The Gum-Chewing Massage Therapist

I took a few days off of work to clear my head and spend some time with my family.  I conveniently planned the days around my paycheck so I could enjoy it.
After dropping the kids off at school, my husband, who also took the day off, was zealous about spending a day alone doing what we do best, which was fighting over the radio, being indecisive about what we want to eat and debating about seeing a movie because no matter how much money I save, put away or make, he seems to never think we have the money to be spending on a "lavish" matinee. Popcorn? Forget it! The dollar store is only a mile away, and we could get candy there and hide it in my purse. Yep. That's how we roll.

We stopped at a sushi restaurant that we had been eying for as long as we moved on this side of town. It was like a diamond in a haystack. Really.  It was this sparkly, gleaming, Japanese gem of a restaurant on the corner of Brown and Tan.  The foliage surrounding the restaurant made it seem even more out of place.  I had imagined someone sitting in a grassy plain, and saying ,"Like a good neighbor State Farm is there............with a sushi bar!"

Since the kids weren't with us, we ordered everything we wanted without having to share. We ordered sashimi without being concerned about sour faces and complaining. I didn't have to threaten anyone to eat their vegetables or else. I didn't even have to feel the annoyance of paying for a whole meal, when only half of it was nibbled on and the other half made into a make believe football field.  It was wonderful. The day was going better than planned, and we will had hours before the munchkins got out of school.

We decided to go to catch up on our reading. Barnes and Nobles was perfect. It was awesome because we got to sit around, drink coffee and read magazines and books until our eyes were tired.  It was like being at the library except the books didn't have that city-bus smell.

Finally, strolling through the mall I walked past a Chinese spa. It was a small hole in the wall, but when you went inside, it was tranquil with the sound of dripping water and serene music. All of the sudden, I felt my muscles and my back lock.  I needed a massage bad! I imagined myself melting into the skilled hands of the massage therapist, putting the icing on the cake of my perfect little day.

The tiny Asian woman at the front desk seemed very happy to see me, as if I had an appointment. I advised her I wanted a chair massage but I did not want it in the front of the store. Too many people were walking by, and I couldn't enjoy myself if I felt like I was being stared at.  They graciously accommodated me and walked me into a room, where more lullaby music was playing. I laid down on the table, and the minute she touched my neck, I felt like I was going to fall asleep.  Then, the touch changed.

Out of nowhere, the hands seemed a little rougher, and I heard gum being vigorously chewed very close to my ear. At first, I thought I had made the woman mad. Next I figured she hated her job. Finally, I realized this was an entirely different person. Great. I was too fat for her dainty little fingers, so they had to get the sumo wrestler to finish me off.

He had no mercy as he pinched and prodded me like he was tenderizing a steak. It went from a Chinese spa to a Swedish meat market. He certainly knew what he was doing, if I was a four hundred pound man. I had to remind him several times to ease up before he broke something.  He continuously chewed the gum directly in my here. I could hear every teeth imprint and pop and crackle. It was disgusting.

I admit, I felt relieved after words. It was never explained to me why they switched therapists, I mean I don't think it was personal, and I was too tired to ask. The man was as friendly as a teddy bear, so I left him a guilt-tip, but I will tell you, he would be better off working at Guantanamo Bay than in a mall.  One massage from him would get any terrorist talking.  I will say, you should never leave a massage appointment feeling like you have "survived" something, but the is just the way I felt on the way home ,where my husband had a strange smirk on his face. I almost wondered if he had something to do with the switch. I mean, could it be that he was upset that I made him wait in the lobby? Or that I made the diva request to be put in a special room? Either way, he got his revenge, I'm sure.

How Marilyn Monroe Almost Sold Me a Cruise to Europe.

Picture this. My kids in bed.  Husband in the other room studying the night away. My bath is taken, my room is clean and I have a pint of super-duper brownie ice-cream waiting for me in the freezer.  It's mommy's night, and since that usually means quiet night at home, so I rented myself an old movie to watch.

It was Gentlemen Prefer Blondes starring Marilyn Monroe. 

See, at the beginning of the movie, I was content with my sleepy husband and outspoken children while living in my rented room and driving a leased car. I was perfectly satisfied with eating chicken on most nights, and pretty okay with my home perm and un-acrylic nails.  My little show dog is as scruffy as a mutt, but he doesn't bark or bite, so I guess he's okay.  My laptop is old, and my television still looks like a giant computer monitor from the eighties. 

My faded pink flannel pajamas lay limp against my plump legs as I pressed play. I dug into my Ben and Jerry's chocolaty concoction and took a bite.

