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.

Pet Peeve #27

I absolutely can't stand when people keep their eyes open during a massage, looking around or staring at the ceiling like a corpse. Some clients up the weird factor when they stare right at you. That shit creeps me the hell out. It reminds me of that one painting of Jesus my mom had in the stairwell of our house when I was growing up. You know the one I'm talking about, where Jesus is holding up the piece sign with one hand, while his heart is on fire and he looks all tired and dehydrated like he just walked for 40 days in the desert, in those wretched leather sandals with no arch support. Yeah, that one. Anyway, I used to swear that the eyes in that painting would follow me around like the haunted house paintings in the Scooby Doo Cartoons. Not cool.

Do yourself, and your therapist a favor, keep your peepers closed. I'm not saying it's not cool to take in your surroundings, or glance at your therapist from time to time. But really, let's leave the staring for when we're at the club. Besides, I cut some mean rug.

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.

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.