Study: Cute Pics Improve Work Skills

Study: Cute Pics Improve Work Skills

Seriously? People invested time and money on this ridiculous study, while people die of cancer and battle a litany of chronic ailments. Doesn't Japan have more pressing matters to attend to like whale poaching, tsunamis, and, oh I don't know, nuclear radiation leeching into their food and water sources?

Here's a brilliant idea, instead of wasting company resources by surfing the web and looking at pictures, how about getting back to work. How about that?

Alright, so maybe the kitten's cute, and maybe there's some microscopically inexplicable link to looking at cute pictures of babies or other portrayals of random cuteness, and temporarily improved dexterity on an operation game set. But I doubt we need actual surgeons ogling over puppies right before surgery in hopes of enhancing surgical performance. I'd rather they stick to reading my fucking medical chart and x-rays, but that's just me. I can be a little picky at times.

The study also concluded that cute features induced careful behavioral tendencies, "which is beneficial in specific situations, such as driving..." Driving? How the hell did they test that? It didn't seem to prevent the girl with the little Dachshund in her lap from texting and subsequently swerving into my lane (twice) during rush hour traffic this morning.

Then again, I did manage to write an entire blog post today. Shit, maybe it does work...

Sudden Impact

You know how in the movies when different law enforcement agencies fight over jurisdiction and the overseeing of a particular crime scene? Well, I’ve finally discovered why this happens.

I was on my way home from work the other day when I witnessed a particularly hair rising incident. I was driving by a elderly cyclist, when she suddenly started wobbling and losing control. I continued to watch her in my rear view mirror, and sure enough, she toppled over, falling on her right side as she made contact with the unrelenting cement. Her body awkwardly absorbed the impact as she collapsed. Her unprotected head, obediently complying with the laws of inertia, collided with the sidewalk with a bone-crushing thud.

Without a moment’s hesitation, I pulled over, flicked on my hazards, and double-timed it to the woman to make sure that she was okay. When I reached her, she was sitting up with her hand lightly palpating the area of her head from which blood was gushing forth. Not necessarily, a Grey’s Anatomy geyser of spewing death, but more like a UFC knee to the forehead gash that would undoubtedly require a few stitches.  I asked her a few questions like whether she needed me to call an ambulance, and if she was okay, as I contemplated running back to the car for my first aid kit. By then, another motorist had approached and handed me a towel, which I was going to put on the wound and apply pressure. Before I could use the towel and ask the other Samaritan, who was holding his cell phone to call 911, an off duty, hot shot, fire-house paramedic couple came barreling in. The guy told us to step back as he snatched the towel, applied it to the lady’s head, while the girl knelt in front of the slightly disoriented woman and began to hurl a barrage of questions at her.

Now, I’m by no means a doctor, nurse, paramedic, or even a flight attendant , but applying first aid and CPR is not outside my scope of practice. In fact, I have to certify in both in order to keep my National Certification and local licensing current, as well as to remain eligible to work for my employer. I’m not inept at applying basic first aid. Thank you fucking power ranger paramedics, because God only knows how I may have let this lady bleed out had you not swooped in and held a towel to her head as you verbally assaulted her with questions in such rapid succession that she barely had time to respond. Questions are supposed to help you assess the degree of head trauma, not induce unconsciousness.

Eventually, the woman’s husband, who was a couple hundred meters in the rear, showed up and answered the paramedic’s questions concerning his wife’s medical history and how she fell. They also asked the owner of the towel to describe what had happened. I, however, the one who was essentially right next to her when she fell, and who saw everything unfold, was completely ignored. Of course, ignore the brown man.

After realizing that I was not needed, I jogged back to my car and joined the highway’s drove of homebound commuters. 

It was not until I began reflecting on the event, going over all of my action’s and thought processes did I realize how upset I was about how the paramedics handled the situation. I understand the importance of immediate medical response, but of equal and sometimes even more significance, is the necessity to gather vital information prior to jumping into action. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad they showed up, but they should have immediately identified who they were and assessed the scene prior to playing hero. Unless you’re Derek Shepherd, or Captain James T. Kirk, you need to slow your roll.

Pet Peeve # 419

I understand the concept of getting a massage early in the morning and not having showered, (okay, well not really) but if you're feet look like you've been treading through soot, or like you've been using them to dig for oil, then we've got a problem. The spa has amenities, extremely nice ones I might add, and you should use them. Also, for your convenience, we provide expensive, aromatic body washes infused with all kinds of herbs and plant extracts from places I can't even pronounce. (So they must be good) If you don't have the decency to take a shower, in the name of all things holy, at least rinse off your dirty ass feet. If I pull back the sheet to discover filth covered soles, I guarantee two things are going to happen: I will massage them thoroughly while I try not to gag, and then I will thoroughly massage your face (with a smug grin). Just my way of giving back.

By the way, the same goes for your ass. The last thing I want to experience while I'm administering a forearm glide down the length of your back, as I contemplate what I'm going to have for lunch, is catching a whiff of pungent, putrid, rancid ass crack. The only thing I hate more than people who sit in the hot tub before a massage and force me smell their noxious chlorine fumes (paired with sweat and body funk) for an hour, is rank ass. Trust me, if there was a way I could make you smell your own ass without getting fired, I would have figured it out by now. Do us both a favor, just take a damn shower.

While we're on the topic of ass and feet funk, let me take a quick moment to also express another bane of my profession, spray on tans. I'm not really sure what possesses people to get a spray tan BEFORE getting a massage, but allow me a quick moment to eloquently, professionally, and respectfully illustrate my heartfelt concern........don't fucking do it. You smell like a tamale of burnt flesh rolled in paprika. Not only would I prefer you didn't expose me to your hazardous, fake tan vapors, but the filmy residue turns my sheets orange and is a bitch to get off my hands. If you want to accelerate the melanoma process, by all means don't let me stop you beef jerky. Just have the decency to pursue skin cancer AFTER a massage.

