Spa horror

I write this story as a warning to all those who have ever contemplated booking a spa treatment without thoroughly researching their destination spa.  I am sharing my pain and horror with the hope that my story will save others.  At this point, I think it would be very classy to advertise that a portion of my blog proceeds are going to some type of “Spa Survivors” charity, but I have yet to figure out how to make money with the blog, and I suspect there is no such charity.  Anyways . . .

It seemed like a good idea.  A leisurely drive to Napa, California over Easter.  Interesting stops along the way.  Deep and meaningful conversation with my husband.  A break from the day to day madness of our jobs.  In reality, it was three days of torturous freeway driving in the blinding rain with the bulk of our conversation consisting of me screaming “Watch out!” and him repeatedly suggesting I take an ativan and/or sleep for the remainder of the drive . By the time we arrived in Napa, we were exhausted, cranky and stiff from three days of near death freeway experiences.  But we were here.  We had arrived.  And we were gonna treat ourselves to spa treatments baby!!

The next morning I googled “spas”, placed one phone call and voila!  I was booked for the trifecta of spa treatments – massage, manicure and pedicure.  My husband was going for the mother of all massages – 90 minutes!  Just driving to the spa, felt relaxing.  The sun was shining, the birds were singing.  All was well.  Vacation had started off a little rough, but things were now rapidly improving.

As an aside, I have to tell you that when booking our treatments, I had been asked if I preferred a male or female masseuse and said it made no difference to me.  I consider myself fairly liberal and non-prudish.  I have had male masseuses in the past and always found them to be very professional (and generally quite nice looking – bonus!). 

Upon arriving at the spa, I was a little concerned.  The building seemed quite run down and bits of insulation were poking through holes in the ceiling.  The waiting area consisted of some well used wicker furniture and a plethora of spider plants.  Oh well, I thought.  It’s obviously more of hippy spa.  This is good.  Big city spas are so stuffy and impersonal.  This is much better. La, la, la . . .

When my masseuse came out to introduce himself, I was baffled.  This gentleman was approximately 65 years old with long grey hair and a beard that had been woven into a long braid which almost reached his crotch.  He was shorter than I and can best be described as a cross between David Suzuki and Tommy Chong.  This man is going to rub me??  Me??  While walking to the treatment room, I told myself to be open minded.  Don’t judge a book by its cover.  You are on vacation.  Live a little.

Upon entering the treatment room, I was instructed to take all my clothes off and lay face down on the table.  Screw that!  After he left the room, I scrambled out of my clothes and cursed the fact that I had chosen to wear a thong instead of the more practical enormous granny panties.  Oh well, at least I wasn’t naked.  The massage started out pretty standard and I began to think that perhaps I had overreacted and things were going to be just fine.  It was around this time that I felt a tickle running up my back.  What was that?  It happened every time he rubbed my back and seemed to be going in the same motion as his hands.  It felt like horse hair was being dragged up my back.  Oh God.  It’s his beard!!  Gross! Gross, gross, gross!  I was horrified.  Although I hadn’t asked, I just assumed he would have restrained the nasty beard pony before starting the massage.  I didn’t think he’d just let it run wild, whipping me in the back whilst I’m supposed to be relaxing!  Nevertheless, I tried to clear my mind and tell myself to relax and focus on something else.  La, la, la . . .

The rubbing and back scratching continued for a little while longer when it happened.  The most shocking thing that has ever occurred to my while lying face down, mostly naked in a tiny room with a squat and very hairy man.  He says (pause for the dry heave), “I got into massage therapy to get laid.”  Eeeek!  Panic!  Everything tenses up.  Everything. Who says these things?!  I don’t know what to say.  Should I say something?  What? What should I say?!  Despite my sudden silence, he appears to notice nothing and carries on telling me how that’s no longer the case and blah, blah, blah . . . all I can hear is the “get laid” bit repeating itself over and over again in my head.  What if this man is a sex offender and I am now trapped in a room with him, all covered in oil?  I can’t make a break for it – I’d never make it! 

