Tuesday, March 30, 2010
They Make Larry Craig Look Like Billy Graham
What the hell? Remember the good ole days when a celebrity affair was classy? One man with a nagging wife. One whore with Daddy issues. In the really interesting cases, there was a Senator blowing a 17 year-old page or tap dancing in the Minneapolis Airport bathroom. Ah, simpler times. Nowadays, when the news breaks that a celebrity has cheated, it immediately turns into a clown car of sluts--each with a more intricate story than the one before. Tiger Woods had 12 mistresses and Jesse James had 4, and those are just the ones we found out about. Tiger was with a porn star. Jesse was with a neo-Nazi white supremacist. Reille Hunter did a photo-shoot dressed like Jenna Jameson at church. There's no dignity to it anymore. No discretion. Marilyn Monroe, the country's biggest movie star, in all likelihood had an affair with JFK, America's most beloved President until Black Jesus...I mean Obama. And to this day, we can't be sure, because that pill-head and Bullseye McGee knew how to keep their mouths shut. Just the thought of it makes me nostalgic.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
"Don't Get An Erection!"
I love getting massages, with the exception of this one time when I used my friend Jaime's gift certificate and went to a male masseur, which I have no problem with in general. However, this man was old and super creepy and to this day, I don't know if he was a Licensed Massage Therapist (LMT). Anyways, his "studio" was in the back of this old musty shit hole strip mall. Unlike all the massages I had gotten previously and all the ones I've gotten since, this man's massage did not include a sheet for me to lie under. I can't remember if there was the usual tranquil music or not, but in any case, it was me lying uncovered in my boxer briefs on a table while this man poked and prodded me with his bony old fingers. There was no skill to it--just pain. I was like that episode of Friends where Ross pretended to be a massage therapist, and he beat the client with wooden kitchen spoons and rolled a Tonka truck across his back, except this wasn't comedic--it was somewhere in between Hostel and Dateline: To Catch a Predator. The worst part was while most LMTs tuck the sheet into the top of your underwear and pull it down maybe an inch to have plenty of room to massage your lower back, Uncle Creepy (having no sheet in his way to begin with) pulled my boxer briefs much further down, exposing half of my ass. I've never been so glad to leave somewhere as when I left his "studio" that day!
Anyways, I didn't let that one bad experience put me off spending excessive amounts of money that I don't have on a luxury service that I don't need :) And since she was running a "Tax Season Special" for the accounting firm where I work, I decided to take advantage of the $40 hour long deep-tissue massage that was being offered. My appointment was yesterday morning and when I arrived in front of an old house that is currently being used as a construction company's business office, I immediately had post-traumatic stress disorder flashbacks to my hour of hell with Uncle Creepy. But when the LMT arrived, she led me to her studio on the back side of the house, which was well-appointed and looked as a massage studio should. I had made sure she was actually licensed before scheduling the appointment, and the fact that she was wearing something akin to scrubs made me feel at ease.
The massage began, and thankfully it included a dimly lit room and flute music played over the sound of ocean waves. Now, despite the peaceful environment, my mind is working every waking hour. There is no transcendent place where I let my mind wander and relax. No, I was deciding where to go for lunch afterwards and thinking about the sitcom pilot I'm writing for Paula Deen. So I kept trying to push these thoughts out of my mind and focus on relaxing. And let me just say that the massage was intentionally not relaxing; I chose deep-tissue over Swedish and then asked for a lot of pressure. I was trying to loosen my muscles and force out the toxins that have built up from my diet of Wendy's spicy chicken sandwiches and Tahitian vanilla bean gelato and a lack of exercise. By the way, the intake form I had to fill out before the massage asked what type of exercise I participate in and how often; I wrote "NONE/NEVER."
So I finally get the practical thoughts out of my head, which was a huge mistake. Because then my outlandish comedy mind kicked in. I became concerned that this girl might ask if I wanted a happy ending, and while this girl was only somewhat cute (barring the tattoos), I couldn't help but let my mind wander down that road. But 10 seconds in, I was yelling at myself in my head "Stop it now before it gets out of control! Don't get an erection! Don't get an erection! Think of dead bodies and baseball!" So then I start smiling at the ridiculousness of my life and my thought process (and I immediately started drafting this blog in my head). Thank God my face was in the face hole on the massage table because I had this huge cat-that-swallowed-the-canary grin on my face!
So later I had to roll over--and no worries: this is not an erection story. But I did get to thinking about how I had to talk myself out of letting my mind wander about the happy ending and I wanted to laugh and I could feel myself beginning to smile--not a sexual smile, but a my-life-is-an-episode-of-Everybody-Loves-Raymond smile--so then I'm biting my lip so I don't look like a big weirdo. It was just bizarre, as is most of my life.
On a side-note, she told me to drink lots of water for the rest of the day; of course I didn't because I hate water, and I've felt flu-like symptoms ever since, including nausea and exhaustion, so FYI: Do drink lots of water after a deep-tissue massage; they're not kidding when they tell you that.
