This weekend, TBF was away on a motorcycle trip. I spent hours and hours getting caught up on the distance learning nutrition class I added late (to fulfill a biology requirement for the MSW, more on that later). And, I celebrated the 4th of July with Monice and her lovely family in the traditional American way: Dinner out at a tasty Vietnamese restaurant. After, we stopped at a local bakery to pick up treats for dessert. We hung out and chatted at Monice's for a while. Then, when the kids went to bed, our adventure into the seedy world of cheap Chinese massage began.

A little back story here. In planning our 4th of July evening together, Monice mentioned a new Chinese massage place that she's tried a couple of times. They give foot massages for 20 bucks, but the foot massage is really more like an hour-long, full body, massage. While fully clothed. If we had time after dinner, we ageed via email that we could check it out. Share in a little 4th of July pampering. 8:30 rolls around and, as the kids are getting tucked into bed, we motor over to the shop. Sure enough, it's open, so we pull into the (surprisingly full) makeshift parking lot/alley through the entrance of a chainlink fence.

Right away I had feeling about the place. The feeling was: Welcome to the House of Happy Endings. We stepped through the front door directly into the dimly lit foot massage area. It reminded me of a long living room with three pairs of captain-type massage chairs lined up from one end to the other, with their backs to the main door. I felt like I'd entered an alternate reality. A slightly musty reality. The shop is part of a larger building that's next to nothing of note. Maybe a bread factory? The walls were painted dark colors, and the room was lit with those torchiere-type floor lamps, some with a reddish hue. The music coming from the speakers was slower Asian instrumental stuff that I don't know how to describe. On top of the small front desk sat a light basket with red and white mint candies littering the bottom. The only decoration on the main wall was a poster of a woman's face, her head wrapped in a white towel, with a turquoise background. Clearly, her role is as a spa guest at an exotic resort. Big white letters across the bottom read SPA. "Spa" is more like it, I thought. We're not in Hawaii!

Monice and I ended up side by side in the middle set of chairs. As we settled in to the cushyness and started to soak our feet in the tea-infused warm water, I noticed a wall clock ringed in gold in front of me. A large waving gold cat figurine sat on top of it. Distracted by my surroundings, I spent time focusing on these two objects when needed.

Our massage therapists (for lack of a better word here, since I saw no proof of training. What should I call them? Masseuses? Massagers?) appeared, and without any fanfare or introductions, they abruptly started their work on our arms and necks. My therapist was a compact, muscular, Asian man with black hair swept across his forehead. He was dressed in a blue and white striped button down shirt and black dress pants. When I first saw him, I thought that perhaps he was the manager or company accountant, but no. He was a man of few words who had a habit of putting his foot in his mouth during failed attempts at conversation.

A few minutes into my arm and shoulder rub, I was still sitting there pretty alert. My massager was digging into my forearm while peering over at Monice, who looked quite a bit more relaxed in her chair with her eyes closed. He looked at me and said, "Mommy?"

Me: What?

Him: Mommy? (looking pointedly at Monice)

Silence.

Me: Are you asking if she's my mother?

Him: Yes.

Another pause.

Me: Um, no. She's my friend.

Him: OoooOOooooh. Friend.

Monice overheard the whole thing, and we both started giggling. My masseuse ended the conversation with a brief "Sorry!" as he moved on to my feet. The idea of Monice looking like she could be my mother is preposterous, and we both had to laugh at the absurdity of it all. We're around the same age, and we look it. The laughing was natural, but the problem is that it was difficult to stop. I reclined in my chair, eyes still wide open, snort-chuckling to myself. "Focus on the gold cat! Gold cat!" my brain ordered me sternly.

If you have any curiosity about the happenings of this establishment, the front door serves as a distraction from your potential relaxation. You're sitting with your back to it, and, with no way to see the comings and goings, you hear what you hear, and you try to make your best guess about what's up. The traffic roars by. The door bangs open and shut. People talk, laugh, and tease the customers. On this day, fireworks went off from behind the shop. At times, this limited perspective not good enough for me, and I tried to sneakily crane my neck to catch a glimpse of the people hovering by the front door. I was jealous of our therapists facing all the action while they worked, because they had a full view of all front door activities, and they seemed deeply interested at times. Sometimes they even exchanged amused glances. Monice and I were the only ones on what we referred to as the "legit" foot massage side of the parlor; everyone else was there for the full body. I wondered about my fellow patrons. Let me tell you--surprise, surprise--they were all men. And, from my slightly paranoid, quick glance perspective, I would say at least one looked furtive and shady.

My observation time was interrupted, however, when my masseuse shook my leg and commanded, "Relax!" A bit later, it was interrupted once again when Monice's massager (a small, middle-aged Asian woman) let out a loud buuuuuuuuuuuurp!

Oh no. Gold cat! Gold cat!

Later, when my therapist moved on to my stomach and hip area, he asked another of his one word questions.

Him: Baby? (looking pointedly at my stomach)

Me: What?

Him: Baby?

I had worked out that he was asking me if I'm pregnant, probably to avoid doing any rigorous massage harm to my unborn child. I answered him with a quick, quiet, and firm, NO.

But then I got all insecure about it in my head. Why is he asking if I'm pregnant? Do I look pregnant? Does he have a special Chinese massage way of telling that I am, and I just don't know it yet? I don't think so, but what if...My stomach might be pooched out some, but I had a bowl full of pho for dinner and a strawberry bubble tea for dessert. How rude. I'm full of liquids! Maybe I really do look pregnant. Oh God. It's time for a diet. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaah.

Gold cat!

At that point, we turned over on our stomachs for the back massage. With all those liquids sloshing around in my bladder, I realized I really needed to pee. I wasn't going, though. I was unwilling to separate myself from Monice, or venture off to some unknown destination to use a toilet. Who knows what I might have seen? I decided to just tough it out and relax. As my therapist crawled around on my back, digging his knees into my muscles, applying pressure to my bladder, I thought, well, I feel better.

Our massages ended, mine slightly before Monice's. I sipped on a tiny paper cup of water while I waited. We took the few steps to the front desk to pay up where I offered Monice my measly six bucks in cash, since it's cash only. She spotted me the rest. We bypassed the mint basket, stepped out into the cool, rainy night, and made a beeline for the car, laughing and talking about the awkward moments on our drive home. I invited myself in to use her bathroom before heading back north to Phinney. Driving home on I-5, I was in time to see the gorgeous fireworks going off over Lake Union, and I smiled and smiled.

You see, I've painted this scenario as an icky ordeal, but ultimately I had a great time. I enjoyed experiencing another reality for a little while. I know the deal with $20 massages in hole in the wall "spas." I handled the Gold Cat moments. Actually, the massage itself ended up doing me a lot of good. I had a pain in my leg that's pretty much disappeared. At one point during the intense foot rub, in spite of my difficulties relaxing, I felt a ball of tension in my core muscles release. I immediately felt lighter and breathed easier.

I can see going back there again sometime with Monice...during the day. Maybe.

I loved that my 4th of July was filled with random funnyness, shared with a good friend who sees the humor. I won't ever forget it. And, best of all, Monice and I now greet each other with "Hey Mommy!"