Again, I try to calm myself and the “treatment” continues.  But it gets worse.  This man is vile!  He begins rubbing the backs of my thighs, then the backs of my upper thighs, and then my bum.  Now, I am okay with the bum massage.  In fact, I’m even in favor of it.  It’s needed sometimes.  Especially after long days of sitting in a car anticipating your firey freeway death.  However, I was quite concerned to have the sex offender (as I am now calling him in my head), rubbing my bum.  Now, it was bad enough to have him rubbing my bum, but I didn’t need him to blow smoke up my ass too.  That’s right.  Lots of smoke.  Up my ass.  Essentially, he wanted to know what I do to have such muscular legs.  But it’s the way he asked that’s so creepy.  “Oh girl.  Oh girl.  What have you done?  What do you do?  Oh girl.”  Pause.  Dry heave.  After some time, I finally tell him that I go to pilates once a week.  And by telling him this, I am just hoping the conversation will stop.  Sadly, it gets worse.  “That’s it!” he exclaims (while rubbing the full length of my leg and bum).  “A pilates body.  That’s what we’ve got here.”  Oh Lord!  Oh man!  This guy is soooooo full of shit!  I feel it’s necessary to explain that I am not a woman who suffers from abnormally low self-esteem; I’m a realist.  And when people look at my legs (unclothed nonetheless), the LAST thing they think is, “Oh, that woman must do pilates.”  Seriously.  People are more likely to say, “Excuse me.  Have you tried pilates?  You should.  It could help.”

I have to admit that the “pilates body” thing sort of sent me off into a little trance.  It’s when I realized just how crazy this mad bugger really was.  And so, I gave into the madness, but kept a watchful semi-consciousness for boob and ass crack grazes (two of which did actually happen).  Thankfully, the massage continued without any further sexual innuendos or inappropriate touching (unless you count the hug he gave me when it was all over).  But it was over.  Thank goodness it was over.

And now, in the style of the truly gifted writer, I will bring us full-circle to my introductory paragraph.  Do not.  I repeat, do NOT book spa treatments online when traveling in foreign countries and suffering from terrible back pain.  Just a suggestion.  Maybe I should be a travel blogger . . .

The Snowbird

Being the child of Canadian parents, I have grown up (as many of us do) under the tutelage of “Snowbirds”.  Ah, the Snowbird - the affectionate name given to Canadians fleeing our harsh and lengthy winters for the sunny warmth of the southern United States and Mexico.  The Snowbird is easily identifiable by its stark white skin and matching running shoes.  While the female Snowbird will go to great lengths to try and blend into her surroundings, the male Snowbird displays no such desire and is often found sporting white tube socks, open toed sandals and a half unbuttoned Hawaii Five O shirt.

If they have somehow evaded visual detection, the Snowbirds' spending habits are a dead give away.  Location #1 – the Mexican pharmacy (also known as the “Pharmacia”).  The Pharmacia is by far the top shopping destination of the Snowbird.  There they can be found purchasing large quantities of Retin-A, Amoxicillan, Nivea and the infamous “turtle cream”.  Despite being strongly advised by Canadian health care providers not to do so, Snowbirds continue to self-diagnose illnesses and take random amounts of Mexican Amoxicillan to treat their various ailments.  I have personally witnessed my mother “prescribe” Amoxicillan to my father for everything from a sore throat to a foot rash.  While Retin-A and Nivea are self-explanatory, turtle cream is not.  When I was child, turtle cream was actually made with turtles!  But as my mother explained, some people got in a big uproar a couple of years back and now there’s no turtle in the cream (although they still call it turtle cream).  She hasn’t bought it since they took the turtle out.  Claims she can tell the difference.

Shopping location #2 – Target; or as it is often called “Tarjay” – the idea being to imply that Target is actually a very fancy and high end store.  In reality, Target is essentially one step up from Walmart.  Targets are generally cleaner and offer slightly higher end goods than a Walmart at prices that are so reasonable, the product is practically free! If they would allow her, my mom would spend the night in Target – that’s how much she likes it.

Shopping location #3 – Flea markets.  For whatever reason, flea markets (both indoors and outdoors) are HUGE in southern California and Arizona.  I don’t know if they were there all along, or cropped up as a result of the Snowbirds.  Either way, the flea market is full of two things; cheap and useless crap (that’s cheaper if you by 3 or more) and Snowbirds.  As a child, I positively adored the flea markets.  Where else can you buy 12 packs of lipglosses, scrunchies and nail clippers labeled “I love California”?  Other interesting items include bedazzled jeans, ashtrays and the laciest baby clothes you have ever seen.  T-shirts and running shoes, however, are the Snowbirds’ main purchases at the flea markets.  They can often be found combing through piles of t-shirts and yelling “Do you have an extra large of the One Tequila, Two Tequila, Three Tequila floor – in white”?  That’s the other thing – graphic t-shirts.  And by graphic, I mean sexually explicit t-shirts that usually contain some reference to the size of a man’s . . . well . . . you know.  And for some reason, this message is often delivered by a cartoon frog or iguana.   Anyways, these t-shirts are everywhere and Snowbirds love to buy them for their neighbors back home.  It’s embarrassing.
   