About half way into the movie, the strangest thing happened.  My room looked small, all of the sudden. My wedding ring that I often admired with love, suddenly looked like a piece of glass set in tin.  My carpet looked cheap, and my pajamas felt large and unlady-like. My fingers looked chubby and I lost my appetite for the chocolate. I stared at Marilyn, mouth agape. I wanted to be her! Everything about this movie screamed," You can get any thing or have anyone you want with the right figure and a blonde wig." What happened?

I watched the screen become bigger than life.  I was taken on a journey through diamonds tiaras and a plush cruise to Paris. I rode a platinum blonde ride through a wardrobe of the most beautiful clothes I have ever seen.  By the end of the movie, I hadn't even noticed my husband walking in the room.  I hopped on the internet and started googling international cruise prices and best times of years to go.  By the looks of it, I would have to save up for about five years before I could actually take one, but if I went by myself, I could go in two! 

Parrish the thought, I told myself. I have realized that Hollywood can make anything look grand and beautiful.  Hollywood can sway our thoughts anyway they want to, most of the time.  I am quite content with my life.  I love my family.  I love my job and I love my two mini vacations that my family takes every year, on the Mainland, no less. However, a movie that I sat down to enjoy, just to say I saw it, suddenly made me consider breaking myself to try and buy a glimpse of a life most of us only wish we could have.

In conclusion, I am the public; For a second I allowed the media to dictate to me whether or not my life was good enough, and I have decided to shake it off, and deny Hollywood the pleasure of turning me into a mindless dummie that allows the media to tell me what to wear, where to go and how to live my life.

 Movies are fun, but believe me when I tell you, if you don't know how to draw the line between real life and fantasy, you may not want to watch them for a while.

Facebook: The Era of Acceptable Stalking

There was a time where the actions that we take on Facebook were socially awkward. Reaching out to a long lost pal. Looking up, then staring at a profile picture of your ex, who was now happily married, proud parented and is successfully putting your ideas about how you are better off without them to shame.

 Myspace and Facebook have not only changed the way we catch up; It has changed the way we get together, vacation, go to school, look at school, how we date, how we bully, how we vent and and even how we lose weight. (Ever see obnoxious, real-time-all-the-time updates to the point where you have to hide someone because, ENOUGH ALREADY!?)

Even larger than life corporations are using the social network as a way to cut corners with the background check. ( “Screw paying for a background check! Check Facebook, Bob! Well looky here…..this person finds the government bailout despicable and they hate corporations that take advantage of the small people. Well, we took advantage of the bailout, therefore this idiot isn’t the right fit for our organization. See ya, Jerry No Job!” )

Yes, this is sadly happening everyday to some ding-dong that hasn't figured out how to use the privacy settings.

Yet, what about us self-proclaimed normal people, that out of the blue want to check up on an old bestie from like, seventh grade? Or let curiosity get the best of us and decide to check up on an old boyfriend or girlfriend from a time where Casey Kasem was announcing a new single by a fresh new face named Vanilla Ice? (Doh-doh-doh-doh-doh- doh-dum) What about that crazy person that everyone knew would end up in trouble or dead? Were you right? How did they turn out? We can now take passing curiosity to the next level, thanks to social networking.

In the past, going through the trouble of finding these people was weird. We used to have to wait until high school reunion time to find out our burning questions.  We are now becoming obsessed with finding our past and even worse, leading them to believe we have these perfect lives that look just like our profile pictures. Anyone we think of from the popular cheerleader to the technerd from chemistry class, we will look them up, and then request them as a friend. With Facebook, it really is the more the merrier. I almost feel like I have to be embarrassed that I only have 60 friends. I mean, out of those 60 people, two are celebrities I don’t know, and a handful of them I speak to on a daily basis. Others, are my grandparents, that help make up the small population of "friends" that I have on my page. 

Oh, but Whoah! I see some of my friends with three and four hundred people on their page. It’s unreal to me! I mean, I have moved around a lot, and I am not really the keep-in-touch type, but four hundred friends? How do you keep up? Good grief, how many feelings do you hurt around Christmas time? Where did you have time to cultivate all those relationships? Is it now normal to keep in touch with every person you have ever come in contact with? I don’t know. I always felt like I had just enough friends, as I am some what of a loner, but thanks to Facebook, I certainly feel like I am doing something wrong.  May be I should have brought some cookies to the office meeting.  May be I could have been a little nicer to the kids in band. I mean, compared to some people, sixty friends is below standard.

