Sometimes my mom (hereinafter referred to as “E”) will surprise me and say or do something funny that gives me a glimmer of hope that we may actually be related. Blood related.

I often wonder about my ancestry and I just don’t see the connection.

Sesame Street used to have a segment – not sure if they still do – called One of These Things is Not Like The Other, I think. Anyway, a Muppet would compare four items, but one of the items doesn’t belong because it’s slightly different from the others.

There was even a jingle:

One of these things is not like the others,
One of these things just doesn’t belong,
Can you tell which thing is not like the others
By the time I finish my song?

Well I’m the slightly different object. Odd man out. The one that doesn’t belong. This is not a sit on the couch moment and E nor anyone else ever made me feel that way. I adopted the notion on my own and I wear it well.

She showed no favoritism among her children, just what we imagined, and we imagined my brother as her favorite. We add no animosity to it.  But since I’m the closest to E, in proximity, in my mind, only I can collect brownie points and that puts me at an advantage over what anyone else believes.

I’m just saying when E does flaunt humor, she’s playing my song. I feel a connection, where I belong. West Virginia.

Anyhoo, we don’t have too many conversations on the phone because I’m a low talker and I hate the phone. Occasionally we’ll talk after Jeopardy but we don’t engage in small talk. She can’t hear me and I can’t speak up.

Regardless of infirmities, young or old, everyone receives the same amount of decibels from my larynx, I show no partiality. I can’t talk loud, scream or yell. If I ever got mugged, I would have to Tweet a scream because no one would hear me. I’ve never had an argument, but discussions. There is no yelling to my kid down the street to come inside, I’d have to send a messenger. And my kid doesn’t go down the street.

So I use the phone for its intended purpose: to impart information and hang up.

One evening E and I spent at least 15 minutes on the phone and she told me about an incident that happened at work. E works in a department store and has to deal with the-customer-is-always-right-and-knows-better-syndrome. One customer in her line was giving her the run around, trying to find a loophole in the system and make a purchase without following the procedure. Until she met: By the Book E.

So the woman says to E, “You don’t know what you’re doing.” Now if I was in the store, I would have let out a low growl to indicate my displeasure in her speaking to E that way, but I wasn’t. Or I would have taken a step back and let E handle it, and she did. So she says to the woman: “I don’t know what I’m doing because I’m listening to you tell me what to do.” And she went off on the woman.

E is smart and good at whatever she does, once she learns how to do it. When she’s not looking for the glasses she’s already wearing or the pocketbook she left in another department and then frantically calling her kids claiming it was stolen, she has a brilliant mind. All cashiers are not obtuse – forgetful but not dumb – don’t assume people can be treated that way because of their job.

So, E completed the customer’s transaction and handed her the receipt. Then she says, “Hand me the receipt back so I can write my name on the bottom and you can tell Department Store who gave you outstanding service.”

I was tickled and proud at the same time.

She said the customer stood there with her mouth open, shocked, and the people behind the woman behaved like they were being served by the Soup Nazi. It’s nice to be able to control a crowd with an act of lunacy.

I think news of E’s going off spread across Department Store’s floor like wildfire. She was untouchable for the rest of the day. I could enjoy that kind of authority, when people get ready to disrespect you, and then they remember “the incident” and think better of it.

The funny part is, the people standing in line behind the woman said, “Aren’t you Valerie’s mother?” They were friends of mine from my side of town. I said, “You told them no, right?” Neither one of us wants to be embarrassed by the other, we value our reputation. Mine is slightly more tarnished than hers, but I still like to keep what I have left, “spit-shined”.  I’m sure if I was out in public causing a commotion, she would deny knowing me too. Nothing personal.

She answered in the affirmative, but assured me she did not use any profanity during her tirade. Like what was I going to do if she did. I still wish I could meet the woman who disrespected my mother, I won’t use any profanity either, but I do have a few choice words I’d like to share with her.

“Please come in.”

Valerie pressed her back against the wall allowing T to pass through the narrow door frame and into the living room. Lifting the strap off his shoulder, he placed his bag on the floor next to the portable CD player and removed his coat.

“Can I get you anything, like an open fire to warm your hands?”