If the Snowbird’s appearance and shopping habits have still eluded you, you can always catch the Snowbird at the border.  Given the opportunity, I am confident I could identity a Snowbird strictly by searching the contents of their RV at the border.  The RV of a Snowbird will almost always contain the following items:

1.    Above noted Pharmacia items x 5 (they usually buy for the neighbors too);
2.    Lays potato chips (okay, at least in the 90s before they started being sold in Canada);
3.    Inordinate amount of cigarettes hidden behind Lays potato chips in all cupboards of the RV;
4.    Inordinate amount of liquor hidden in a variety of strange places including under the bed and in gas containers on the roof of the RV (yes, this actually happened);
5.    Rand McNally Road Atlas – the big one;
6.    20 pounds of grapefruit in the bathtub (yup, this happened too);
7.    Plethora of Mexican blankets in a variety of colors.  Side note: In my personal opinion, Mexican blankets should qualify as the 8th wonder of the world.  They are positively indestructible, never lose their color, and nobody knows exactly how or where they are made (I personally suspect Taiwan).  Oddly, the only vehicle by which one can destroy the Mexican blanket is the dryer.  The dryer eats Mexican blankets and leaves you with nothing but balls of yarn and bits of grass.
8.    Bumper sticker that reads, “Spending my children’s inheritance”. 

Well, it is the May long week-end and most of the Snowbirds should be home by now.  Although I did receive an "urgent" email from my mother yesterday; the subject line read simply "Snow!".  The contents of the email are not fit for my blog, but needless to say she was not impressed and is already looking forward to her next trip south.

One, two, cha, cha, cha . . .

Does anyone else watching Dancing with the Stars and think, “I could do that”?  I just watched Kate Gosselin shuffle her stiff little self across the dance floor and thought, “Pu lease!  Why does Kate get to be on the show!  I would blow her ass right off the dance floor!”  Especially if I had a few cocktails beforehand.  My rhythm increases ten fold with cocktails.  I mean, yes, I know she had like eight babies, but still!  I work for lawyers and wear high heeled shoes ALL day – my life is just as toxic and painful as hers.  And unlike Kate, I have not had the benefit of scads of plastic surgery and hair extensions.  Advantage – Stacey!  Ah, the beauty of living life from one’s couch.  Safe, secure and risk free.  Love it!

The Pussy Cat doll just came out.  Hate her.  She’s skinny, acne free and appears to possess super shiny silky hair.  Bitch!  And her name.  How can you compete with “Pussy Cat Doll”.  Pussy for short.  I mean really.  It’s just too much.  But oh, my can she dance.  She’s all twirly wirly, long tan legs and fanciness.  Like I said – total bitch.  Judge’s love her.  They’re sooooo biased when it comes to the good dancers.

Oh, oh, oh!  Sexy soap star is dancing!  And to Hungry Like the Wolf.  RAWR!  This is some hot stuff for Monday night TV.  His shirt’s all unbuttoned.  His little partner is half naked.  Oh my!  I might need to take up smoking after this.  Judge’s are not a fan of this dance – am totally baffled.  These people are hot!

Pamela Anderson hits the floor.  Honest to God, this woman just exudes trashiness.  Who backcombs their bleach blonde hair?  While wearing a fuchsia mini-dress!  With a thong!  I'm not even going to discuss the breasts.  Not gonna touch it.  You all know what I think about them.  The thing about Pam though is she just revels in her trashiness.  Gets right down in it. She knows she's seen as a trashy bimbo with an IQ of 5 and she couldn't care less.  And this, I have to respect.

Freestyle blogging

Now just so everyone knows, I typically write a little "draft blog" before I acutally post it.  Then I read it over several times - correct all the spelling errors and missed words (I am both a speedy thinker and typer - resulting in many missed words) and then I root around on the internet for funny images to go with my story and voila!  Tonight, I am freestyling it!  That's right.  I have no idea what to write and I do not intend to proof read it.  Living on the edge.  That's me. 

