Friday, March 29, 2013

And This, My Friends, Is How You Get a Massage

So, I've had this pain thing that's been going on for awhile due to an injury I got awhile ago, blah blah blah (not important to this story) and it flares up sometimes and then aggravates my other body parts and they start being whiny little bitches and then it totally throws my whole walk-y talk-y rhythym off for the entire day/week/month and makes me all killy and stuff.  I take pretty good drugs for it, but sometimes they don't work enough.  Because my body is kind of an asshole.  And maybe it wants more drugs...... but I have to be able to function.  Poor me.

Well, my preggers girlfriend is going to this massage place a few times a month for prenatal massage and she gave me a referral card for a discount on a massage and I just kinda set it aside and thought about it for awhile.  Should I spend the money, or shouldn't I?  I mean, it's a great deal.  I totally DESERVE it, don't I?  PLUS, she gets a discounted massage AFTER I turn in my card so I am basically ripping her off if I don't use it.  And I am nothing if not a giver. 

I am not cooking a human or anything like that, but girl gotta get some hands on the body action going on, you know?  I mean, there is something awesome about getting totally naked and paying someone to slather on some oil and touch you every damn place EXCEPT for your naughty bits.  In fact, their JOB is to make you relaxed and they aren't even allowed to get a boner or anything. It's against the rules.  (Also impossible if the person is a chick, but I digress).  It's like prostitution, only it not as fun, it's legal, and they have to pay taxes.   

So, here's the sitch:  I decided to do the deed.  Now, this is NOT the first professional massage I've ever had.  I used to get massage therapy on a regular basis, but it's been awhile since my last one and I have a blog now and it's hard not to write about every damn thing that happens.   

Especially when it's in the dark.

With a guy.

And he's not allowed to get a boner.

So, I got there late, after hitting every damn light on the way.  I was about three minutes late and I hate being late to anything.  (Yet, I manage to be late for more things than not lately.)  I am sure I breezed in looking pretty amazing, with my hair flying everywhere, the remnants of the curses I just spewed all down the last mile of the road on my lips and the general tension and stress and anxiety I carry with me on a daily basis.  Pretty much hot, sexy and ready to go, right?  He greeted me all smiley and stuff, but I decided to let that go.  He looked slightly terrified but handed me the clipboard and I scribbled out my information the best I could and threw it handed it back to him and smiled. 

He led me back to the massage room and - holy gods I love massage rooms.  This one was giant and it smelled like that menthol-y type relaxing lotion/oil stuff and there was yoga zen budda music playing and it almost immediately made me relax a little bit.  He turned to say something and I think he caught me telling myself "You are in your safe place.  This is your safe place.  Ommmmmm....  Huh?  Sorry.  I was listening." and he wiped the uncertain look off his face, told me where to put my purse and my clothes (most of my dates don't give such concise instructions.) and then directed me to lay face down with my face over the hole (he said it better than that..) and he would check back in a few minutes. 

I got undressed in record time, went to turn my phone off and laid on the table, face down, and took a DEEP, CLEANSING breath.  And then heard my phone restart.  You asshole phone.  I learned from my LAST massage, when my SON called me about a half hour into it for no reason, that you DO NOT leave your phone on.  So, my phone was just sitting there, in re-start mode, hung up and not starting OR stopping.  Like that hourglass thing on the computer, you know?  Asshole phone!  I was laying face down, naked with just a thin sheet over my ass, reaching over to grab the damn thing and try to shut it off before he came back in.  It would NOT stop.  So I pulled the damn battery out and tossed the phone skeleton and battery on top of my purse.  Fuck da police.  I'm tryin' to get all relaxed up in here.  I got no time for that! 

*breathe  breathe  breathe*

He knocks on the door and asks if I am ready.  I stifle a laugh and say "Yep!!" (too enthusiastic?) and he comes on it and gives me the instructions about relaxing and where to stick my face and stuff.  I'm glad he reminded me to breathe because 1) I had forgotten that part and 2) It let me know I am not the only hot mess he deals with in this joint. 

So, I'm doing the face down in the hole thing and he makes a point of elaborately covering up anything that may give a hint of inappropriateness.  Like, no side boob even.  I am not very modest at all so that part made me giggle.  We are grown ups here.  I know you're not gonna touch my boobies.  We are good.  (But I totally understand why he does it in his profession.) 

After making a show of covering up all the side boob, and everything else, he then removes part of the sheet from my back and starts working on my back muscles.  Holy shit.  This part is a little boring for you because all I remember is that it was amazingly wonderful and I wanted to make it rain (er, toss him some dolla bills) if he would just not stop.  Then he got to my lower back which is the bastard of my back area and started doing that hard, painful, intense, rubby massage that made me want to punch him in the balls while kissing him and then maybe have his babies.  Yes, I was ambivalent.  But it really worked the muscles I needed to be worked so it was fantabulous when he got done and the menthol lotion stuff felt great.  I think he did some shoulder and arm stuff after that (I was still in a fog) and then he moved to my legs. 

