last metaphor...mainly because the other one I'm thinking of for this situation is a bit naughty) there is bound to be some competitive tendencies emerging from even the most laid back of people.

 

Ten minutes into trying to run faster than other people, Russ and I rounded a corner and saw four people standing on the side of the trail looking down upon the blogger friend, Miki. She had turned her ankle and was only 1.5 miles into her 50K. After making sure she was going to get back to the start okay, we were off and only minutes later came across a guy scrambling up the side of the trail. With cut knees and an air of defeat, he passed us on his way back to base camp with a sad, "It's slippery."
 

It was dark in the forest during the day and there was moisture in the air. Our feet thumped along the soft and cushy trail and while trotting down a particularly steep slope at around mile three-ish, we heard screams up ahead of us on the trail. Blood curdling screams. Mountain Lion attack screams. We ran towards the screams and right into a group of ladies jumping and squirming and yelling, "Bees!"

Now, the know it all in me wanted to say, "Well, actually there are no bees here. But the moisture of the forest does attract wasps and yellow jackets. I have a feeling you're being attacked by the wasps with the way you're jumping around."

But I did not.

We ran on further into the forest and not far past the waspbeeyellowjacket attack and guy came running at us at a full speed in the opposite direction of the race yelling, "Allergic!" and that's when we came across the second attack sight. More people jumping and screaming. Shit.

It's about this time Russ said to me, "I'm just going to run up the hill a bit to that point there. See it?" and I didn't see him for the next five hours.  

I ran alone for a bit. It's so lovely. Running in a dark forest by yourself with 300 other runners that you can't hear because to forest cancels their voices out. Lovely.

Until I ran into the last wasp battle site in what I've at this point named "The Runner Massacre of 07" according to Los Angeles Major News Events Title Guidelines For Local News Channels. A running team of hot pink lycra encased ladies were screaming, hands flailing in a futile attempt to brush the wasps away.

 

I escape the last and final resting place of many a wasp smashed by a runner's fury, and motored on. I ended up being sandwiched between two ladies who had both been stung in the butt, among other places although this is the spot they both talked about,  for much of rest of the race. I feel as though maybe they were a Wasp Free Force Field around me and I remained untouched until I passed the finish line. As I gobbled chili and gulped my Coke, I didn't hear stories being swapped about the beauty of the trails or reaching goal times, but only stories of wasp survival and the comparing of sting sites and counts.

Although, they kept on saying bees.

I kept my mouth shut. I had survived.

Screw the 5 Race theory. I'm a runner. 

I Am Not A Runner

I am not a runner.

 

 

 

 

I remember trying to see if I could run a ten minute mile about fifteen years ago because my friend, who was a runner, had told me that was a good time to have. So I did it and I did it for a while. I lasted only three miles at a time before I had to stop.  I was very tired and very bored. Tired and Bored is the end result of running through the 1970's tract housing of San Jose. I could just smell the Berber carpet, wood paneling, and sense the particle board cabinets from street.

I moved to Los Angeles and went to the free gym in the building next door to work after my eight hours to avoid traffic.  I ran on the treadmill while my friend and I harassed the men in the gym and watched re-runs of a show I will not admit, and never admit, to watching and/or enjoying. The harassing part was fun. Reverse sexism is always good for a laugh if you're sure you won't be sued. And those guys would never narc on us. We made sure of that.

 

I quit the job and ended up on the mean streets of L.A. looking for a safe place to run after work. I chose the hood across the street with the million dollar homes. Violent crime doesn't like the streets of the rich. It's a theory I have that I don't have time to get into right now. You'll just have to trust me.

 

I ran the asphalt covered hills of wealthy Silver Lake after work. I would do this four times a week for about forty minutes with a nice healthy hour run on the weekends. I like to run amongst the rich because, besides the violent crime theory, I liked to criticize them in my head for their choice of house trim color and landscaping. Concrete and red rocks is not landscaping. Unless you're in the desert where is is expected, along with clever garden ornaments. I'm partial to deer frozen in mid-motion.

 

On the first hill of my run amongst the wealthy, I used to pass this elderly German lady with a walking stick. We were never both going the same way. If I was going up, she was going down. If she was going down, I was going up. I'm sure there is some deep symbolism I can strain from that, but I'm just not that deep. German Lady would always mistake me for someone else. Or this someone else's sister and would be visibly disappointed when she got up close enough to discover I was neither and she has wasted a smile and a "Good Evening!" on me.