Facebook has also become the ultimate Diss-Machine.  The worst feeling in the world is to be deleted off a “friends” page. It is the highest form of insult. A slap in the face. Delete or be deleted, if you are in a tiff with someone. Oh, you don’t want to get deleted first. There is no acceptable retaliation for it.
See, on Myspace, the ultimate insult was getting moved from a top spot. The value of your friendship was based on how many pictures down the row you were, and if you got moved, heads were gonna roll! You know I moved someone down from first to third place on my top friends list once, (hello, we are talking adults here) and the next day I was completely deleted from their account and they wouldn’t talk to me. HELLO! When we made up, we accepted each other as a friend again, but it was never the same. I never made it to his top twelve, and I was too stubborn to let him be on mine. Needless to say, the friendship totally changed. Facebook?  You simply get deleted.  Enough said.  And there is nothing you can do about it.

I experimented last week, and decided to find some old friends from eighth grade. That’s right. I got caught up. Well, to my surprise, the one I thought hated me not only wrote back but she added me as a friend. The ones that I was really close to never replied. Go figure! Was I insulted? You bet your mama I was! My feelings, my tangible, grown-up and sophisticated feelings were all butt-hurt because my eigth grade buddies didn’t write me back! I mean, it could have been because my last name is different, my face is a lot clearer, more defined or may be they plain just didn’t remember me. It is also a possibility that they thought it was completely weird for me to contact them after, um fifteen years, to say hello, remember me? Let’s be friends! Well, I will tell you, I ain’t doin’ that again! I have learned, thanks to the Facebook experience, that I do not handle cyber-rejection well AT ALL. I mean, I’m over it, however I do still wonder if they do ever get back to me, will I retaliate by not replying? Will I resist the urge to start looking for more people to contact through their lists? Am I becoming a Facebook stalker? I think not! I have learned my lesson, honey! I am going to stick to using Facebook to blast out random thoughts and talk to my cousins and family members that live elsewhere, and keep it at that. Case closed. Until next time……………

The Hair

Picture it. Dallas, 2010 on a cloudy and muggy June morning. A young woman with a hot mess of a bird’s nest on top of her head walks up to me, and in a deeper than Barry White’s voice, she asks me ”Who does your hair?” Her accent sends out a microburst of Russia.

Of course, I am flattered, as my extensions are soon to expire and my quirky mixed girl style is slowly transitioning in to the Baby Jane, where my curls creepily stay still like old Barbie doll hair.

I look at my desk, mounds of paper piling up, my phone ringing off the hook with clients asking the same obvious questions day after day, then saying things like,”Oh, that’s right. I’m such an idiot! Hah. Sorry to bother you!”

Really? They aren’t sorry at all. They believe my direct line is for their personal use so I can bail them out of a stupid mistake that they don’t want their bosses or clients to find out about. Just another day at Big Huge Bank of Nunya.

Anyway, I took a sip of my coffee, which at that time felt like a warm cup of hug. I don’t drink, so there is no after work martini for me. My coffee is the drink that puts me back on track, and boy you wouldn’t like me if I don’t get it in the morning. There have been times where my husband drove like his grandmother to get me to work, sacrificing Starbucks on the way leaving me a choice of break-room sludge or nothing. I wouldn’t dare touch the coffee in the break room. Not after seeing Busted and Disgusted, that creepy TV show that just gives us all more stuff to worry about while eating in our day to day environment. Just the thought of one of our many disgruntled workers peeing in the Joe or something worse keeps me from trying the coffee.  I ended up going a whole six hours, head ache and all, without my coffee. I think that was the day I made a bee line for the parking lot exit, cutting off one of my co-workers, who has been giving me stink-eye ever since.

Twelve instant messages, five files and twenty one sips later, I see Deep Voice, purposely walking by my desk several times before I notice MY hair on her head!   She just ran out and bought the closest thing she could find to my weave!  On top of that, she was wearing it all wrong.  She didn't even bother blending the faux hair with the real hair. She just kind of threw it together even thought the sleek and shiny new hair contrasted with her dull and frizzy mane. She didn't seem to mind that you could see all of the tracks.  So wrong. Tracks and bonds that show are a no-go. An absolute don’t.

She kept walking past my desk and flicking it off her shoulder like a little black girl that is obessed with her newly permed hair. I remember my first hair relaxer, so I have been through that phase, where I couldn't beleive my hair actually moved and swung with the breeze(at least until the new growth came in.  At that point, I was back to  looking like  Janet Jackson when she was Penny on Good Times.  Thanks to my mother’s lack of maintenance skills, as she had good hair, and didn’tunderstand my nap-factor, my locks didn’t even make it a week before they began to look like shredded wood.)

