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.

Meet Joe Black

I've been meaning to incorporate a weekly Movie Review segment in my blog, but being that I wouldn't be getting paid, it all just seems like a lot of work really. And as much as I may like most of you, I don't feel as though I need a part time job at the moment. So, in lieu of having some formal weekly column, I'll try to review them as regularly as possible in hopes of saving you from foolishly wasting your money on going to the theatre to watch crap. Who knows, after awhile, you may be inclined to just give me the money instead.

Although I've been slacking on the movie watching as of late, I've also been putting in double time furiously trying to catch up. Not only do I subscribe to Netflix but I occasionally roll into the local Block Buster to flirt with the hot assistant manager rent the flicks that flew under the radar. Keeping me from staying on top of new releases is a disorder I developed as a child that forces me to watch classics on cable regardless of how many times their contents have been imprinted to memory. Case in point, I'm watching Unforgiven as I type this. One of Eastood's best by the way, along with Million Dollar Baby and Mystic River. I have yet to check out his latest though, Letters from Iwo Jima.

Here's a quick rundown of what's been on my plate: Juno was a cute movie, even funny at times, although I won't be buying the soundtrack any time soon. And by that I mean I'd prefer to hear epileptic whales having sex for two hours. Notes on a Scandal was intriguingly good and both Kate Blanchett and Judi Dench were brilliant as usual. Hands down though, Daniel Day-Lewis delivered the best acting performance of the entire year in There will Be Blood, but this movie is definitely not every one's cup of tea. If you're not into "artistic" pieces or can sit through an entire stage play, skip this one. I rented Gone Baby Gone a few weeks ago, and I thought it was fantastic even though Ben Affleck was in the director's chair! Very Mystic River-ish with a nice twist. Definitely worth renting. I'm half way through Vovler (that foreign flick with Penelope Cruz) and lying next to my DVD player is Michael Clayton which I also hope to knock out by tomorrow. Among some of the movies on their way are: No Country For Old Men, Into The Wild, Eastern Promises, Elizabeth; The Golden Years, and Saving Ryan's Privates.

By the way, if you want advice on a great rental I have just the movie for you. Despite being out for a while, a lot of people still don't know about it; Stranger than Fiction. I'm not a huge fan of Will Farrell, but this movie was wonderfully clever and will not disappoint. Happy watching.

That concludes this week's edition of Critic's Corner . . . . if there's something you think I need to watch that's not in my movie que. . . Holla atcha boy! (for those of you who grew up watching John Wayne, that means Let me know)

Pet Peeve #137

This might seem a little strange and even a bit nit picky on some levels, but after dropping the kids off at the pool, nothing is more unraveling to me than reaching for the toilet paper to find that the roll was put on upside down (This of course being a close second to reaching for toilet paper to not find any at all).

I realize it may seem a little peculiar, and why this dishevels my peace of mind so much I don't think I'll ever know. What I do know is that this injustice must be reversed immediately and whosoever dared to disrupt the balance of my universe with such a blatant karmic bitch slap must severely experience my wrath (preferably once my pants are no longer around my ankles). You spit in my face you careless toilet paper replacer and I curse you. May you suffer irreparable nerve damage from a paper cut.

Who dares to do this? This thoughtless crime that should be punishable by nothing less than to be beaten by wet bamboo branches and tortured with having to watch Atonement over and over again. My behind will not be disgraced, nor suffer the fate of being wiped with the wrong side of the TP. The only thing worse is having to wipe our ass with that transparent, public restroom, tracing paper, that once folded over a few times may just as well be a handful of razorblades. I'd rather use a pumice stone my friends, or shards of extremely brittle glass. Just for the record.

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.

Charlotte's Web

I was speaking to a friend today about vegetarians, Jews, and Muslims and why they don't eat certain farm animals. We talked about the motivations behind the different types of vegans and the differences between being raised in a certain belief system and making conscious adult decisions not to eat fattening strips of fried pig flesh. Which by the way, are magically delicious even though pigs are one of the filthiest scavengers around.