This is the funny part:  He takes part of the sheet and totally mummifies my right leg so that ONLY my left leg is exposed.   I feel like I am on Little House on the Prairie or something.  Should I have worn a bonnet?  A burka?  Oh my gods...

Anyway, he starts with the leg thing and, after rubbing the calf, he moves up to my thigh and then he does this thing with this hand where he is rubbing it up and down REALLY  fast on my inner thigh and jiggling it back and forth and stuff to loosen the muscle and the thin sheet is doing this moving up and down thing and all I can think of is what this would look like if someone walked into the room.  And then I think I snorted a little inside (Hahaha!!  Okay, focus.  Relax... Breathe...)

He does the calf rub thing (which was amazing) and then moves down to my feet. 

Oh no, I should've gotten a pedicure first.  All I can think about is how dry my feet are and how he may have to charge me for more oil and oh damn he has to touch my feet that poor, poor man.  I wanted to apologize to him or make excuses for why I am such a loser I didn't even get my feet properly smoothed out before he had to touch them and then I remembered that if I were going to get a pedicure I'd be apologizing to the guy at the nail salon and what's the diff?  SOMEONE is gonna know my feet are dry and not smooth. 



I actually zoned out for awhile and enjoyed the next several minutes of leg/foot massage and then it was time to "turn over".  He made sure to totally cover me almost up to my neck (seriously, should I have brought a burka?)  while he turned his head and then I got comfy, closed my eyes and breathed and then I hear a very soft "click".  The lights (which had been very dim before now) were turned out.  Like totally.  I don't even know how he could see what he was doing.  I know this because when I heard the lights go off, I peeked with one eye to see what the little noise was.  I couldn't see anything but shadows and the outline of the massage guy and the heat lamp.

I have to tell you, I am not a huge fan of total darkness.  I am well aware that this guy is doing all of this stuff for MY comfort and to be all overly appropriate and stuff but I really was doing super peachy until the lights went out.  So I lay there and remind myself to chill.  Kinda reminded myself that the lights were basically already off before then (because my eyes were closed) so it wasn't a big whoop and, right about then, when I was about to get up and find the light switch myself, he did my FAVORITE part of any massage.  You know when they slip their hands under your shoulders and neck and just use the weight of your body to PULLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL upward very slowly and it makes your head and toes tingle and you hope it never stops?  (If you have never felt that feeling go get a massage.  Not until you finish reading this, but right after.  Totally amazing.)  Anyway, so that took my mind off the weird lack of lighting situation. I just enjoyed the relaxy tingly stuffs for awhile. 

I had finally shut my brain off, got totally relaxed and purr-y again and then, as he started rubbing the top and front of my shoulders,  I suddenly thought "Holy shit, what would I do if he grabbed my boob?"  I mean, second base is RIGHT there.  Maybe he turned off the lights so he could just "accidentally" get a handful.  Wait, would a massage guy do that?  Well, I DID read this one news story where this dentist got himself handful of boob after giving the chick novocaine and, if you think about it, him getting me this relaxed from massage is SORTA like giving me novacaine because even if I wanted to move, I wouldn't WANT to, um, I mean I wouldn't be ABLE to, so it's kind of the same thing!!  And then he did that behind the shoulder/neck/head thing again, and then moved to an intense massage of my forearms and wrists and my brain shut off for the rest of the massage and I really didn't care if he grabbed my boobs. 

Which he didn't. 

Because he's not a boob grabber.

The massage was amazing and relaxing and, other than the weird mummification and lights out things, one of the best massages I've ever had.   

I wasn't sure I should DRIVE when he was done because I was so relaxed I felt a little drunk, but I got to take my time getting my bearings, drink lots of water and then coast on out when I was good and ready.

Oh, and I also made sure I made my next appointment.

And flashed him "Deuces"


Wednesday, March 27, 2013

Have a Good Day?? Don't Fucking Tell Me What to Do. (Not for the Faint of Balls. I Mean, Heart)

There is a severe shortage of people who will allow curmudgeons like me the opportunity to freely express and experience our periodic emotional cracks, grumbles, and the occasional sourness that allows us to function the rest of the time in a somewhat normal fashion.  (We even go so far as to smile and laugh sometimes.  We just don't feel the need to fucking brag about it all the damn time.)  There is totally nothing wrong with being surly.  Those of you who smile too much could really learn a thing or two about a nice cleansing grumble from time to time.       