Amused by her dead serious delivery, he replied, “Oh no, I’m going to wash and warm them before we start, don’t worry.”

“Okay, I’ll let you get unpacked and I’ll um…I’m sorry, I’ve never done this before, what should I wear?”

“Some people wear shorts or underwear and I drape a sheet over them, but you can wear whatever makes you feel comfortable.”

Valerie decided she felt comfortable in a pair of shorts and would remove her top once on the table. If she had to take off any more than that, he was going to pay her.

“Take your jewelry off too,” he shouted, as Valerie disappeared into the back room. Making a choice of what to wear was easy because she only had one pair of shorts and returned as quickly as she left.

T glanced up at Valerie with an inquisitive expression on his face and without hesitation asked, “Are you an athlete?”

Valerie thought his query was just as strange as when her chiropractor had asked. She always had a shapely upper body, like a swimmer, and slender legs, like a runner and the mid-section of a person who loved cookies and chocolate. Maybe she was an athlete, of some sort. Rather than delve into his inquiry, it’s obvious he has a cataract, she simply replied, “No.”

Valerie showed T where he could plug in his CD player and assumed she would be listening to the sounds of streaming water or babbling brook, not her preferred jazz.  Good thing she went to the bathroom. Perched on the table, she turned to T and said, “I’m ready to take my shirt off now.”

Oh gosh, you sound like a virgin. I’m ready to take my shirt off now. Why are you announcing it?

Using the sheet as a shield, T held it between the two of them as Valerie removed her shirt and tried to find a comfortable position on the table. She could hear T in the background rubbing his hands together and satisfied that they were warm enough, he pulled back the sheet.

Surprisingly, Valerie did not flinch when he touched her. Maybe because his hands were better than warm, it was as if he brought his own open flame. Coming in for a perfect landing at the base of the runway, T worked his way up and down the right side of her back expelling pain and stress one knot at a time.

“Is this too much pressure?” he asked.

“No.” Valerie lied. It was a lot pressure, more than she was used to, but she wasn’t about to cry uncle. She preferred having too much, over too little pressure. Next time she would “cry uncle.” After he finished the right side of her back he did the same to the left side, applying more oil each time.

Cool! Not only am I no longer ashy, I’m waterproof.

Standing at the head of the table, T used his forearms to massage Valerie, who was only occasionally aware of the sound of the music and his breathing, into a motion-induced coma. The rhythm was so intoxicating, the last words she remembered saying was, “Oh gosh.”

****

“You can turn over now.”

Valerie felt disoriented and lost, like she was waking up from local anesthesia. She couldn’t remember how to turn over but somehow managed to roll over onto her back. T massaged the rest of her body and said he would conclude with a scalp and facial massage.

[insert the sound. of a needle. being dragged across a vinyl record.]

Did I hear that correctly, did he just say he was going to mess up my hair?

The massage was going great until he gripped Valerie’s head in between his large hands and messed up her hair! Her scalp didn’t need a massage, her scalp was fine, maybe a little dandruff, but stress free.

Didn’t anyone ever tell you never to touch a woman’s hair without 2 days notice?

Now fully awake and slightly annoyed Valerie could no longer concentrate, the massage was over. He massaged her cheeks, her eyebrows, her lips and even stuck his fingers in her ears.

Okay, if you’re looking for loose change or a generous tip, I got nothing. You were doing a much better job when I was on my stomach!

“Do you want me to massage your stomach?”

[insert the sound of another needle being dragged across a vinyl record.]

You don’t have access to that area. That’s a no-touch, no-massage zone.

“No, thank you.”

“Are you sure?”

“Oh yes, I’m sure.”

“Okay then you can just lie there and relax.”

I was very relaxed until you messed up my hair.

After the massage was over, T packed a few of his things and made small talk. Partially naked and chatting, Valerie felt a little weird, besides she wanted to get dressed and was getting cold.

“Are we done?”

“Yes, but you can rest a little while longer.”

“Nope, I’m okay!” Grabbing the sheet and holding it up against her chest, Valerie went to get dressed. She thanked T, paid his fee, but before showing him the door, he handed her a few business cards. Business cards that read TSG, Attorney-at-Law.