If you've seen Pulp Fiction you might remember the conversation Jules and Vincent have in the diner towards the end of the movie. When Vincent offers Jules some sausage he declines saying he's not Jewish, he just doesn't dig swine because it's a filthy animal. Vincent says, "Sausages taste good. Pork chops taste good." Jules retorts, "A sewer rat may taste like pumpkin pie. I'll never know 'cause even if it did, I wouldn't eat the filthy motherfucker".

Jules goes on to explain that pigs sleep and root in shit and he refuses to eat an animal that doesn't have enough sense to disregard it's own feces. Interesting concept I thought. Unless I was stranded on a deserted island without food, I probably would never eat a rat. But even then, I would have serious reservations about eating rat meat. Unless of course, it tasted like pumpkin pie.

I had never really considered how filthy pigs were until I had a) seen Pulp Fiction and b) read about some of the diseases and worms that are found in pigs. I'll spare you the vile details of my research, but let's just say I'm siding with the Muslims and Jules on this one. I'm so going to miss combination fried rice.

I have the utmost respect for people who follow their beliefs (as silly as some may seem) and whatever the reasons might be that they choose not to eat meat, pork, goldfish, or newborn albino babies is of no consequence. What does matter, is when they deem it necessary to push their beliefs onto you or mock you for the ones you observe. That being said, I should probably stop laughing at my sister for not owning a microwave. At least she'll probably never get testicular cancer. 

 

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!

 

This Christmas

Christmas has fallen upon us again and with the celebration of the birth of my main man JC, another milestone remains to be witnessed, although not nearly as significant as the arrival of Christ. That day, my friends is the much anticipated anniversary of this here blog. Although I was part of the recent writer's strike and vowed not to participate in any writing through the month of December, I could not let this day of remembrance go by without it's due recognition.

As I sat in church last night for Midnight Mass, a tradition that has remained in my family for centuries (well, okay maybe not that long, but it did have a nice ring to it) I began to reflect on the entire year's events and adventures as I struggled to get communion dislodged from the roof of my mouth. One of those adventures was ignited by the beloved Cubana Gringa last year. As I prayed for her addiction to cheese to be more manageable, I also gave her thanks for introducing me to one of the few places on the internet with value and relevance, besides e-bay, You Tube, and porn.

So, here we are. A whole year later and hundreds of thousands of brain cells lost listening to our President speak. In my moment of reflection I also gave thanks for Britney, MJ, OJ, Lindsay, Michael Vick, and the slew of other knuckleheads that made life worth living. They say that God only puts you through only what you can handle, and I have no earthly idea how I would have survived without pictures of Jennifer Love Hewitt's chunky ass. We're friends by now so I'm going to speak freely. I couldn't have been the only person on the planet that found it peculiar that every commercial she did was shot from the waist up and every episode of that Ghost show she was on, had her in a dress to hide the double wide she kept in her pants. I'm not angry at her, I'm just saying I didn't need close-ups to confirm my suspicions. Why magazines find it necessary to publish some shots I'll never know. Some things are just better left to the imagination, even if it takes you to Charlie's Chocolate factory.

Of course with the celebration of Christmas, comes another time that people find it necessary to drink ungodly amounts of alcohol for no reason (as if we needed more excuses) I'm sure with the invention of the calendar, the Egyptians didn't have what our modern New Year's festivities entail, but then again they did have wizards and believed that cats were evil (They may have been on to something with the latter if you ask me)

With the New Year, as tradition would have it, comes a plethora of empty promises we've come to know as resolutions. Basically that means that my gym is going to be overcrowded for the next three months until people realize they bit off more than they could chew, literally. I've actually ceased with making such votives and decided it best to just keep from going to jail or getting anyone pregnant. Both significant accomplishments I think and a lot easier than becoming a Vegan, for example. Not that I would ever do something like that. Someone has to help with the depletion of the ozone. And I vow to do my part, one Filet Mignon at a time.

With that my friends help me to wish my blog a happy anniversary as I wish you all a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!

p.s.

My computer was fixed so the Brown man will be back in full effect.