Pet Peeve #811

People who don't take off their jewelry before a massage. I am not Jacob, or a pawn shop; I don't care how big the rock your husband got you is, you don't need to know what time it is, and no, I don't think your anklet is cute. Take it off. Pretty Please. With a fucking cherry on top.

If you can afford my prices, I already know you have money. Perhaps you're accustomed to going to lesser massage therapists, but when you come to me, you need to be as naked as the day you were born. Just like any other artist, I too need a clean canvas. One of the things that sets me apart from other therapists are my transitions (and my brownness). It's the one element of massage that is often overlooked, but is essential in slowing a busy mind, or turning it off altogether.

What often separates a good massage from a phenomenal one, is the ability to coax the mind into timelessness. The way to do that is to massage in a way that appears seamless. Seamlessness is achieved when the client's mind can no longer distinguish between elbows, hands, knuckles, palms, or forearms and the key is in transitioning. Transitions occur when you go from one tool to another, or between different strokes as it were, without a break in contact, speed, depth, or rhythm. However, when I have to maneuver around jewelry, snapping g-strings, or cascading hair, the massage is constantly interrupted and loses its flow. Don't get me wrong, you'll still get good work, but for the same price, wouldn't you prefer perfection?

Science has confirmed the myriad benefits of massage, but one that is rarely mentioned is Alpha waves. The brain emits Alpha waves when in rest or meditation. People who have more Alpha brain waves have less anxiety. Anxiety and stress reduce the strength of our immune systems. Ergo, having more Alpha waves could mean less anxiety and, correspondingly, stronger immune systems. An amazing massage with expert transitions, (and no obstructions) can optimize the duration of Alpha wave emission and in turn grant you greater results. In short, take your shit off and let me work my mojo. You'll thank me in the end......they always do.

Three Cups of Tea

Working in a luxury resort has many perks, one being that I get to meet and work on celebrities. Unfortunately, we have a very specific protocol to follow which limits the interaction we can have with our clients, putting a significant damper on my ability to find out the most coveted secrets in life, such as who will be leaving the cast of Gray's Anatomy, what new nursing show will emerge, and if Chuck and Blaire will reunite. I am, however, privy to other sources of intrigue, with the plethora of affluent eccentrics I meet, that love to talk about their work.

Sometimes, when the stars align just right, I am blessed with opportunities to work on real genuine earth shakers. People who are special beyond belief, people who are grounded, intelligent, and humble; humanitarians who make the world a better place, people. . . . . like Greg Mortenson.

Greg Mortenson has been promoting education and literacy for children in remote villages in Afghanistan and Pakistan for over 15 years. He speaks at over 125 schools a year, and briefs U.S. Marines on Afghan customs and traditions prior to their deployment. He wrote the number one New York Times best seller, Three Cups of Tea, that chronicles his failed attempt to summit K2, the second highest peak after Everest, that is found in the Himalayan mountain ridge in Pakistan. During his descent, he becomes lost without food or shelter and roaming aimlessly on the verge of starvation. Eventually, he stumbles upon a remote village in Pakistan, where he is nursed back to health and vows to return to build the impoverished town a school. What follows, is the recount of the trials and tribulations of a man determined to spread literacy to a nation bound by thousands of years of tradition and violently skeptical towards Americans.

Three Cups of Tea, is is absolutely amazing and is only surpassed by Greg's inexorable passion for building schools. You can learn more about the book, and Greg, here.

I cannot accurately express how honored I was to be his therapist the day he came into my spa. When I saw the name of my first guest that morning, I thought it peculiar that it was similar to the famous author, but dismissed it as coincidence. All doubt was removed when I went to greet him. Greg (as he insisted I call him) had an enormous frame, unmistakable smile, and although soft spoken, had a commanding presence. I am not easily starstruck, but in this case, I was as giddy as a teenager on a first date.

During the massage, we engaged in some of the most riveting conversation I have ever had. I asked him questions about his adventures, and listened to him talk about his passion and expand upon events in the book. I couldn't believe that I was actually talking to this man, it was so surreal. At times, I felt like a journalist in an exclusive interview. We talked about his family, current projects, and the eminent arrival of his second book. Greg and I also talked about other books we liked, and he told me about meeting Khaled Hosseini, the author of Kite Runner and A Thousand Splendid Suns (Both fantastic books by the way).

Unfortunately, the hour went by all too quickly, but I am so grateful that I had the opportunity to meet and spend time with such an incredible and inspirational person. He was so humble and respectful, and thanked me profusely for my work. By the time I had escorted Greg back to the relaxation room, I knew that I had experienced one of the most memorable days in my life. It's not everyday that you get an opportunity to meet a modern day Gandhi.

Die Hard

As you all know, my favorite month of year is finally here. An entire month dedicated to one of God's greatest masterpieces. A month greater than the ones that celebrate the taking discovery of America, its independence, or the heritage of its citizens. An entire month in which I can shout from the rooftops, professing my undying love for breasts and not be thought mad. Okay, well maybe it's too late for that.

Anyway, instead of ranting about my reverence for boobs, or dazzling you with tales of my mammiferous adventures, I will instead tell you about a warrior that I met over the weekend. On Saturday, I worked on the best client I've ever had, hands down. Her skin was not smooth, youthful, or taught. Her muscles were not perfectly sculptured and toned from countless spinning classes or pilates. Her head was not adorned with long locks of flowing, vibrant hair. As a matter of fact, she was old and arthritic. Her skin hung loosely over her emaciated muscles and brittle frame. Her hair was thin and scarce, but her soul, her soul was one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen. Her smile was more glorious than a thousand sunsets, and her eyes sparkled like cascading waterfalls of diamonds. She may have stood no taller than 5 feet, but her heart was bigger than a mountain's.