So, as I sit here pondering what to blog about my husband is laughing to himself while reading ridiculous things on the internet.  Did you know there's a Facebook fan page entitled, "I don't get drunk, I get awesome."?  And why are there so many action shots of people vomitting?  Who posts this stuff?  And why do men find it so funny?  There is also an inordinately large amount of videos devoted to women attempting to eating a teaspoon of cinnamon.  Seriously.  Google it.  It's wierd.

Although I do not have any children of my own, like most people in their thirities I find myself trolling through the children's clothing department at least six times per year, looking for "cute" outfits for the children of my family and friends.  I had such an excursion this afternoon and it occured to me that children's clothing is sized by age, whereas adult clothing is sized by size.  Five year old boys all where size five pants.  The same cannot be said for 31 year old women.  For more insight into my thoughts on pants' sizes, please see my pants blog.  In summary, I hate pants.

While I would love to sit here and contemplate more random crap to entertain you with, I really must get some sleep.  I am off to a five year old's birthday party tomorrow and that's going to require a lot of sleep, patience, caffiene and if all else fails, two ativan and glass of wine.  

Material Girl

Day two of my swinging bachelorette lifestyle is no better than day one.  Arguably, it is much worse.  First of all, I don’t feel like writing a funny blog tonight.  I’m cranky and crabby and I’ve had a TERRIBLE work day.  AND I went to Costco after work.  Costco!  And I didn’t think I needed a buggy because I was only going in to buy ravioli, but then I saw the snack sized mini-cheeses and thought, “yes please”, and then I realized we were out of Kleenex, so I picked that up, and then I almost dropped everything because I DIDN”T HAVE A BUGGY!!  BAHHH!!

I made dinner for one, which took the same amount of time to prepare as dinner for two, and when I was finally ready to spew the long and sordid story that was my miserable day, I had nobody to spew to!  I mean, yes, yes, I can “phone a friend”.  But then they can’t see my hand actions, which are vital to the accuracy and drama of my re-enactments.  And then you have to give them all the history, ie. “Jane is married to Bob, who is the brother of Steve, who was the guy that passed out at the Christmas party and peed his pants after the limbo contest.”  The history takes up so much time, that people are usually lost or bored by the time you actually start your story, which takes away from much of the drama; thus yielding reduced empathy from your listener.  See what I mean?  Why even bother?

Now that I have written about the little Costco cheeses, I can hear them calling to me from the fridge.  Have you had these cheeses?  If not, I suggest you get some straight away.  It is a lovely little variety pack consisting of extra aged cheddar, gouda, and edam.  The edam is mon favourie!  It smells like dirty socks and tastes divine.  And with pickles.  Two words – Shut Up!  Yup.  That’s just how good it is.

Ooops, sorry.  Little off topic there.  Ummm . . . what else, what else?  Ah!  I have washed and creamed my face, so all I really have left to do is the teeth.  I leave those to the last possible moment in case I feel like a snack before bed.  I feel positively trashy if I snack after I’ve brushed my teeth for bed.  Feels somehow like I’m cheating on my teeth. 

In the interests of improving my mood, I have contemplated staging a 10 minute living room dance party.  This would also help to burn the calories I am certain to consume when I go to the fridge to visit the Costco cheeses.  Favorite living room dance party song = Material Girl.  Fo Shure!  It can’t be beat.  Groovy tune, catchy lyrics.  I suppose the routine I perform is more akin to an airband – with lots of finger waiving and hair flips.  It’s really quite a show. 

Well people, that’s the round up for day two.  Pretty exciting stuff.  Tomorrow involves a movie date with my sister and obscene amounts of popcorn and M&Ms.  The wild life continues!

The sexy life of a bachelorette

Well.  It has happened.  My husband is gone for three whole days and I am footless and fancy free.  Woo hoo!  Watch me go!  What shall I get up to first?  With so many options, it’s difficult to decide.

Unfortunately, I have disappointed myself.  I think the married me assumes the single me would lead a much more exciting and interesting life.  Evidence suggests – not true!  Would lead equally boring and stagnant life of couch sitting and wall staring.  Grass is always greener.  It’s a saying for a reason.

This is only night number one, so perhaps there is hope for me yet.  But I have to say – so far, not good.  Upon returning home from work, I proceeded to stuff several triscuits into my mouth before racing off to the bathroom to pluck hair from various parts of my body.  I adore my tweezers more than life itself and can say with all honesty that they would be my one true and trusted item, were I ever to be marooned on a desert island.

