He Came With Hero's Arms and Bullock's Eyes

A topic of conversation: nagging. Secondary topic: therapy and how people think it gives them carte blanche to criticize and insult you. AND BACK RUBS! All right, that's three topics. Three weighty topics.

Topic One: NAGGING
The other day I texted Mr. Mystery to let him know that there was laundry sitting in the dryer. I asked him to run the dryer for an additional 10 to 15 minutes so that the clothes were thoroughly dry. I am very anti-wet smelling clothes and towels and Mr. Mystery's dryer likes to leave things damp, so the additional 15-minute dryer run has become the norm for me and thus the norm for my lovely luv-ah. Since I wouldn't be at his house to run the dryer myself, the surplus dryer run would have to be run by him, and not me. Thus and therefore? The Call. The Call has also become the norm for me and my lovely luv-ah. The "darling, can you run the dryer again?" call.

On my way home I gave my babycakes a call, mentioned the dryer and its second run, and then jokingly said something about me and my incessant nagging. Mr. Mystery made an agreeing sort of sound, a sound that said, "Yes dear, you do nag me but I don't mind because I'm super laid-back and mellow and there is very little that bothers me." Being super NOT laid-back and mellow myself, I was all, "Uh, WHAT?! You think I nag you?!" and then my bottom lip protruded like the sad girl that I am, only Mr. Mystery couldn't see this as he was on the other end of a phone and phones aren't great with the visual aids. So I added a manipulative little whimper to my voice and asked sadly, "B-b-but... you think that I... n-n-nag you?" and then in a quieter and even-sadder voice, "I try very hard not to be a nag."

Mr. Mystery saw through this charade straightaway and responded matter-of-factly, "There are some things you go on (and on) about, like the laundry and painting the bathroom." I hemmed, I hawed, and then I conceded that I may, just perhaps, on occasion harp on like the harpy I am. Sometimes.

"But love," I countered, "I don't nag you to DO the laundry. Just to run the dryer again. That's not REALLY nagging, is it?" I could hear him smile over the phone. "No dear, it's not. You're wonderful. You rarely nag." There may have been some sarcasm there, but I chose to ignore it. It was a solid win for me.

Topic Two: Therapy and how people think it gives them carte blanche to criticize and insult you.
The major drawback to being open and honest about one's therapeutic walk through the Crazy Daisies is that people think that, since you're receiving so much good, honest feedback from your doctor, they too can give you good and honest feedback. Except that it's not usually good and honest feedback as much as it is hurtful and mean- insults - about nothing that has anything to do with one's fear of pigeons, their fear of dying alone, their off-kilter rationale for avoiding physical contact with people, or their certainty that they will catch Swine Flu from the sales clerk that sneezed on them when they were buying Pillsbury cookie dough.

Yesterday I hadt a chat with a friend of mine that went a little something like this:

Me: "Aarrgghh!"
Her: "Articulate as ever, I see."
Me: "I AM FEELING ICKY. The Caps Lock kind of icky. I think I ate bad cheese."
Her: "Bad cheese? What did you eat today?"
Me: "I ate yesterday's leftover mozzarella sticks. And now I'm all hot-flashy and dizzy."
Her: "You're a hypochondriac... and you're always dizzy."
Me: "HEY! Though... this is true."
Her: "It never fails... I'm discussing government expansion of powers as it pertains to passports with [name of other friend] but with you [I'm discussing] whether or not you've been poisoned by stale cheesesticks."
Me: "Hmmm. I am debating whether or not to be insulted by that."
Her: "Consider yourself insulted. The cut direct."

In case you didn't catch what happened here, my friend is letting me know that I talk about brainless things like death-by-cheese, while her other friend talks about important things like expansion of power as it pertains to passports. Extrapolate that further and you'll see that she called me a brainless idiot.

Stuff like this chat (though not of this chat's magnitude) has been happening a lot lately. Usually it's a quick, pointed suggestion - "You are constantly canceling plans, Canary. You should talk to your therapist about why you value your time over everyone else's." - but sometimes it's a completely irrelevant, fly ball from left field. Sometimes you can be walking down the road, minding your own business, when suddenly you see your local ice cream parlor. You suggest to whomever you're with that perhaps you should revel in the summertime and go in for a scoop. And sometimes that person responds with, "You use food to suppress your feelings. You need to be in therapy more."

C'mon folks. Sometimes a scoop of ice cream is just a scoop of ice cream and not some dairy-laden cry for help. And sometimes people need to keep their opinions to themselves. Unless that person is a licensed therapist and I'm paying them hundreds of dollars an hour. In that case, they can nag me about ice cream all they want.

And now on to Topic Three: Backrubs
Turns out that I know jack about rubbing someone's back. The other night Mr. Mystery asked me to rub his back. As the boy asks for so little (he will occasionally ask me to make him a sandwich), I told him, "Hell yeah, I'll rub your back!" But when it came to rubbin' time, I was completely at a loss.

I poked at him with my finger. I jammed my knuckle into his L4 vertebra. I wacked him with the heel of my hand. Fascinated by the power I had (the boy's back was turning red and angry with every poke and prod), I contemplated giving him a good smack to see what sort of mark that would make. I even considered, quickly, snapping him with the rubber band that was holding my hair back.

But I didn't.

Instead, I thought super hard about what might feel good to an aching back and tried to with all my might to perform. Only I couldn't. I just... couldn't. I didn't know what the hell my hands were doing, I wasn't sure if I was supposed to be looking at his back or staring off into space. Should I hum him a little tune while I do this? Do I comment on what I'm doing? "I am now going to smack you with a branch from the tree out front, in an effort to help your body commune with nature." Eventually I stopped completely, sighed, and started up a thread of conversation that required face-to-face discussion.

The next day, when asked what I had done that weekend, I told my coworkers, "Oh, you know... I learned that I'm a complete back-rub moron." They both gasped. "What do you mean?" one of them asked. I told how I didn't know what to do when Mr. Mystery asked for a back rub, how I eventually gave up when my jabbing him refused to make him feel better.

"Massage is the gateway to romance," my colleague told me. "It's all about giving to your partner." I thought about that a moment. "That's probably why I couldn't do it," I said. "I'm not much of a giver. Taking, though... TAKING I can do."

My coworker clucked her tongue and told me that she had a book that I could borrow. "Is it a dirty book?" I asked. "NO!" she replied, astounded. "Why would it be a dirty book?"

"You know, because massage, as you said, is the gateway to romance," I told her. "I assumed that 'romance' was code for 'kinky sex.'"

Turns out that sometimes someone just wants you to rub their back.

And there you have it, people, a totally convoluted post about several non-related things. My brainless self, the self that talks about death-by-cheese and can't rub your back, is having some issues with writing.

Don't worry... I'll talk to my therapist about it.