 

I started hanging out with Russ more as he was in the midst of his new found skill as a very fast and very good runner. Some people can run faster than others. He's one of those people. I would glean from him all that I could about my time, where I should buy shoes and how to get rid of shin splints. I am not a runner.

 

I refused the proper shorts. (That inside undie gives me the willies. It's a texture thing.) I refused to buy the proper shirts. (They are always too short and only come in unflattering athletic girlie colors.) I refused to buy the racer back bra. (I don't like the combo of 'racer' and 'back'. It's a very bad word duo.) And the shoes. When you get fitted for proper running shoes they will fit you with nothing but white and (bizarre color) shoes or white and (obnoxious color).

 

If I bought all this stuff, then I would be a runner and I wasn't. 

 

Then I started running more and bought proper white and (subtle gross color) shoes for the hills of Silver Lake.

 

I started running in the hills of Malibu and bought proper trail shoes with only a ting of purple.

 

I started running further and bought proper shorts resulting in a short's tan. (Which, by the way, I don't think will ever go away. Thankfully, I rarely wear a bikini. It looks like I had a tanning disease.) And then I ran a race and did good so I bought a racer back bra. (God DAMN, they make a difference. Seriously. The name still sucks and it will never escape my lips but I will wear it and keep my boobs comfy and very secure.). And breathable fabric running shirts in non-offensive colors. And sunglasses. And a hat. I hate hats. I have a small head.

 

But a very large brain, I should point out.

And then I ran another race. And I did good. My goal was to pass the girl running in the bikini top and I did. She was young and didn't think about the future of her breasts. Foolish. She had to be passed.

 

I might be a runner now.

 

I don't know.

 

I waited until I had skied for five years before I bought my first pair of skis. I don't like to rush things.

 

Whores and Cops

Tuesday morning I awoke to the sound of someone dragging their suitcase down the stairs. My bedroom shares a wall with the hallway, so I also get to hear Bob's very large dog scramble down the stairs every day for his morning pee. And the whore up on the fourth floor come tramping up the stairs in her high heeled extra loud shoes (I think Payless sells them) at midnight only to leave again at 1AM for some more whoring. I mean, I assume, since she's a whore and all.

 

So the suitcase went down the stairs.

 

And then the suitcase somehow, maybe by the power of faeries, was once again on the fourth floor and clunk, clunk, clunked all the way down to the first floor again. I don't believe in magic, unless it's in reference to Brownies who I depend on to clean my house when I'm asleep, so I got up to investigate.

 

The noise was actually coming from outside the building. I poked my head out the front window  and craned my head to the left where the restaurant sits, trying not to fall out the window or put my hand in my mouth after touching the window sill (lead poisoning) and saw a group of men gathered around the parking lot between the restaurant and my building. They were, at 7:45 AM, jack hammering the parking lot.

 

Makes total sense that one should be doing this at 7:45 in the morning.

 

I covered my head and ears and passed out for another hour.

 

Two days had passed and through a deep slumber, some dream involving kitties, I heard a mechanical churning. Churning. Churning.

 

7:20 AM.

 

I got up, put my glasses on and opened my front curtain to look down on to the street below.

 

Where a cement truck was turning around and making itself at home right in front of my apartment building. It looked like it was ready to have a coffee and stay for a spell.

 

Fuck.

 

I opened up my computer and Googled the noise ordinance code for Los Angeles County which is unlike me and quite ambitious if you knew me:

 

41.40 LAMC- Construction Noise

▪ Engaging in construction, repair, or excavation work with any construction type device, or job-site delivering of construction materials without a Police Commission permit;
▪ Between the hours of 9:00 p.m. and 7:00 a.m.;
▪ In any residential zone, or within 500 feet of land so occupied, before 8:00 a.m. or after 6:00 p.m. on any Saturday, nor at any time on any Sunday;
▪ In a manner as to disturb the peace and quiet of neighboring residents or any reasonable person of normal sensitiveness residing in the area.

 

Then I called the non-emergency line for the cops. Cops. I like that word. I know I should say police but it's not part of my vocabulary, ever, and I enjoy cops. So I called the cops to report this nuisance. While the lady cop on the other line looked up 41.40 LAMC, I waited, watching the cement truck churn and clunk.

 

Lady cop came back to inform me that on the weekends the time was 8AM, but on the weekdays it was 7AM.

 

"Really?" I was quick to respond.

 

Actually, that was all I said before I thanked her and moped back into bed, put my ear plugs in and wrapped the comforter over my head for another 2 hours of sleep.

 

Thankfully the whore on the 4rth floor stayed out long enough that I was awake by the time she got home.