This elderly client who slowly rose to greet me, smiled warmly as she shook my hand. Immediately I could sense her energy and calming presence. Her eyes glimmered like the ones from a person that has seen what so many seek. I led her to my room as she quietly shuffled behind me, fighting to walk as gracefully as her tired joints would allow. I was thankful that I was assigned the first room, because I wondered how long it would have taken had we needed to trek the entire distance of a hallway spanning twenty of them. During the massage, I was told a stupendous story of survival. A tale of many battles. A war of epic proportions. Therein, I discovered truly what people can be made of. This woman of 83 years of age, had joint crippling arthritis, a knee replaced (twice), brain surgery to implant a shunt with a microprocessor designed to drain the fluid in her brain that would assist her body in keeping its balance, (a procedure found necessary only after having fallen down a flight of stairs) and she had a double mastectomy to overcome breast cancer. To top this all off ladies and gentlemen, (yes there's more) some how, scar tissue left over from the surgery had become malignant due to the radiation treatments and maliciously attacked her lungs, from which, the doctor's had to remove a generous portion. Needless to say, her voice was a little raspy and her breathing labored and shallow.

However, her difficulty in breathing could not suppress her humor or wit. Her aches could not bind her will nor could her pains stifle her hope. She spoke so highly of all who cared after her. She knew the names of all her doctors and praised their skill and eagerness to help. She spoke of all her surgeries as a war general speaks of victorious battles. She shared her stories. I listened as though being told the location of the Holy Grail. She talked of how she now volunteers at the very hospital that so many of us would have never wanted to revisit. I was amazed.

When most people would have given up, she walked a treadmill. When most people would have cursed God, she hired a personal trainer to visit 3 times a week. When most of us would have refused to lift a finger, she lifted weights, and exercised in her pool. Without a six pack or a spear. Without a Spartan army, she kicked cancer's ass. Okay, maybe she didn't exactly kick cancer's ass, but she defeated a worthy adversary. An adversary that fights to the death and rarely loses. She's still here. Take that Gerard Butler.

Boiler Room

Top Ten clues that I'm going to have a difficult client:


1) They are checking e-mails or talking on their cell phone in the "Relaxation Room".
Seriously?


2) They are built like a Mac truck . . . . .
"Hey, anybody want my three o'clock? I think I'm getting a cramp!"

3) They have diarrhea of the mouth from the second I greet them. . . . .
Do NOT ear rape me. I don't get paid enough.


4) The first words the client says are, "My psychiatrist recommended. . . . ."
So, I guess getting rubbed with hot oil by a sexy man in a dark room whilst naked is suppose to help with that huh?

5) When they have more hair than Beyonce. . . . .
Don't act like you didn't know your crow's nest would get all up in my way. You better tie that shit up girl.


6) When they have more body hair than a Silver Back Gorilla. . . . .
For Pete's sake, get that shit waxed, or lasered. Damn ladies.


7) When they've self diagnosed injuries and refuse to see a doctor. . . . .
I hurt my lower back a few months ago and I think I have a bulging disc, or a herniated disc, or a pinched nerve. Uhuh, and what website told you this?


8) When they want me to fix them the same day they injured themselves. . . . .
"Yeah, I just fell off a ladder a few hours ago and can barely walk, think you can dig in there?" No dumbass, a massage will probably only make it worse, besides why don't you use this money for your co-pay?. . . . retard.


9) When they say, "Do I need to take my bra off?". . . . .
Well, no of course not. As a matter of fact why don't you just leave the whole fucking robe on. I'm sure it will feel crazy awesome.


10) When a client wants me to focus extra attention on more than just a few areas. . . . .
"Make sure you get my right shoulder, there are tons of knots in there. My left knee's been acting up and I sprained my left ankle a few weeks ago. The right side of my neck is a little messed up, I think I slept on it wrong. Oh, could you dig into my hamstrings, they're really tight. You know, my sciatica has really been acting up too. Don't touch my hair please I just got it done, but definitely save some time for my face. Oh my God, I almost forgot, I looooove getting my feet rubbed. By the way, I'm so sorry but I forgot to shave my legs. And one last thing, I've been playing a lot of tennis lately and my elbow's been giving me some problems. I think I have tennis elbow, but don't worry about that so much, I'd much prefer you get my lower back." Um, you do realize that this is a 50 minute massage right?

Footloose

Ah yes, ladies and Gentlemen, summer is undoubtedly here. The lovely time of year when people are on vacation visiting the beach, the monuments, museums, and amusement parks, putting countless unforgiving miles on their feet. Never paying them any mind until the end of the day when they finally turn in for the night and realize that they've been mercilessly pummeling their feet by not only carrying their kids around for weeks, but also the extra pounds that have pounced on them since last Christmas when they quit smoking.

Of course I don't expect everyone to be worthy of my touch to have perfect feet, but for the love of humanity, (and your therapist) if your feet look like you could swoop down on a lake and catch a trout, or if they resemble concrete in any way, then it's probably time they met a pumice stone . . . . . . or an electrical sander.

The past month has been extremely busy, but as chance would have it my schedule has been gratuitously peppered with extra helpings of feet that could use some TLC. The last two weeks in particular have seen their fair share of travesties, but two nights ago I had a client that, hands down, had the most repulsive feet I have ever seen. Her heels had cracks in them that looked exactly like the ones you'd find in moistureless volcanic rock. If that weren't bad enough, the cracks were equally as black. These mammoth crevices swallowed massage cream like the dry barren earth of a desert would soak up the rain. I was convinced that her rough alligator feet had never seen a sock, touched a drop of moisture, and certainly never had an encounter with lotion.