Once all hair removal was complete, I abandoned my work attire for a more comfortable outfit; this consisting of very large jogging pants and a college sweatshirt from 1998.  Next on the list – turn the heat up, up, up!!  My husband likes to keep our house in igloo like temperatures and when he is gone, I own the thermostat! 

By the time I had devoured the previous night’s leftovers, it was only 6:14 p.m.  One hour of American Idol, one hour of laundry, and I have started to contemplate exfoliation as a way to pass the time.  I thought about a bath, but I have a phobia of my house being burglarized while I am naked and helpless in the tub, so it's really not an option.  Irrational phobia?  Perhaps.

In an effort to keep busy, I consume a bowl of popcorn and follow it up with several portions of extra aged cheddar and sliced up apples.  Fantastic!  I have resumed reading my book, but am dangerously close to the end and so I'm trying to ration myself.  Must never complete a book without the next read at the ready. 

I have checked my email and Facebook at least 9 times each and I am now deeply disturbed by my strong desire for one of my "friends" to update their status.  Seriously – nobody has updated their status in hours!  I updated mine when I got home from work, but am holding off posting an update until tomorrow – wouldn’t want people to think I am a freak.  I have checked all important news websites to ensure there is nothing occurring anywhere in the world that would cause me to lose sleep.  For the record, these types of sleep losing news items would include natural disasters (particularly earthquakes), celebrity deaths, and anything to do with extraterrestrials. 

And so, there you have it.  The life of a bachelorette is not as exciting as it seems.  But it does seem conducive to blogging – so stay tuned!

I'm back!

Well . . . I'm back.  I’m sure you were all thinking I went on a terribly exciting (and long) Christmas vacation.  Sadly, that is not the case.  Quite the opposite.  I chose to brave my family for three long days over the holidays and the memory of that adventure has left me little option but to remain inebriated for the majority of my days.  Having recently sobered up, I remembered my blog!

Shame, shame.  How embarrassing.  I start a blog, gather some “followers”, and then promptly abandon the entire enterprise.  Not going to become a famous writer/actress/talk show host this way.  No sir!  And so, here I am.  Wondering what to entertain you all with.  Think, think, think . . .

Ummmmm . . . nope.  Not feeling very funny since Christmas.  Seriously.  Estimate entertaining thoughts are down by at least 60%.  60%!  And this gets me back to my thoughts about a person’s blog having a “theme”.  My first several blogs were meant to give people a laugh.  A chuckle.  So what would be the point in writing a big ol’ sob blog??  Who wants to read that?!  Ahhhh . . . wait for it . . . here comes the tie in with the title – you might read a blog like that so you could say, “Hmmm . . . maybe it’s not just me.”  Oh, that was slick!  Real creative genius there.  And believe it or not, I came up with that just sitting here in my bed with my heat pad on my feet (little peak for you into my exciting “night life”).

So, maybe you all wouldn’t mind so much if the blog wasn’t always hilarious and gut wrenchingly funny.  Maybe you would accept that my lows are as low as my highs are high and can sometimes last an unbearably long time.  And maybe . . . despite all that . . . you’d keep reading.

Now.  Despite all that, I have mustered up a little something.  To say I “mustered it” is probably a little inaccurate.  As with all things in my blog, they really do just happen to me.  The winter months produce very little bloggable material.  I am trapped indoors most of the time and have a bad case of the SAD (Seasonable Affective Disorder).  Oh, I am a miserable sucker!  Just ask my poor husband.  In an effort to improve my mood, I have decided to try a return to exercise.  I went back to boot camp last week and am determined to persevere.  That tiny blonde stick will not get the better of me!  But ohhhhh, how I hate her.  Fortunately, there is a fairly obese woman in my class (“FOW” for short), so I just stuck close to her.  By the end of the class, I could hardly breathe and all of my remaining energy was devoted to staying conscious.  When I checked to see how the FOW was doing, I discovered her face down on her mat, arms and legs sticking out on either side.  Really – she looked like she’d been dropped from the top of a building.  And the blonde stick didn’t even care!  She just kept jumping around yelling, “It’s YOUR workout.  I can’t do this for you.  YOU have to look yourself in the mirror tomorrow.”  I don’t think the FOW is a big fan of the blonde stick.  I think the FOW and I might have more in common than I initially thought.