Snot Stone Massage

Ideally when you perform any type of massage, you want to have a balanced mind, be free of worry or stress, and most certainly never be angry. Although one is mostly administering touch and manipulating soft tissue, so much more is expressed and transferred unto your client, like your energy (or bad breath) for instance.

Through touch alone a client can sense nervousness, fatigue, inexperience, or recognize confidence, strength, and caring. All of which can alter their mood, how they interpret your techniques, and ultimately their spa experience. With that being said, you never, ever, want to be giving a massage while you’re sick. Not only are you exposing your client to obvious risks but the quality of your work is inevitably compromised.

Upon waking up for work this morning, without forewarning or indication, I had an instantaneous snot spewing head cold. Besides the inability to breath, I felt perfectly fine. Normally I would call another therapist to cover for me, but not only was I opening, I was that therapist. I figured I only had 3 clients today, so I took a Sudafed and headed on in.

The morning went remarkably smooth and after a gallon of oolong tea I was ready for my last client of the day, who was scheduled for a 90 minute Hot Stone Massage. Thirty minutes had passed by and the client was face down enjoying her little piece of heaven. I don’t know if it was the increased temperature of the room, or the affects of the medicine wearing off, but I was immediately hit full force by a gravity-induced nasal drip. I tried leaning my head back to slow the avalanche of phlegm from creeping down my face without having my hands leave the client, but there was no stopping this rogue mucus from reaching the outside world. The stream of snot had begun its descent and started to meander its way through my mustache creating an itch of a lifetime. Without being able to sniffle or blow my nose, I was left with no choice but to use my sleeve, until I could get reinforcements.

Eventually I was able to get to some small towels for quick wipe here and there, but the rest of the massage was miserable and I was so preoccupied with keeping bodily fluids from dripping on the client that my performance was a bit affected. By the end of the session I had a soaked sleeve, 3 snot rags distributed around the room, and my nose was completely rubbed raw. Despite it being the worst stone massage I’d ever given, the client said it was one of the best she’d ever received and left me with a substantial tip.

Damn, she should catch me on a good day.

Back to the future

I massaged a 6ft tall woman today. So far, she is the tallest client I’ve ever had. I’m 6’2” myself, so my reach allows me to create long and fluid movements that can traverse your whole body, lulling you into a state of total relaxation. Considering my height and that all my clients are women, I am usually at an advantage when executing various techniques. With this particular client though, the playing field was a bit more even, but it was still 90 minutes of some of my best work!

I know, you’re probably thinking that 90 minutes is way too long, but really it’s the perfect amount of time. It lends for a more thorough massage, and I don’t feel rushed to work everything in especially when a client needs extra attention to a specific area. The two hour massage is definitely too long though. Try doing one of those at 9:00 am on a Sunday morning still hung over from the night before. Good times.

She was about 40 years old, worked out regularly, and had one of the most beautiful backs I’ve ever worked on. Most tall women are also on the thin side, which usually means that I won’t be doing any elbow glides, due to the protruding ribs exposed like little speed bumps. Hers was immaculately well toned, yet retained every bit of shapely femininity. To understand my excitement on working with such a beautiful canvas, imagine what Michelangelo must have thought when presented with the Chapel’s ceiling (okay well maybe his initial excitement anyway).

One of the fun things about my job is that I can be as creative as I want and there are no set routines to which I must adhere. (Kind of like a club bouncer. I imagine he can choose any number of ways in which to pummel a rowdy patron’s face in, or select from a long list of choke holds to subdue a drunkard and remove him from the premises.) Often times however, the clients anatomy and state of physical fitness, will determine what strokes I’ll be able to perform. For instance, there is a technique in which I position the arm behind the back, (as if you were being arrested) and pull the scapula away from the rib cage stretching the rhomboids and surrounding tissue. (It sounds gross, but I assure you it feels magnificent.) On most people this stretch can be achieved with minimal work, but on others there is a little too much “flesh” to allow my fingers to “hook” under the shoulder blade. You can either try the best you can, or skip the scapular pull all together. Over the years I’ve learned to move on. If you’re fumbling around trying to get someone’s body to do something it won’t, it will only make you look like you don’t know what the hell you’re doing. Kind of like the time I lost my virginity. But that my friends, is an entirely different story.

Oh Cancun

Ladies and Gentlemen . . . . . . the stupendous Mr. Poopie has returned and although I didn’t think it was possible, with even a more gorgeous brown hue than ever. I apologize for not informing you that I was leaving on a short, all inclusive vacation to the tropical, bikini-clad paradise of Cancun, but I have enough wonderful tales (and pictures) to more than make up for my blogging hiatus, and for forcing you to look at Fergie’s picture for longer than absolutely necessary. My deepest apologies for that offense. The latter of course.