As I continued to lather her death dealing razorblades of calloused flesh with cream, I did all I could to keep from throwing up. No amount of medicated heel cream or Shea butter would ever soften these Komodo Dragon feet. All I could do was try not to cut myself and move on as if nothing had happened, but something had indeed happened my friends, [cue extremely sad violin music] my love for massage died a little that day. Little pieces of my heart had become calloused and hard as stone, eventually becoming brittle and crumbling away as if they had witnessed Medusa's fatal glance.

Alice in Wonderland

I worked on a client today who we shall name Mike, because quite frankly, his name is Mike and making up names for people is almost as disrespectful as calling their mother a whore. Almost. 

Mike has many tattoos. And when I say many, I mean that I have worked on him at least 6 times and I still continue to find details in his tattoos that I hadn't noticed before. On one shoulder he has a gigantic Bald Eagle that is dramatically falling out of the sky and on the other side he has an entire sleeve that encompasses every inch of skin from his wrist to his sternum. It's one of the most astonishing pieces of artwork I have ever seen. I don't really remember what he said it represented, but it's some sort of jungle scene with Aztec warriors and conquistadors battling dragons sent from the heavens by demon gods with volcanoes, tigers, and medieval knights all beautifully incorporated into the piece. His lower legs have equally incredible ink, but my favorite is this samurai with a drawn sword, on his calf. The detail is so flawless that if you look close enough you'll notice that the pattern on the warrior's kimono is actually marijuana leaves. Brilliant! I didn't know Samurais smoked the ganja. I suppose their ponytails should have given it away, because everyone knows that men with pony tails are either pot smoking hippies, or maniacally sinister warlocks with erratic tendencies to eat thousands of pistachios in one sitting. 

As far as tattoos are concerned, I routinely notice the same familiar ensemble of designs that weren't given much thought and more often than not, were taken right off the wall at your local ink shop. I mostly see the ever present "tramp stamp" (tribal of course), some baby daddy's name, or a retarded dolphin. Then there's the panther made to look like it's climbing, (very popular with the sisters), or the classy rose that always seems to find its way onto a droopy breast. Let's not forget the the Asian writing or the butterfly, however there are so many variations that these don't tend to bother me as much. It would be refreshing to witness tattoos that transcended the more commonplace observance however, like flying farm animals, cartoon super heroes, or scene from a movie. 

From elaborate Japanese dragons to lotus leaves in the wind encompassing a woman's entire back, to intricate snowflakes with vibrant hues of icy blue, I've seen some pretty masterful artwork on my clients over the years. And yet others that convince me to believe that both the artist and the client must have been blindingly inebriated. I do wish that more of my clients had captivating ink adorning their bodies though, it definitely makes the time go by a little faster, even if I spend that time thinking about what would possess a person to put the Cheshire cat on their ass.

No Country For Old Men

I'm the type of guy that's never really at a loss for words. Sure, there are times when I've spat some quick witted retort and shortly afterward thought of something a bit more clever to say, but I'm rarely ever left without at least something to be expressed. Until today that is. Today, I was rendered absolutely and unequivocally speechless. "What could possibly have accomplished this seemingly impossible feat?", I hear you asking yourselves. Well, my fickle fans, the answer is 60 yr. old v-jayjay. My day had started like any other, but certainly ended the way a Vietnam vet living in a retired community at Bingo night might want it to.

An older woman came in today looking for relief of lower back pain, after having spent all weekend chasing three grandchildren around. Towards the end of the 80 minute massage, I was doing some leg manipulations to stretch her lower back muscles and free up her hip joint. The final stretch required that I cross one leg across the body and over the other leg. From the opposite side of the table, I apply downward pressure on the knee, creating a magnificent pain relieving stretch. Getting out of the stretch is the tricky part, but that's why I get paid the big bucks. So, as I was going back around the table to return the client's leg to it's starting position, she had the brilliant idea to release the snug draping of the sheet from her grasp and place her leg back on her own volition, before I could get back around the table. Well, as you can already imagine, before I had the opportunity to stop her, she had flashed me her elderly vagina in all of it's time weathered glory.

Thank God the lights were dimmed, for it might have taken years and multiple laser surgeries to return my corneas to normal. I am however, going to need at least a little time to recover. I'm thinking a few days rest and maybe hypnosis therapy should do the trick. And I'm so filing for Workman's Comp.

The Rock

My first appointment today was a Hot Stone massage. After asking the client a few questions about what she wanted and describing the process of the massage, I quickly realized that this wasn't what she was looking for. It would help if a thorough overview of our massage services were included in the training of the front desk girls. It seems that the only prerequisite for their employment is being cute and having big boobs. I guess I really can't be too mad.

The client concluded that since she had never received a Hot Stone massage before, she thought it would be nice to go ahead and proceed. Yipee. During the massage, I figured it might be helpful to give you guys a little rundown about zee Hot Stonez.

A Hot Stone massage is a deeply soothing and relaxing massage that increases circulation and releases tight muscles. (They are extremely helpful for people with arthritis or joint pain.) The stones are usually Basalt, black volcanic rocks that retain heat very well. Basically the massage strokes are Swedish in nature (superficial, slow, and long gliding strokes) with the stones either being held in the therapists hands, or placed along certain areas of the body. A skilled therapist will incorporate both techniques.