Wall Street address. Phone number. No email.

Valerie vaguely remembered her girlfriend telling her that he was an attorney and had seen him coming from court a few times on the train, but had forgotten.

Upon returning to work on Monday, Valerie found a New York Lawyers Diary in one of the offices. If he was a practicing attorney, he would be listed in this book. There could only be a few reasons why he would not be listed, like a recent move to the area, or maybe he just passed the bar or maybe he really is a killer and that was a body bag.

Not that it was a conflict of interest for her, he was very professional, kept her covered at all times and he didn’t try anything, it’s a matter of curiosity. She knew several attorneys personally, as well as a judge, and most of them played golf as a hobby, not gave fantastic massages and messed up women’s hair.

Valerie opened the Lawyers Diary to the letter G and scrolled down the list of names. She hoped he was listed, that would make her feel better. Maybe she missed it. She checked the spelling of his last name against what was printed on the card and looked one more time. Nothing. A little disappointed and confused, she closed the book.

Maybe having D come sit and watch wouldn’t be such a bad idea after all. She would hate to lose a good massage therapist just because he wasn’t listed in the Lawyers Diary. Valerie returned the book to the shelf and called her friend.

In 37 years Valerie never had a massage.  A professional massage that is, from someone with training and not ulterior motives. She read about the benefits of massage therapy and imagined  it was on every woman’s to-do list, right up there next to get Botox injection.

She just never got around to it.  Never received a gift certificate. Never went out with girlfriends for a day of pampering. Never bothered. Her idea of pampering was an empty house, a good book and soft music. Occasional solitude was just as rejuvenating, and free.

Of course, this massage was more than an hour of indulgence, but a medical necessity.  Valerie tried chiropractic treatments, heating pads and stretching exercises for pain management.  She even purchased a portable TENS Unit to alleviate her sciatic nerve pain, but her relief was always short-lived, temporary.  Her only other treatment options were: a massage therapist, acupuncture or surgery.

The choice was easy.

Two weeks later, after asking around, she had the name and phone number of a recommend massage therapist who made house calls.  She had her doubts about letting a strange man into her home without a work order and clipboard, but he was recommended and didn’t think anything terrible would happen.  Unfolding the paper that kept his contact information, Valerie picked up the phone and dialed the number.  She never cold-called a strange man before, invited him over to the house and paid him for his services.  Gripping the phone and pressing it to her ear, Valerie’s heart thumped with doubt. Was she making the right decision? Was she putting herself in harm’s way?

After the third ring, he answered the phone. Unlike a killer’s voice, loud and abrupt, his voice was pleasant and relaxing. Valerie felt comfortable with his answers and an appointment was made for Saturday morning, 10 a.m.

****

Saturday, early.  A little annoyed with herself, Valerie took a sip of the coffee she hoped she’d be done with by now.  It’s hard to think about de-stressing and healing on a full bladder.  The last thing she wanted was to have to use the bathroom during her first massage session.

While she waited for T to arrive, Valerie went through her mental checklist of things she needed to remember. Did she remember to shave and put on deodorant? Did she remember to use lotion after showering? Did she remember to trim her toe nails?

There was no need to cut the man, unless he really is a killer.

Taking another sip of her coffee Valerie glanced down at the clock on her computer screen. It read 9:45 and her appointment was scheduled for 10:00. T called to say he had a slow leak in his car tire but was on his way.

“Take your time, I’ll be here.”

Now feeling more excited than scared about getting a massage, Valerie wondered if it was a good idea to tell D that he did not have to come and sit watch. This was no different than opening the door for the cable guy, except the cable guy doesn’t get to see her partially naked. Not even for the premium package.

The sound of the doorbell jolted Valerie away from her thoughts and she went downstairs and opened the door. A slender, light-skinned man about 5’ 11”, greeted her with a smile. He doesn’t look like a killer and besides killers don’t ring doorbells. Nor do they show up at your doorstep with a portable radio and a massage table; unless that stuff is stolen and he’s really a robber carrying a body bag and a radio for drowning out the sounds of screaming.

He was referred; invite him in and stop being silly.

“Please, come in.”

Photo by Massage-Certification.com