Tales of a Mexican circus, sexed up waiters, a Beetlejuice midget, and a honeymooning stripper will all undoubtedly entertain you. I’ll dazzle you with stories witnessed from the very center of my first ever Foam Party, and make you gasp as I recall the night that shall forever be known as the Bloody Buffet Horror (the tip of my finger will never be the same). There were also drunk Pollocks, sun burned albinos, and more beautifully bronzed boobies than the whole Eskimo population could see in an entire lifetime. And finally, I shall recount the most horrific tale of all, the return flight home. (Let's just say there was more vomiting on the plane, then there was during the whole week in Mexico.)

I’ll be diligently working on these stories through out the upcoming days, and will have something up soon. Please be patience, as the alcohols is still wearing off.

Radio Head

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Chocolate Jesus

Have you heard about the whack-job that made a life size statue of Jesus out of milk chocolate? I’m all for most anything made of chocolate (as you already know), but give me a break. That’s not even the bad part. He conveniently left out the loin cloth that every other depiction of Christ is respectfully adorned with, leaving him completely naked. What possesses people to do this sort of thing, I’ll never know. Short of peeing in the holy water at church or catapulting fetuses from a high rise, that’s probably a sure fire way to go straight to Hell. I’m guessing.

What a fucking loony. Surely this is a man without a momma. If I did some senseless shit like that, my Mom would make me eat all that chocolate in one sitting, saying Hail Mary’s the whole time. I totally get that he’s an artist, and he’s worked with food in the past, and blah blah blah. But dude, don’t act surprised that people want to pull your eyes out and shove them up your ass, so you can see what a shit head you are for pulling something like that during the holiest week of the year. Dumb ass. Can't you just do some enema painting or fling your feces around like everybody else?

Sure, you can say whatever you want because of freedom of speech and all, but I dare you to scream the “N”-word in the faces of some gang bangers. There will be repercussions my friend (assuming you’re white anyway). And don’t insult a Brown man’s momma either, that shit will get you stabbed, even if the crazy bitch did make him eat 200 pounds of chocolate.

Cheerio Mate

I was having cheerios for breakfast this morning, and about half way through, I was overcome by a feeling of disgust. Kind of like when you take a girl home after a night of drunken festivities and become sober in the middle of playing hide the sausage, only to realize the travesty you hooked up with (hypothetically speaking of course). I felt like I was eating soggy cardboard.

I have pretty decent breakfast rotation, but after today, I’m done with cheerios. As the Trumpster would so emphatically declare, "You're Fired!" I don’t suppose there’s anything really exciting about them anyway, besides that they help lower your blood pressure or cure cholera, or something like that. Wooptiedoo. They certainly don’t turn your milk into a sugary rainbow of delight, make cool crackling noises, or lacerate your gums. They don’t even stay crunchy for very long, and no amount of blueberries or strawberries will ever take away the fact that they taste like the box they come in (or an old shoe).

The more I think about them, the more I realize how much they really suck. No wonder I’m so grouchy in the morning. I have a big bland boring bowl of odorless, tasteless, insipid, and characterless cereal to look forward to. Cheerios are so inviting, they don’t even have a freakn’ mascot. How do you not have a mascot these days? C’mon, if you want to sell me on something you have to bring out some black vampires, senile pirates, Irish midgets toting marshmallows, or something. Oh well, I guess I’ll just have some oatmeal instead. At least they have some cool Amish guy on their box.

Eat Fresh

I went to Subway for a late lunch today and was on the verge of starvation. Standing in the long line while my stomach ate its neighboring organs, I fell into a state of reverie, pondering the more vexing details of life like why this place smells like baked feet and why the hell the chick in front of me decided to walk on her pant legs for three years instead of getting the damn things hemmed. (I’m guessing it had something to do with why she didn’t brush the cluster-fuck atop her head either.) I just love it when girls go out in public dressed like the homeless in flip-flops, but are carrying $700 purses. That shit doesn’t make any sense to me. She saved enough for the purse, but thought it would be cute to dress like a hobo and leave her feet looking like she just walked through the desert with Moses.

My disdain for the fashion debacle in front of me was disrupted by another thought. Why doesn’t subway just have a touch screen monitor to order food? Why must I try to decipher what dialect I’m being spoken in, just to order a damn sandwich? Knowing three languages has really helped in piecing together heavy accents and broken English, but there really is a limit to how much effort I’m willing to contribute to a conversation with someone who mumbles like Rocky Balboa in a foreign language. This is what happens when I wait too long to have lunch and don’t bring any snacks to get me through the day. I end up having a little less patience for things I normally would have considerable tolerance for. Thank god I don’t teach kindergarten. Some kids wouldn’t make it home.

By the time I made it to the register, I was ready to beat my sandwich specialist to death with my sub, and take a pair of scissors to gypsy girl’s pants. When I’m handed my change, I’m presented with another dilemma, do I leave a tip in their little jar? And if I do, how much is appropriate really for losing a year of my life? I’m very cognizant of how much to tip in most situations, but find myself oddly perplexed in this moment. I drop a quarter in the bucket and scuttle off before I accidentally choke someone. This better be a good sandwich. I wonder how to say that in Arabic?