Although most schools teach the use of hot stones, unless their students received actual Massage Degrees, I can guarantee that not enough time was spent learning the intricacies of this modality. I highly recommend that you find someone who either has a degree, (a degree program usually dedicates at least a week to stone work) or has been certified through a nationally recognized workshop. I had a decent dose of training in school, but sought certification afterwards. So many more variables in this method of work, make it difficult to master and easy to do poorly. Since this type of massage requires retrieving stones, placing them on the body, and incorporating them with the use of your hands, timing and flow is essential. An inexperienced practitioner will either use stones that are too hot, leave them out to cool for too long, or not place them along the right paths on the body.

Also, I would not recommend that you get one of these unless the massage is 70 to 80 minutes long. Anything shorter, doesn't allow for thorough stone work because some time is wasted moving to/from the warmer, fishing out stones, and placing/removing them from the body. Also you want enough time for the body to absorb the rock's heat. Most Spas start all their massage services at the top of the hour, which means that instead of a full hour, you receive 50 minutes of actual hands on time. The other ten minutes are intended for asking you questions about your health and what areas you'd like extra focus on, and for changing sheets, washing hands, etc. For some retarded reason, my spa also offers a 50 minute Hot Stone Massage. This is a disgrace, because I'm pressed to give you in 50 minutes what it normally takes, at the very least, 70 minutes to do. I mean, I know I'm good, but being rushed sucks ass.

Whatever you do, don't ever get a 50 minute Hot Stone Massage if you want to not only experience the true essence of the massage, but also reap all of it's wonderful benefits.

Point Of No Return

I had six clients on Sunday, following a night of sleeplessness and as I was elbow deep in my last slab of flesh, watching the minutes going by slower than a turtle on heroin wading through molasses, I got to thinking that I should probably share a little nugget of priceless info; turtles would never ever ever, be wading through molasses and if you want to get the best a masseuse has to offer, I recommend that you don't schedule your appointment at the end of the day. Particularly if you want deep tissue work and the therapist you are choosing has previously worked on an entire baseball team earlier that day. It's not brain science my insightful followers, people get tired.

We all have limits, and although I do know a couple of psychotic therapists who do 8 or more in a day, I don't like to do more than 6. Although I'm very physically fit and strong enough to crush your skull, (with my biceps) or bench a mini cooper, I also have some seriously dainty wrists. Yeah, you read correctly. I said it. I have girly wrists and if I did 8 massages every day, my hands would fall the fuck off.

I am capable of doing more, but I feel that when I exceed six, I'm no longer working at optimum levels. Body work is not only physically demanding, but it also drains you mentally and being mentally sharp has many more benefits than just being able to remember what you had for breakfast. Of course if you're getting a great therapist, you're going to get great work regardless of when the appointment is. But to get that person's absolute best, you may want to consider that your service provider will be properly warmed up after their first and a little fatigued by their last.

Although we try to avoid not being prepared, we are only human and invariably suffer the same pitfalls you do at your job. We can come to work late, hungover, sleep deprived, or having missed breakfast. Some of us are early risers, and some of us need a jack and coke caffeine I.V. to get going. There are weekend warriors, and those of us who work 5 or 6 days a week. All of us have different strengths and weaknesses, backgrounds, personalities, and skill levels. Choosing wisely may mean the difference between a wonderful massage . . . . . . . and the perfect one.

So, as convenient and tempting as it may be to grab that last spot of the day, ask yourself exactly what your looking for and if you'll get there with someone, who to say the least, can't wait to get the hell home.

Batteries Not Included

I worked on Paul Bunyan today. He didn't have a blue bull with him, but he did have a battery in his ass. I kid you not, this mammoth man had a battery "in-side" his ass. All up in his ass. Apparently, one day his spinal cord decided to randomly start sending electrical impulses directly to one of his testicles causing excruciating pain. (If given the choice, something tells me he would have opted for the bull)

So, after finding the only neurosurgeon on the planet who specializes in exploding testicles, it is determined that a battery should be installed in his right buttock that will send it's own electrical impulse to his spine, overriding his body's attempt to detonate one of his family jewels like a gonad grenade. Well, this braniac doctor in all his infinite wisdom, decided to not only shove an iPod in this guys ass, but failed to secure it firmly in his butt cheek, causing it to "float" up past his waistline into his lower back. Consequently, they had to go back in to sew the metal plate in place. You'll love this part. As if this guy hadn't gone through enough shit already, when it came time for this thing to be replaced, Mr. rent-a-surgeon decided that watching the next episode of House was way more important than taking the time to sew the alternate device in place. Guess what happened next? Bingo! They had to cut his ass up a fourth time to prevent this battery, that is the size of a cell phone mind you, from going God knows where in the future. At least the doctor had the presence of mind to use the same location to go back in.

Right when you think you've seen it all . . .

Minority Report

Mainly because I have nothing better to do at two o'clock in the morning than kill zombies, I thought I'd compile a a list of my top ten pet peeves with performing massage.

1. The number one customer complaint about a massage is that the pressure was too much, or not enough. I can't tell you how many times I hear a client say that somebody practically beat them up, or they barely felt anything at all. That means when I ask you if it's too deep or too light, you better speak up. Otherwise, I'm going to assume that the pressure is perfect and I'm the best you've ever had.

2. Timeliness. This my friends, is a HUGE one. Don't be late for an appointment. Nothing screams more to me that you don't give a shit about my time or the other six clients I have for the rest of the day, than you showing up even five minutes late. You still need to make it to the dressing room, change into a robe and slippers, and you'll probably want to drink some water and use the bathroom. I understand that things do happen, but unless a meteor burned a hole through your windshield causing you to arrive on foot, or you ran a bus full of deaf school children off a bridge into a large body of water with an aggressive current, I don't want to hear it. There are multiple reasons we ask that you show up 15 minutes early; drink some exotic tea, wash your nasty booty, or just lounge around and unwind until it's your turn for a blissful retreat. Don't put me in a position where I have to cut your session short, because nobody benefits from that. (especially not me) However, if you are going to be late, please call ahead, I just might be able to work something out. I'm cool like that. And if you don't think you're going to show at all, let me know as early as possible so that someone else can take your spot. Time is money, and I'm not above charging your credit card.