While talking to my girlfriend on the phone the other night, I sorta experienced a psychotic break and ranted for a few minutes.  Uh, I mean, I 'had an enlightening and life-changing epiphany'.  We were talking about how 1) Shit happens. and 2) The occasional acknowledgment of said "shit" does not equal a life ruining event. (She has been on the other end of the phone for some of the fo-serious "bad shit" so...she is kind of an expert in that area.)  In fact, having the ability to be able to freely express the occasional disappointment and stuff is normal and sometimes even healthy.  We may not always do it in the most flowery and sugar-coated way, but that takes practice.  I guess.  This means sometimes I am not going to be the most pleasant person to be around on any given day.  As the imaginary sign on my office door says:  "Deal or GTFO".  It's right next to my Employee of the Month plaque (also imaginary).

Honestly, I really don't know why I have not been selected to run a Team Building course at work.  Nothing brings a group closer together than some good old fashioned bitching and non-constructive criticism.  In fact, one of my former "managers" did give me a glowing recommendation this one time when she told me she had a dream I came into work and went postal on everyone.  My response was "Well, you know, Captain Twatwaffle (not her real name), if anyone was going to do it, it would be me!"  *charming smile*  It dawned on me later that she may not have intended that as a compliment.  Huh....go figure.  

ANYhoodles - If you want to be my friend or .... something, don't be afraid to ask me how my day is going - even if you know I'm going to say I stabbed someone with my stapler.  You have to be willing to hear the bad shit along with the sunshine and rainbows stuff (which I personally find a little boring).  Also, don't try to force a smile out of me before I am good and ready.  I will get there in my own time.  But there exists a fine line between me tolerating your "charm" and my foot up your ass.

Do you want to know how to irritate me before I've had my coffee?  Tell me to have a good day.  Bonus points:  Do it in a sing-songy voice.   Bossy asshole.  I will shove that coffee stirrer so far up your ass, your proctologist will have to perform a deep sea dive to get that sucker out.  (Snorkeling, anyone?)

Things I Could Do Without:

  • Endless optimism for no apparent reason.  That shit is annoying as fuck.  I don't care if your glass is half full.  If you incessantly brag about it, I will turn that mother fucker upside down on your head.  
  • Birds chirping.  (Also annoying as fuck.)  It's snowing outside you asshole birds.  Knock it off.

  • Singing mice who also whistle while making me pretty dresses.  (Eh, on second thought, those might be pretty cool.  I will kiss them and hug them and name them George and Marley.  I will teach them to juggle tiny things and we will get discovered and have our own variety show and become rich and famous.  See?  I'm charming as FUCK.)

  • Lemonade.  I prefer tequila and salt with my lemons.  And lots of it.

  • Someone saying to me:  "Smile!  It could always be worse!*smiley face*"  No shit, Sherlock.  I've probably seen more "worse" than your happy little ball of friggin sunshine ass would allow to enter into its awesome bubbly realm of glowing fantastical and utterly magical happiness.  Please allow me this moment of "Ugh" while I work my way up to "Not killy".  If you tell me to smile for no god damned reason I will stab you in the face with a crayon.   (That may not sound very bad, but it will probably be a broken crayon - yes - as broken as my poor twisted black emo heart - and thus maybe slightly sharp.  Or at least kinda jagged..or something.)  Danger?  My middle name is Danger.  So suck on that.

  • Stop trying to make "perky" happen.  It's not going to happen.

Things I Need in My Life:

  • Friends who will leave me the fuck alone when I need space to just think, or breathe or .... cry (Psh, I don't cry, but I mean, IF I did.)

  • Friends (uh, probably different friends) who will let me call and scream into the phone for no apparent reason.  These friends should speak fluent Angst and also be able to reassure me that, no matter what I am upset about, I am right, everyone else is wrong and I was completely justified in keying the car of the barrista who failed to put enough cream in my coffee. I mean, justified in whatever action may or may not have been the result of my distress.  (Ignore the part about the car keying.  You can't prove SHIT.)

  • A period playlist.  Some tunes to jam out to while I am droppin' eggs would be the shiz.  Something upbeat and soothing by, like, "Drowning Pool" or "Avenged Sevenfold".

  • A gay best friend.  I need a man in my life who can hold me, stroke my hair, (without the boner thx) and let me lament about that shoe sale I missed, while I beat my fists against the wall and scream "Whyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!?!"  And then write some haiku poetry about why DSW hates me.  Nobody understands the fucking tragedy of a missed shoe sale like a gay BFF.  Nobody.

  • An unlimited supply of chocolate-covered-everything with zero calories - covered in whipped cream.

  • Bacon.

  • A life-sized Jon Hamm doll.

  • Ten thousand dollars in unmarked bills.  (Why? Because fuck off, that's why.  It's MY list.)

  • A heating pad and some Midalium.  (That's a drug I invented which is a combination of Midol and Valium.  You're welcome.)

I really don't think that is too much to ask, do you? 


This blog has been brought to you by the letters "P", "M", and "S"  and the color "Red".

If you took any of this blog seriously, you need help.  I am usually a ray of fucking sunshine.  

Ask anyone.