I Swear there was a Squirrel: Wherein Magic Mike learns I’m a Massage Therapist (etc)

Oh, Lord. Sweet, funny, Lord.


What a day.


Michelle, my belle, is co-authoring this gloriousness, beeteedubs, because it’s too much awesome for me to remember on my own.


So it started with, hell, who knows? But I know that a few hours into today, I had repaired a toilet, homeschooled a child, cleaned, and had roommate time du jour. Then I left for what was sure to be a quick errand and a half before coming home to catch up on life, or the parts of my home life that have been sadly sitting on the sidelines with sad eyes like a precious moments figurine, just waiting for me to remember that they are still there.


And THEN I went 7 places to get 3 errands done in four hours and be late to getting home for my massage client who beat me to my house. Whatever.


Also, if you would like to know EVERY place in the city where ipod speakers and fans AREN’T, I’m your girl.


So, I get home and start my massage, somewhere north of forty minutes late (for a 60 minute massage) and without a way to play music or a fan to help with ambiance/temperature, and all is well until:


The squirrel.

Judging by the sounds, it looked just like this.

Now, when I say squirrel, I mean “the alive presumably non mutant (but who can be sure? perhaps an R.O.U.S? ) creature that started very AGGRESSIVELY making itself known in our kitchen. Did I mention I was doing the massage in the living room of our VERY small duplex? I was. So I notice the thing. Then my client notices the thing. Then I call Michelle down and from halfway down the stairs SHE notices the thing.


So we’ve got some creature banging around in a cabinet and I know. I know that I can call it for a fact “This….is the least professional massage I’ve ever given.”  Because I’m working on a leg while shouting out orders to call every man in the phonebook (we started with boyfriends and landlords) because none of the men in the phone book would like us handling this on our own. And to give them a chance to win EVERY man point there is.


But there are no men available. We have put a chair in front of the cabinet in question, and the creature is bumping around so hard that the chair is moving, Michelle is on a table, my client is naked on her table, I’m still working but also on the phone with homenovio (whose man move of saving me  is “Do you want me to come over? Have you thought of calling Pest Control?” whatever. can’t be a dreamboat all the time).


So we call Pest Control. Pest Control is closed. I guess things can only be pests during business hours. So 3-1-1 sends out:



Oh Hai, I’m in your cabinets, looking for a squirrel, thinking you’re on drugs. But not complainin’.

Which, whatever, for sure Michelle and I have NOT seen that movie and don’t know what stripper Channing Tatum looks like. But if we did, he would have been the strapping hunk of man flesh in a cop costume that appeared shortly thereafter.


And his partner. A lovely woman who actually believed us. Magic Mike didn’t he thought we were idiots. And he was clearly afraid of what the creature might be. Officer Lady-ma’am was on our side, but when push came to shove, the vagrant in our walls had evacuated, and so we looked pretty dumb for calling the cops on a rat.


So Magic Mike is all like, “Are you SURE you heard something?”

And we are like “Yes, here is all the supporting evidence showing that we are coherent, sober, educated women who know what an alive, angry, animal sounds like when in your cabinets.” Except it comes out as:


And then, i realize, oh great, we are in St John,

and we called the cops (who open first the drawer OVERFLOWING WITH KOOZIES) on a dematerialized vermin,

and when they walked in, they walked in to a room set up for a massage. GREAT, THIS LOOKS AWESOME.

then M-squared asks if we’re on acid and I decide to legitimize our claims by saying “I’m a massage therapist, I was working on my client and she heard it also.” (My client had toga-ed up and skeedaddled upstairs to avoid being naked in front of the cops. Modesty. She has it.) What’s more legit than massaging in your home? Nothing? Except claiming there is a mouse in your cabinet that has NO holes where anything could get in.

But as soon as I say I’m a massage therapist,

Magic Mike gets the gleam,

the I’m-thinking-something-and-I’m-thinking-of-saying it gleam.


And then i think: there’s no way these people are ever going to think this is legit.


So (clearly with a tone that communicates we’re crazy, but he might be interested) Magic Mike leaves the building, telling us to call them back if we needed them.




Orkin is coming in the morning,

Michelle and I went out for ice cream.


Nobody tell Shannon. ;)


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