3. The aforementioned booty cleaning is a perfect segway into this next pet peeve. Please take a shower if you've just recently worked out, shit yourself, or have been rolling around in dead animal carcasses. No amount of Peppermint or Eucalyptus oil is going to mask your nasty fermented ass stench. I don't get paid enough to smell your funk for an hour, much less for 90 minutes. Don't worry, I promise to return the favor.

4. Relax! Nothing is more annoying than trying to massage you while you're tense and your muscles are contracted. I understand it may be difficult to do so while a sexy brown man is rubbing you with hot cream in a dark room, but please do your best. I guarantee you'll have a much more enjoyable experience if you just let go. Relaxation is usually the reason why you come to see me to begin with. So, if you have trust issues with men, or have been abused physically in the past, you'd probably be better off with a female therapist. You won't hurt my feelings, plenty of women prefer the stronger touch of a man anyway, so it evens out. If you have difficulty relaxing on a massage table, than you definitely need a different kind of therapist.

5. If you have Cholera, West Nile, Whooping Cough, SARS, Bubonic Plague, the Bird Flu, or a rash, STAY THE HELL HOME. Not only do I not want what you have, but neither does the rest of the spa. Besides, it's difficult to enjoy a massage if you have a chronic cough or need to blow your nose every two minutes. I don't do it, neither should you.

6. I will be grateful if you would shave, wax, or laser, prior to coming to see me. Keep in mind most massage strokes are centripetal, or towards the heart. Which means my hands are going against the grain when I work on your legs. I'd prefer not to bloody my hands on your Ginsu blade stubble if at all possible. (don't act like we don't notice) You'll enjoy the smoother feel too, trust me. Just something to keep in mind.

7. Try not to wear tons of jewelry that I'm only going to ask that you remove anyway. I doubt you'll be auditioning for a rap video and it's only going to get in the way. I get it, you have money. This is me not giving a shit. If you must bring it, leave it in the locker room 50 Cent.

8. If you have long hair, bring a damn hair clip or rubber band of some sort, especially if yours is particularly thick or possesses a mind of it's own. Having to move your disheveled Beyonce mane out of my way every few minutes is only going to disrupt the flow of my techniques and eventually piss me off. I hate Beyonce.

9. Cell phones are not allowed in the spa, especially not during the session. If you're having difficulty parting with your phone for an hour, I know some people that can help you with separation issues.

10. One of the main reasons people come to the spa is to rid themselves of drama, tension, and stress. I'm more than willing to help, but not if that means your going to pass it on to me. I'm a good listener and I'll play along for a little while, but unless we're friends I don't want to hear about how you plan on leaving your husband, how much you hate your co-workers, and certainly not how much you lost in the stock market. However, if you hate your daughter's current boyfriend, I'm all ears.

Fight Club

I know that the majority of my posts exist only to entertain you, however there are instances in which the desire to share more intimate details about myself become increasingly relevant. Those emotions become even more difficult to ignore when I have clients like the one I had today.

My first client today, Rosa, was a delightful woman who had come to me once before. She is currently undergoing her last round of chemotherapy for breast cancer and next has to deal with 7 or 8 rounds of radiation treatment. This subject hits a little close to home for me since my own Mother lost her battle to breast cancer when I was about 9. After learning about my personal experience, Rosa was no longer uncomfortable about her hair loss or the instrument inserted into her breast to facilitate the chemotherapy. As a matter of fact I made a funny comment on how she should be careful what neighborhood she walks in with that red bandanna wrapped around her head, because people could get the wrong idea. She assured me that she reserves the bandannas only for more relaxed settings and that her gang bang'n days are over. She usually wears a wig or a hat when going out.

Rosa is really lucky that it was discovered as early as it was and that soon she will be cancer free. Hopefully she will remain that way. To my recollection, my mother wasn't as fortuitous. She had to get one breast removed . . . . and then the other. . . . and soon it had become too aggressive to contain, spreading to her lungs and eventually making respiration too difficult. I don't talk about these memories too often. Not only is it hard having to revisit the darkest time in my life, but I sometimes feel as though talking about it too much almost cheapens my mother's struggle. It's also disheartening to know that had it occurred in this day and age, the outcome may have been very different.

My client seemed pretty fascinated at how vivid my memories of my mother were considering how long ago she was taken from me, and she continued asking questions, which for some reason I was completely at ease in answering. I even disclosed some extremely personal details about what I remembered about her last days and even the funeral. I'm not sure why I did, or even how it came about really. It's usually the clients who find it necessary to spill their guts so to speak. We were told in Massage Therapy school about how our touch could influence people to have emotional recollections of past traumas and undergo breakdowns or full blown regressions. But they never warned us of the tables being turned. All I know is I felt compelled to share a piece of myself with this stranger. Not a complete stranger of course, for the cosmos had certainly connected us in more ways than one, but a stranger none the less.

Before I knew it our time had come to an end. It was a little awkward in parting. I wanted to hug her to express my support, but having to respect professional boundaries limits me to reciprocation and not initiation of behavior that could be misconstruedWe both had just shared things about ourselves that our closest friends may not even know, but nothing more was to be exchanged than a smile and a friendly reminder to drink plenty of water through out the rest of the day.

