Discount Massage

I have only had two massages in my life. Which puts me in a good place, I think: that's two more than a lot of people, but considerably less than others.

However, 1 of those massages was just plain traumatizing... Which defeats the purpose of a massage altogether.

A little over a year ago, I went to Kentucky to spend a long weekend with one of my best friends, Carrie, who followed her passion for All Things Equestrian to the land of races and ginormous hats.

Someone (I don't remember who, either she or I) suggested we venture out to the nearby massage school for discount massages. I, being uneducated in such things, was reassured by Carrie that only the "senior" students--those soon to graduate-- can take clients and the cost is considerably less, since the masseuses (masseie? Massees?) are not yet fully certified. She went on to assure me that she had always gotten good quality results from such experiences before, and that it would be a fun and relaxing girl's activity for us.

Recap. Relaxing massage + cheap + good quality = I'm in!

After arriving at the massage school and filling out the required paperwork, we were introduced to our masseuses. My guy was in his late twenties, maybe. Smaller stature. Long black pony tail. Facial hair. Creepy small hands-- That he rubbed together nervously (a lot).

But I trusted Carrie.

We began the massage experience awkwardly enough, when I, fairly naked under the sheet, was asked what kind of massage I would like, and if I had any special requests.

Blink blink. "Um, I've never had a massage before so I guess let's just do the basic, no frills. And special requests? Like, I guess my back and shoulders?"

"Well, for instance, some of my clients request special attention to their pecs..." he suggested.

"No. No thanks. Just back and shoulders." I answered quickly, making a mental note to go Chuck-Norris-meets-Kung-Fu-Panda on his ass should he continue to think my pecs needed his special touch.

The massage began. He instructed me to let him know if the pressure was too much or too little, and he'd adjust accordingly. For example, he started out WAY too gentle. My skin felt petted, rather than my muscles massaged. I told him so, so he apologized, "adjusted", and continued.

Except it was the same petting. No change in pressure.

I tried again a few more times to get him to adjust, and he always agreed to, but never changed. Awkward. I caught myself wondering if this guy was legit... Or if perhaps the back door to the school had unknowingly been left unlocked and he had snuck in for a day of fun-filled creepiness.

Let's review: an uncomfortable looking, ponytailed man with nervous twitches, small hands, and an inclination for my pecs had me locked in a small dark room with him for an hour of oily petting.

And he didn't even buy me dinner first.

After the hour was mercifully up, and Carrie and I got back into her car, she stretched out her arms with a relaxed sigh and said "Gah, that was awesome! Didn't I tell you? How was yours?"

"Just dandy."

...And that, folks, is the story of why Carrie is billed for Devyn's therapy.

That's How it Goes...

Some days I'm up and running, fueled by natural energy, excitement on greeting a beautiful morning, and all that...

And then there are mornings like this--- don't get me wrong, I'm no less blessed today than other days, and today is no less beautiful. It's just that the most entrancing and captivating thought on my mind revolves around this---

Take a Picture With Me

Buddy was at school. The twins and I played all day. At one point, I thought it'd be fun to take a picture together!

Ha.

"Say CHEESE!!!"

..........Never mind.

The Art of Spinning

Buddy- "Look at me, Devyn!!! I'm a spinning tornado!!!!!! Watch out!!"

Brother- "Me too!!! Watch me too!!! I a 'pinning tomatoooo!!!!"

Where's the Compassion?

You only have to flip on the news lately to get an update on Lauren "Lo" Scruggs-- online magazine editor and model who was involved in an airplane propeller accident in early December. I've been following her story since the evening it happened, after receiving a prayer request about her the evening of the accident from our mutual friend, Jennefer. While most of the stories have been unbiased and informative, I've been appalled at how quickly reporters and commenters have become toxic. I've seen countless articles on where the blame of the accident should lie, whether her family is lying about her twin sister's sympathy pains for Lauren, speculation on Lauren's future, and on and on.

My question is this: when did Lo stop being a person in the eyes of the world media, and instead become a target?

Yes. She was in an accident. And by the grace of God she is going to be ok! Let's celebrate with her and her family!

Yes. Her life will have adjustments because of her injuries. Let's encourage her and pray for her! Don't dwell on the negative, no one needs that.

Yes. Her family is close-knit and they've been there every day encouraging her and helping her to heal. That's a priceless gift. Not one for the media to question and try to demean.

This is a real person. Not a news story. She's Mr and Mrs Scruggs' little girl, Brittany's sister, a friend, a cousin, a niece, a granddaughter, and (to me) a fellow classmate.

So directly to you, Lo, I wish you a quick recovery, pray for your pain, rejoice with you over your milestones and the love you're receiving through it all, and trusting God that His peace will guard your heart through everything.

Love and hope wins out over blame and doubt. Every time.

Fail-Proof Excuse

Brother has this excuse he uses for getting out of virtually anything (or **trying to** anyway). It's his go-to escape route for all situations involving siblings, vegetable intake, clean-up time, and more...

"Brother, no brownies until you finish your corn!"
"I can't eat corn. I sick."

"Give Sis back her baby doll."
"I can't! I sick."

"Time out. We don't punch people!"
"But!! But!! I sick!"

Clever. Let me try:

Dear IRS, I can't pay my taxes this year. I sick. Sincerely, Devyn.

This could work for me.

The Part Where You Messed Up

Everyone's got those personal chores that suck. Things they'd go out of their way to avoid doing. For some, it's mopping. Others hate laundry. I personally have a vendetta against deep dusting, which is to say, if my Walmart-brand feather duster can't get to it easily, then that dust is to be ignored.

For Buddy, it's wiping his rear.

I get it. I do. It's not a job anyone enjoys, but it's a fact of life. And since Buddy starts kindergarten in a few short months, we'd all cracked down on him bucking up and taking care of business on his own, like it or not.

Then slowly, things happen. You're in a hurry, so you do it for him quick just to get out the door on time. Or you take pity on his tears of frustration over his unpracticed ability. Or my personal downfall: he's been in there for almost half an hour, dang it, I gotta go so he's gotta move!!

But today he slipped. He made the rookie move. The classic mistake. He revealed his master plan.

I was in the living room, wrangling the twins and changing their diapers, while Buddy was on minute 19 in the bathroom.

"It's time to get out of there, Buddy! You're done, quit messing around in there!"

"I really can't do this Devyn! I need you to wipe!"

"Can't dude! Changing diapers!"

"I'll wait..."

"C'mon, man, you're five! You can do it, you've done it before! In kindergarten no one will be able to do it for you. You've got this!"

"DEVYN! I haven't had to do this in a million years. Its not my job to wipe my butt anymore. So I'm gonna wait for you, ok?!"

Ha. Nope.

See what you did there, dude? I'm on to you...