Moving on; this heifer was prancing around the office, new outfit, my hair and way too much make-up on totally attempting to outdo my Do! Now, this may be immature, but no matter how old or how classy you think you are, a girl/lady/woman/elder/duchess/queen/empress/Condoleezza Rice never takes it lightly when a woman steals her style, then attempts to make it better. Even if they don’t succeed at making it better. Look, I don’t care who you are, the little child in you will moonwalk its way into your head causing you to get extremely annoyed. Now, nothing is more flattering than imitation, right? However, that is only if the imitation is a gesture of a compliment, not a result of spying on someone’s digs, then duplicating and pretending it was your own! I will be straightening my hair, or cutting it all off ala Halle Berry cirque Boomerang. Hah! I would like to see you pull that one off, Miss Barrywhite!

Then a small, still voice says,” Is it really that serious? I mean, what is the matter with you? Are you on something? May be we should skip the coffee today. “

And I realize, I was thinking out loud, and the voice is real. It was my husband, who on many occasions has caught and rescued me from my vivid daydreams before I cross over into insanity.

My Worries about the Food Guys.

Is there anyone else who, for crying out loud, who is worried about the Foodies on the Travel channel and Food Network?  You know the ones; Charismatic, funny and bold?  They are all about the attention, and even more so: THE FOOD.  We sit back, with our American mouths watering, envying every moment that one of these Foodies gets to taste the sweetest, most savory, crispiest or some other extreme form of grub.  We promise ourselves and those who are watching with us, that one day, we are going to travel down to Fay's Diner in Chatmookansas to taste her world famous, hole in the wall, cherry-cream-spicy-bacon cake.  As the Foodies tell us how much we "gotta try it", we eat up every word, go to the kitchen and get something to snack on.  Hey, if we can't get our hands on Delia's Famous Fried breakfast wrap, at least we can have a crunchy bowl of chips to pass the time. 

I do this.  My husband and I sit during dinner, with our children, and watch the Foodies tease us with dreams of pineapple turnovers and barbecue that will make you slap your knees because it's just that great.  We all wonder if there is a location here in our own state, and can we possible make a trip there for the weekend.

Well, today while I was eating my homemade beef stew, Adam Richman joined me for dinner by taking on the Great Taco Challenge at Uncle Julio's or Mama Tia's or wherever he was.  I lost my appetite.  It wasn't because it was disgusting to see him shoveling mounds of dead meat and cheese into his mouth, his eyes glazed over with insanity. It was because I wondered how much can the human system take before it begins to break down?  I mean, I don't know all the details as far as how long this guy has been eating mounds of greasy fried stuff for a living or how many laxatives he takes to get the stuff out.  I just know that I see at least three or four episodes everyday, where he tackles challenges that include pounds of fried meat, smothered in globs of thick and creamy sauce and then washes it down with....vitamins? Celery? Fresh spinach? Nah. How about another challenge, where even the pigs are looking in the window asking him to slow down?

  I mean, I can see if once a year, he ate a whole turkey or polished off a rack of lamb, without any help. I don't see how it is humanly possible to go on and make a living from inhaling enough meat to feed a lion for a month, on a regular basis.  You would be delusional to think that if this guy keeps on, we will not see him on the news because he landed himself in the hospital while choking on a piece of livestock.  Now, of course I don't want to see that happen to the poor goof ball, but we tend to not think about television personalities as real people.  They are just entertainment. Not so.

 I think about what that guy goes through on the toilet after a round of habanero chicken wings with no chaser. It's unimaginable.  Do you see what I am saying?  Dear Adam,  I think your show is great, however I would like to see you on a quest to look for the most savory, scrumptious and biggest orange or banana once in a while.  Yes, it would be boring, but I bet you need a colon cleansing like nobody's business.  Does anyone else agree? I mean, I wouldn't watch it, but I would feel better if I knew at least one episode was dedicated to a vegetable rather than doing another pursuit of the tastiest artery-clogger on a stick.

Diet by Default

             

                                                     
So today, they were having a going away party for a beloved member of the staff who is starting a new adventure. Good for her. I only met her a couple of times, but she was pleasant enough, so I decided to support her by having a piece of her cake.