There is a plethora of other feelings I cope with when bringing up the past. Sometimes I feel as though my life has been wasted and I should have dedicated all my time to the discovery of a cure. I'm sure there are more productive ways to commemorate my mother's death than by buying pink bracelets and air fresheners, and participating in an occasional "walk for a cure". Perhaps as I get older I will discover other ways to offer more significant contributions. I suppose as long as my heart is in the right place, things will take care of themselves. I can only hope that the book I've begun to write will make her proud in some small way. At the very least it shall serve to continue spreading awareness and maybe even to remind so many of you just how lucky you really are.

Happy Ending

I've done the unthinkable. I have gone against my oath as a therapist and violated the Code of Ethics that I vowed to uphold. Somehow, I managed to cross the sacred line between client and therapist and I see no viable way of recouping my dignity. It wasn't really a conscious decision, it just sort of . . . . . happened. I suppose it was only a matter of time, being that my work involves massaging a slew of beautiful women on a daily basis. For too long have I relied on my Matrix-like ability to dodge bullets.

For the most part, today was like any other. I had six clients lined up and only two more to go. I quickly ate a banana and downed a protein shake to get me through the rest of the day. (As I've described in earlier posts I have the metabolism of a cheetah and have to eat every two hours, otherwise I turn into that crazy bitch from the exorcist.) I greeted client number five and noticed that she was extremely attractive. During my brief questioning of her medical history she was a little flirtatious making a lot of eye contact and smiling.  Working on her back was an absolute delight. She was very fit with the perfect combination of musculature and curves with soft, youthful skin. She had a beautiful color tattoo of cascading lotus flowers flowing diagonally across her back as though carefully carried by the wind. 

After her back and shoulders, I began working on her long, toned legs, my hands tracing her perfect outline with slow and sensuous glides from the heel of her foot to her shapely glutes. As my warm hands flowed past her knee, she opened her legs slightly to allow unobstructed access to her inner thigh. A subtle move not uncommon to getting more comfortable, or to signal ulterior motives. My skilled hands glided up her inner thigh and right before reaching the point of inappropriateness, came back towards the outside, over her left glute, around the hip, and back towards her feet again. I started the process over and as my hands ascended up her leg, again she repositioned her legs slightly more open. Although a little peculiar to do this twice, still I assumed nothing and continued my work. The spa music plays at a decent volume to drown out a lot of the background noise in the vicinity, but if you pay attention, you can still hear labored breathing, stuffy noses, painful grimaces, sighs of relief, and occasional moans. To an experienced therapist all of these seemingly insignificant cues can be paramount to providing the ultimate massage experience. 

A lull in the music allowed me to hear my client's breathing gain tempo and her body almost seemed to writhe under my touch. A third pass began up her leg as I heard a faint moan of satisfaction. Once more she separated her legs and as my fingers crept up her inner thigh, her body seemed to beckon my caress. I could feel the heat emitting from between her legs as my touch came closer and closer to her most intimate place. And then . . . . . . . it happened. I can't explain what I was thinking or why I did it, but it one moment I breached our trust and defiled the sanctity of that bond. My mind was weak under the circumstances and my body succumbed to the most primal of all human urges . . . . . . . . . . . . I farted! As soon as I did it, I knew there was no turning back. There was no way to undo my transgression. No freebie, no do over, no reset button. Time slowed to a stop and I let out a distinct and undeniable flatulence. . . . . . .

I hope you too have started the new year with a loud and resounding blast!

 

Phone Booth

No one likes the pretentious prick in the waiting room, at a restaurant, or in the sauna, that deems it absolutely necessary to talk on his cell phone, disrupting the serene atmosphere being enjoyed by fellow patrons.

With as ostentatious as people can be, no one expects the inner sanctum of a day spa, particularly the serene ambiance of my very own sacred massage chambers to be violated by the usage of a phone. Don't be mistaken, there are a few instances in which even having a cell phone on, and within arm's reach during a massage are acceptable. There aren't many, but a few do exist. Wives invariably give birth, family members can awaken from comas or take their last breath, and if my home had been engulfed in flames, I would want to know. I'm not an entire asshole, unless it's a full moon anyway, so I can understand when a client needs to take a call, if it's an emergency. It has happened before, but what has never happened before, until today that is, has a client not only answered a call, but talked on the phone for nearly 25 minutes. TWENTY FIVE MINUTES! Can you believe that? I certainly couldn't. I thought I was in the twilight zone. You remember that show right? Where everyone in some remote town was on really good pills, but there was always one person who didn't get invited to the party and they seemed to wander around aimlessly looking for someone who didn't sound like the Cheshire Cat to help fix their disabled vehicle before befalling some eerie fate.

A fellow therapist asked me why I didn't just tell the client that cell phones weren't allowed. Well, besides being completely shocked, I also didn't want my tip to be affected. With my luck the one time I said something about not being able to use a cell phone would be the time my client was informed that their mother had just passed away, or that they were waiting to hear the results of their one year old's radiation treatment. The only thing people hate more than the loud dummy on the phone is the self centered prick with a size 12 Nike in his mouth.

So, not wanting to be THAT guy, I just assumed she was expecting the kind of news that makes the average person keep their phone in a permanent headlock. I could never have been more wrong had I been looking for weapons of mass destruction. Now, I don't speak any of the 3,000 or so languages they speak in India, but I can certainly tell when what's being said is of dire consequence or not. My client may just have easily been talking about her latest colon cleanse. I continued my work telling myself that she was paying for my time and if that's what she wanted to do, and as long as it wasn't affecting anyone else's experience, then just let it be.

Naturally someone of this particular person's character wouldn't cease to amaze me. After answering the phone, and talking with a family member for twenty minutes, she also made a call to someone else. Who does that? Who makes a fucking call during a massage? I mean, if you're not like Mariah Carey what the hell? Thankfully her second call was short and sweet because by now my patience had been worn thinner than Mary Kate.

