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Dripping'And Wiggin' And Rhymin' And Stealin'
Nudity. Scented oils. New Age music. The tender touch of a human hand.


I went for a massage the other day, and ended up in a mucus-infused self-conscious situation that rivals Bill Cosbyís bit about the dentist and the string of drool.

Iíd been sneezing all weekend Ė either allergies or the start of a cold. Doesnít matter. But what DOES matter is that I scored a free massage for Sunday night, and found myself naked, on my stomach, face stuck in the middle of that padded loop that looks like a miniature toilet seat.

As Iím relaxing and being rubbed, thumped, and stretched, my nose starts to run.

Pretty bad, but there is no actual drippage yet. However, I donít know what to do. Iím already feeling pretty topless and vulnerable, and now Iíve got a snot stream working its way out of my nostrils. What I REALLY want to do is reach around and wipe that sucker on those fresh white sheets, but even I realize this would be inappropriate at best, and horrifying beyond belief at worst.

My only option is to try to control the drippage with sheer mental concentration. This becomes even more challenging when she comes around to work on my neck, and her mostly-bare, sandaled foot is positioned directly in the path of my threatening-to-drip-drop nasal ooze. At this point, there is no part of me enjoying the muscle manipulation. I am not relaxed. It is all about the snot.

Just when I think I get it under control, she says in that breathy masseuse voice, ďAll right, Jamie. Now Iím going to have you turn over and scoot down to where your head is on the mattress.Ē

By some miracle (wait, not miracle! Sheer Mental Concentration!), I manage to flip over without flinging boogers on her. I even sneak in a quick back oí the hand swipe while pretending to get myself situated.

There are maybe a couple of drops lingering on the edges, but since sheís above me, I figure she canít see it.

Then she starts in with the facial massage.

Long story short, there were some close calls, but she never actually touched my snot.

Speaking of totally NOT relaxingÖ

When I arrive home from my talk show last night, the house is totally dark, and Shawnís car isnít there, so I know Iím entering an empty apartment. I open up the gate, and as Iím digging for my key and walking toward the front door, I freeze in my tracks.

Thereís something hanging on the front door. Something hairy. Itís dark, and I canít make out what it is, but it looks like a dead animal.

I inch toward the door, my heart pounding, clutching my key. Itís too dark to identify the object, but itís definitely blocking my access to my keyhole, and itís starting to look like a wig.

Yeah. A wig. I think thatís what it is. Why is it dangling from our doorknob? And how creepy is that? And what if there is something horrible hiding IN the wig, waiting for me to grab it?

I have only one choice.

I bat that wig to the ground like a drag queen playing outfield.

Then I unlock my door as quickly as I can, rush inside, and flip on the porch light.

Staring up at me, like sadly comedic roadkill, is a bright blue wig.

I wonder briefly who could have left it on our door, shrug, then take it inside, hang it on the couch, and wait for Shawn to get home to see if she has any scoop.

She doesnít. But we did discover that she looks fabulous in an electric blue page boy, and she may wear the wig to Thanksgiving dinner.

I ask you, people. Who the hell hangs a BLUE WIG from someoneís doorknob? I canít wait to find out.

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