Anyways, I didn't let that one bad experience put me off spending excessive amounts of money that I don't have on a luxury service that I don't need :) And since she was running a "Tax Season Special" for the accounting firm where I work, I decided to take advantage of the $40 hour long deep-tissue massage that was being offered. My appointment was yesterday morning and when I arrived in front of an old house that is currently being used as a construction company's business office, I immediately had post-traumatic stress disorder flashbacks to my hour of hell with Uncle Creepy. But when the LMT arrived, she led me to her studio on the back side of the house, which was well-appointed and looked as a massage studio should. I had made sure she was actually licensed before scheduling the appointment, and the fact that she was wearing something akin to scrubs made me feel at ease.
The massage began, and thankfully it included a dimly lit room and flute music played over the sound of ocean waves. Now, despite the peaceful environment, my mind is working every waking hour. There is no transcendent place where I let my mind wander and relax. No, I was deciding where to go for lunch afterwards and thinking about the sitcom pilot I'm writing for Paula Deen. So I kept trying to push these thoughts out of my mind and focus on relaxing. And let me just say that the massage was intentionally not relaxing; I chose deep-tissue over Swedish and then asked for a lot of pressure. I was trying to loosen my muscles and force out the toxins that have built up from my diet of Wendy's spicy chicken sandwiches and Tahitian vanilla bean gelato and a lack of exercise. By the way, the intake form I had to fill out before the massage asked what type of exercise I participate in and how often; I wrote "NONE/NEVER."
So I finally get the practical thoughts out of my head, which was a huge mistake. Because then my outlandish comedy mind kicked in. I became concerned that this girl might ask if I wanted a happy ending, and while this girl was only somewhat cute (barring the tattoos), I couldn't help but let my mind wander down that road. But 10 seconds in, I was yelling at myself in my head "Stop it now before it gets out of control! Don't get an erection! Don't get an erection! Think of dead bodies and baseball!" So then I start smiling at the ridiculousness of my life and my thought process (and I immediately started drafting this blog in my head). Thank God my face was in the face hole on the massage table because I had this huge cat-that-swallowed-the-canary grin on my face!
So later I had to roll over--and no worries: this is not an erection story. But I did get to thinking about how I had to talk myself out of letting my mind wander about the happy ending and I wanted to laugh and I could feel myself beginning to smile--not a sexual smile, but a my-life-is-an-episode-of-Everybody-Loves-Raymond smile--so then I'm biting my lip so I don't look like a big weirdo. It was just bizarre, as is most of my life.
On a side-note, she told me to drink lots of water for the rest of the day; of course I didn't because I hate water, and I've felt flu-like symptoms ever since, including nausea and exhaustion, so FYI: Do drink lots of water after a deep-tissue massage; they're not kidding when they tell you that.
Saturday, March 6, 2010
I'm the White Oprah
I'm the white Oprah for two reasons: 1) I participated in meatless Mondays once about 2 weeks ago. If you're unfamiliar with this, it's a simple concept: for health benefits, you go without meat one day a week, and since Monday provided alliteration, that was the day they chose to abstain. As any meat-eater might guess, it freaking sucks. It especially sucks for me because my diet is built on four food groups: meat, bread, cheese, and sugar. But I suffered through it, and through my triumph of the human spirit, I survived, and now I'm just like Oprah because this is something she pretends to do while sneaking hot wings in her dressing room...allegedly.
The other reason that I'm the white Oprah has to do with my tax refund. Remember that episode a few years ago when both Oprah and her audience were more ridiculous than usual because she gave everyone in the studio a free car? And then the clip that was played on all the news programs and parodied on countless shows was the clip of Oprah pointing at people individually and screaming "And you get a car! And you get a car! And you get a car!" and all the soccer moms and the old ladies and the gays in the audience were holding each other and jumping up and down and crying. It was event television.
Anyways, I got my federal tax refund yesterday, so now I get to point to Express, Discover, my roommate who I owe for utilities, and my friend who paid for our beach rental for Memorial Day, and I get to scream at them: "And you get a check! And you get a check! And you get a check!" I'm hoping for the same reaction of Oprah's audience, but only time will tell.
The other reason that I'm the white Oprah has to do with my tax refund. Remember that episode a few years ago when both Oprah and her audience were more ridiculous than usual because she gave everyone in the studio a free car? And then the clip that was played on all the news programs and parodied on countless shows was the clip of Oprah pointing at people individually and screaming "And you get a car! And you get a car! And you get a car!" and all the soccer moms and the old ladies and the gays in the audience were holding each other and jumping up and down and crying. It was event television.
Anyways, I got my federal tax refund yesterday, so now I get to point to Express, Discover, my roommate who I owe for utilities, and my friend who paid for our beach rental for Memorial Day, and I get to scream at them: "And you get a check! And you get a check! And you get a check!" I'm hoping for the same reaction of Oprah's audience, but only time will tell.
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