Well, I had a load of work to do on my desk. Literally, my cubicle looked like Chicago skyscrapers of paper. About this time, I usually get attacked with a sweet-tooth and can’t get to the vending machine fast enough, so this good-bye cake was perfect.

I walked over to crowd of people hovering around the guest of honor and her massive cake. She was slowly opening presents and reminiscing about the good times and how excited she was about moving on to a new adventure. I thought it was sweet, however , I really wanted a piece of cake, and I could feel the tug of waiting emails and impatient clients needing their Friday answers to whatever deadline they had and yada yada.

I stood there in the background, no one noticing me, as I literally sit in my tiny corner of the world, an occasional gust of wind and a tumble week passing by. I liked the quiet, but for as much work as I do, you would think they would at least remember my name. If I wore a different wig to work, I wouldn’t be surprised if they asked for my ID. That is how popular I am.

I waited and waited for the cake, starting to feel like I was in a soup line. Great, she finally finished going through her gifts, and was now cutting the first piece for herself. Aww. That’s nice. Very sentimental.

Then it was on to the next lady who took over cutting bite sized pieces for everyone. She cut slowly, dipping the knife in a lukewarm cup of water every single time. Ok, eew. She didn’t even wipe it off. May be it was just water, but it looked weird and cloudy. It’s like when Starbucks stirs your drinks for you with a spoon they took out of a bowl of sanitizer. Ok, thanks for being clean, but about a teaspoon of sanitizer went into my drink because you didn’t wipe it off, idiot.

At this point, my stomach started grumbling, as I have had this cake before, and it wasn’t half bad. They got the same cake for birthdays and any other celebration that happened in the building. I watched in agony as Slowpoke continued to cut and dip and cut and dip. Then came the turning point, my good manners threatening to walk out on me.

She laughed and giggled directly over the cake, not only making her cut even slower, but allowing her laughing-bi-particles to fly right on top of the frosting. Okay, forget it! I didn’t even want it anymore, after that. Just forget it. I will pretend I had some willpower to say no to this carb-a-licious treat, when in actuality, I just didn’t feel like torturing myself with every bite, wondering if Slowpoke’s drool was on it!

Attack of the Man with Ice Cream Cone

I was driving on the freeway, coffee in the console, radio blasting the Good News and my air conditioner gently reminding me that I am quite fortunate to have it.


I get to the bottle-neck, where my exit turns into yet another freeway, and out of the blue, some idiot with an ice-cream cone zooms by to pass me on the shoulder, almost swiping my car. Apparently he had ticked off some of the other drivers because all of the sudden this Dallas traffic jam turned into New York City during rush hour.

I turned off The Good News, as I didn’t feel worthy to listen to it as all kinds of crazy thoughts flew through my head. I wanted my own revenge, hopefully getting a chance to cut him off or drive by and wrinkle my nose at him in disgust, but that’s all. I moved here from L.A., and even I know not to get too involved in road rage drama, as it can turn deadly at any given moment. Oh, and I could never yell out of the car window. No way! I just think screaming out of a car window is so tacky. You can’t even hear what the person is saying, especially if your window is up. People who scream out of car windows look like angry Mimes with no make-up on.

So as this maniac proceeded to try and get in to where the bottle neck was becoming wider, he took a dramatic lick from his tiny ice cream cone! What? Is he serious? I had a good enough look at him to see that he was a large, hairy, dark man, like Stromboli from Pinocchio. The windows on his big, stupid pick-up weren’t tinted. Everything about him was Huge. Huge tires. Huge hands. Huge head. Huge beard.

Tiny ice-cream cone.

Finally, the traffic crowd rebelled and refused to let him in. It was my turn to get my revenge. I planned to speed up so there was no space between me and the other car. You know; not let him in as he pathetically sat on the shoulder of the freeway wondering why he was getting the cold-shoulder (pun intended). I decided to turn my radio back up, as I wasn’t angry anymore because apparently this idiot was getting what he deserved. I calmed down just as Pastor Christopher asked his congregation where the love was. Now I really felt bad, so I decided to let this ice-cream licking bandit go ahead of me. The people behind me beeped their horns in disgust as I betrayed them, but I didn’t care. Stromboli learned his lesson, I thought.

I watched him get in front of me, didn’t even waive me thank you. Jerk.

Then I watched him obnoxiously speed up and cut someone else off and he flung the ice-cream cone out of the window! Well, if this isn’t justice I don’t know what is; the ice-cream cone landed right on the windshield of a Dallas police car. Telling from how fast that police car pulled that moron over, I can tell you, he probably wasn’t listening to Pastor Christopher on the radio!