After her call, I took the phone from her and placed it on the counter making sure to get some massage cream and essential oils on it (you should see what I do to people who are late) She mumbled something about her Mother was calling to tell her she made it to India safely. Apparently, that news couldn't have been portrayed through a pleasant voice message. Oh well, I guess some people will just never get it. Although I'll probably be more inclined to say something to the next knucklehead who brings their phone along for the ride, I think I'll continue to avoid having to eat my shoe for lunch.

Needful things

Forgive my lack of posts lately. The fight to eradicate breast cancer and spread awareness continues, and doing such has depleted any extra time I might otherwise have to entertain you clowns. And let's not forget my innate dedication to general laziness, procrastination, tomfoolery, and hootenanny. After all, I am brown. Due to my recent revelations I'd like to extend my deepest appreciation for those who invest their time for the cause, specifically those conducting breast exams. It is a much more tiresome task than I had originally anticipated, but I shall not waver. I will firmly press on.

Speaking of saving breasts, it never ceases to amaze me the amount of people I encounter in my line of work that have never experienced a professional massage before. On a daily basis I work on at least one person who has gone more than half their life without experiencing the touch of a skilled therapist. I can understand why people haven't gotten around to removing that wart or mole, but seriously, never gotten a massage? It pains me to think that so many people may still perceive massage to be only for the affluent or for those in pain.

Massage has been performed for over 5,000 years and all of it's therapeutic benefits, both physical and psychological, have been well documented. Massage alleviates pain, reduces stress, increases immune function, prevents scar tissue, improves sleep, accelerates the body's natural healing mechanisms, and let's not forget, they feel magnificent! Practically every profession in the medical/health field acknowledge the therapeutic benefits of massage and incorporate some form of soft tissue manipulation in their practice. Employers are now hiring massage therapists to increase morale and productivity in the workplace and you can even find some insurance companies fronting the bill for chiropractic care and massage. Furthermore, they are more affordable these days than ever.

So, just a friendly reminder from the guy who works out your kinks, kneads your muscles into blissful submission, and melts your body and mind into total relaxation . . . . . go get a massage!

Idle Hands

People often ask if my hands ever hurt or get tired and truthfully, the answer is no. On a rare occasion they can get a little fatigued as when having to massage a rhinoceros or if multiple deep tissue massages precede a few 90 minute massages back to back without a break. Otherwise, we therapists do a good job of incorporating the use of knuckles, forearms, elbows, and the base of the palm to save the fingers from not only getting tired, but for lasting an entire career.

The reason the lot of you last as long as a NASCAR pit stop when rubbing your loved ones is usually because you’re using nothing but thumb work and poor body mechanics. Instead of doing all thumb circles, next time try using the base of your palm, or the outer edge of your hand. Feel free to get creative. You can even use your forearms to apply compressions to the shoulders and back. When kneading tired muscles, use more of a grasping action with your whole hand. If the thumb is the only way to go, try bracing it with your other hand. We brace our fingers all the time to not only apply more strength, but to minimize wear and tear on individual digits. By the way, knuckles work wonders on the feet.

Just because we’re professionally trained doesn’t mean we’re above using tools either. I own a couple of hand held massagers which you can buy for five bucks at either Bath & Body Works, or Bed Bath & Beyond (they even work on the outside of clothing). I also have a few for deep tissue and trigger point work. However, those are a bit more expensive and require more skill and practice to use effectively. You can easily bruise some one, or lose an eye. Last I checked career choices are limited for pirates.

If you’re too lazy to go to a store, you can probably find a few tools to use in the kitchen. Knives, meat mallets, and blenders are good for mutilation, so stick to some big spoons, ladles, or a rolling pin to experiment with. Try not to spend too much time in the kitchen though, it may be difficult to convince your kids you’re playing doctor while mommy’s tied up and has an ice cream sundae on her crotch. “No Timmy, that’s not what popping a cherry means…”

My understanding of most relationships is that if your hands are even ON your significant other, then you’re a step ahead of the game. As long as you stay away from inflicting pain, you’ll be doing just fine. Do what comes naturally, don’t rush, and alternate your hands. Don’t worry too much if you don’t have the time or lack the creativity to give your spouse an effective rub down. After all, you can always send them to us.

Air Force One

The coolest thing EVER happened this weekend. No, I did not get a scrotum piercing attached to a chain wallet, but I did get to massage a staff member of Air Force One! How awesome is that? Pretty cool I must say. I will not say exactly what she does though, for fear that my blog will be subjected to scrutiny from the Secret Service for having the words Secret Service and President in its paragraphs, but I will say that she has direct contact with the President and is responsible for making sure his floaties are secure in case of a water based landing.

She thought that I was so wonderful that she rebooked with me and offered to give me a tour of the plane. Okay, so she’s not really going to show me the plane, but she did say that she’d bring me a pin with little wings just like the one the President likes to wear. I tried to push for a coloring book, but she said that “W” keeps those in a safe and she’s not really sure who holds the second key. I proposed that the dog probably does, and she thought that could be a possibility, but then mumbled something about needing to get around the security pad with fingerprint identification.

I did find out that the President’s seat belt buckle actually has the presidential seal on it, as does the box of M&M’s for the small group of reporters that are allowed to be on board. I can’t really tell you what else was discussed because its G13 classified and because my screen keeps flickering (I think they're listening).

She was a most delightful client, and once again, one of the few in which I didn’t mind talking to for the majority of the session. Rest assured my faithful readers, these people are very rare and future blog entries will continue to be the normal stories depicting ungrateful clients, skin abnormalities, personality disorders, racism, flatulence, nudity, vulgar language, sex, bodily fluids, stupid people, and possibly even more sex. Because honestly, there’s a limit to how much niceness I’m willing to endure everyday at work.