Spa me the details

I could smell happiness as I approached the entrance to the spa: whatever those oils are that they rub all over you during a massage. The scent was oozing out of the place and tickling its way into my nostrils. As I stepped into the lobby and the door to the outside world clicked closed behind me, I let it all go away: the crazy world of teaching in a high school, the bells, the teens flipping their hair, the cellphones, the computers that never work right. It was just me and the dim lights, the dreamy oils, the new-age music, and the lady behind the desk with the purposefully hypnotic voice. She whispered a welcome to me and escorted me to the waiting area, no, the meditation room, where the next person would come to get me and guide me to the place of the cushy bathrobes and then my treatment room.

And that's when Daddy Warbucks/Donald Trump came booming in -- a bald, athletic-looking, super-keyed-up dude who could definitely be #dominantcorporateboss. He was wearing a bathrobe and walked briskly into the darkened, blissfully quiet meditation room, sat down two seats away from me and bellowed: "Hello there, young lady!" He had to be talking to me because no one else was there. In the course of the unwanted conversation that followed, I found out that he was retired from the automotive industry (story garnished with highlights from the entire trajectory of his career), had just played basketball with a bunch of near-professional players half his age ("I'm older than hell," he said.), and that his girlfriend had given him a gift certificate for the massage he'd just had.

I also found out he was an alumnus of Arizona State University, where I had attended a workshop for journalism teachers a few summers back. I mentioned that ASU has a great journalism school.

"But they named it after that commie," he said, referring to Walter Cronkite. He then started explaining in detail why Walter Cronkite was a commie by giving me a full account of a specific battle during Vietnam: the strategy, the number of soldiers, casualties, weaponry, and how Cronkite had reported something false or incorrect about it.

"This is not a relaxing conversation," I finally said.

"Huh?" he said, followed by one last swig of the herbal tea he had been drinking. He clunked the cup down on the little table next to him, causing the fringe on the decorative cloth to jiggle.

"Well, gotta go!" he said. "Nice talking to you."

On purpose

Whenever I post a Facebook status, my daughter tells me it's "like a novel." She doesn't mean this in a good way. Apparently, anything over three sentences is considered a book these days, so, instead of turning to drink, I've turned to blog. Now when I write "long" entries, I can say I've done it entirely on purpose. Whether I'm talking about how crazy, goofy and zany my (what random example should I give here?) daughter is, for example, or anyone else in my realm, I won't feel limited by the teen-age eye rolling that is permanently embedded in my psyche. It is true that my posts will often be about the people who cross the path of my life the most, meaning my family, co-workers, and the ladies who work behind the deli counter at Publix. Should I be concerned about making fun of other people too much? After giving this deep, serious consideration for five minutes, I've decided: NO. I am under no obligation to be even-handed when writing about the often comical behavior of those around me. If they want to expose me for my own foibles, they'll just have to write their own blogs.

I probably don't know your mom.

It could be I've set myself up for failure here if your mom happens to be the funniest person ever. I'm taking a chance at losing readers, or, at the very least, making a false claim. But here we go. Res ipsa loquitur: the thing speaks for itself.