Massage Memoirs: Tales of the Twitch

I think I need to change careers.

Although I love my job, it doesn't provide any blog material. I'm afraid I'd have no readers if I blogged about my typical workday.

Today I analyzed a bunch of channel usage date. You wouldn't believe the outliers! OMG. Did I mentioned that SAS crashed on me 3 times? But I pulled the data into a stacked bar chart in Excel, using the table format. It looked better than putting data labels on the chart.

WAKE UP!!! I'm just making a point.

Now if I were a massage therapist....

"What's the weirdest thing that ever happened when you were giving a massage?" I asked Jo, while she was attacking a knot in my shoulder.

"Well," she began, and for the next 45 minutes I was in complete awe.

"I have blog envy," I moaned.

On a somewhat related note, I wish someone would invent a jump drive for the brain. You could pop it in your ear, like an I-Pod bud, push a button and back-up your brain, or certain portions of it. If I had such a device, I would have saved my conversation with Jo that day as 'massage_blog_material.doc'.

Because when I try and open the document entitled 'massage_blog_material.doc' from the hard drive of my brain, some of the details are missing.

But I do remember Jo telling me the story of the 85-year old Southern lady who came in for her first massage. Jo escorted her to the room and instructed her to get undressed to her 'level of comfort'. She told the lady that she'd be back in a few minutes to start the massage.

When Jo knocked on the door a few minutes later, the woman (let's call her "Betty Sue") said, "Come on in!"   Betty Sue was standing in front of the massage table, naked as the day she was born- 85 years ago. Jo, diplomatically said, "You can get on the table. I'll be back in a few minutes."

Jo left the room, knocked again and Betty Sue said, "Come on in!", however this time she was laying ON TOP OF COVERS, as if she was preparing herself for a pap smear. According to Jo, the only thing more unsettling than seeing a naked octogenarian standing in front of a massage table, was seeing one on top of the table.

But Jo, unlike myself, has excellent giggle control. She maintained her composure and finally got Betty Sue under the sheets, where she could begin the massage.

Keeping your composure is critical when you're a massage therapist. Because sometimes surprises await you. Jo is nonplussed when massaging a man with bra strap marks on his back. And what about the guy who hung his lacy panties on the hook for her to see? Jo yawns..."Whatever..."

But what she does not tolerate are twitchers: the guys who 'twitch their things' during massages (that's exactly how she described it).  Apparently one of these twitchers twitched his thing with such enthusiasm that his thing became exposed.  Jo told him that the massage was over, and then promptly threw up.

Nope. I don't get any twitchers in my nerdling day job. And no flashing octogenarians.  Just data, and charts and meetings.

I have to rely on my life outside of work for blog materials.

Thank God for the asylum I live in. 

Because I don't want to have to look for a new job.  Plus, I'd be a lousy masseuse.  I giggle too much.

Calling All Suckers!

There's a sucker born every minute.

That was my reaction when I opened the box containing my order from Linda's fund raising campaign.

I had ordered "The Sensational Tomato Babylon Bag."

The box contained a plastic trash bag with punched out circles and a packet of seeds.  Seriously.

Oh... pardon me. I also got instructions. "Step 1: Start your seeds. About 6 to 8 weeks before the last anticipated frost in your area, start your seeds in small pots or open flats with good drainage".

So, if my math is correct, I was to have started my seeds in late January. Oops. And let's not forget that I HAVE A BROWN THUMB! I'd have a better chance of winning the Miss South Carolina beauty pageant than of raising a crop of cherry tomatoes from seeds!

Call me naive, but I thought I was going to open up the package and make myself a salad!

The whole think reminded me of the pet rock craze from the 70s. For those of you in diapers during this decade, advertising genius Gary Dahl made millions by developing the pet rock industry. The pet rock sold for $3.95, but cost less than a quarter to package. 

Dahl sold over 5 million of his pet rocks in a six month period.

The wheels started turning. I was inspired. You see, I'm an advertising genius, too.

Allow me to me introduce you to the latest in pet rock technology: The Nerdling Pet Boulder.

I built my prototype from a boulder I found in my back yard, and supplies from my blog bag (a collection of the many priceless items that I have used in previous blogs or for use in future postings).

And the Nerdling Pet Boulder is completely customizable, so you can create your own unique Pet Boulder, to meet your personal needs.

 Options include:

Scarf: blue scarf, black baseball cap or green-striped do-rag

Hair: white (Kevin Hair) or gray (dryer lint)

Glasses: 3-D glasses or Rear View Spy Glasses

Nose: beak, snob, wino, Durante, punk or Cyrano nose

Lips: Wax lips or Red Neck Sippin' Lips

That's 144 different combinations of fun, exciting Pet Boulders!

And the price is right: only $3.97.

I'm hoping there are a few suckers out there who don't notice the $99 shipping fee.

Learning How to Smile

When I was in grad school, I had a professor who never smiled. He wouldn't even crack a grin. It was ridiculous. My friends and I tried everything: bad jokes, compliments, tripping on statistic books. Nothing.

Dr. Gupta needed a Beauty Smile Trainer.

I know what you're thinking.  "What in the world is a Beauty Smile Trainer?". Simply put, it is a device that you place in your mouth that will teach you how to smile.   And if you don't believe me, check out the before (right) and after (left) pictures on the packaging!

I decided to test drive the Beauty Smile Trainer this week, so I went online to order one of my own. 

I looked everywhere  for a site that sold this amazing product: E-Bay, Amazon, goofybeautyproducts.com. Nothing!

You don't have to be a stinkin' economic genius, or an expert on the theory of supply and demand to realize that this product must be off the charts valuable!

But don't worry readers. You know how resourceful I am! After reviewing the engineering materials, I decided I could make my own Beauty Smile Trainer. It required only 2 ingredients: a bendy stick (which I obtained from a strategic planning facilitator at work) and a pair of wire clippers to make the bendy stick fit my mouth.

How does it work?

Easy! According to the diagram, you place the Beauty Smile Trainer in your mouth, immediately below your "canine" teeth. 

I was admittedly a bit confused by the bottom part of the diagram (the lips); it’s difficult to tell if the device is supposed to remain inside or outside of your mouth.  

Probably on the inside.

I tried a couple other positions.  Not looking too smiley here.

This might work for Halloween.

I finally figured it out. 

Well, I THINK, I figured it out.  What do you think?

Being the crafty nerdling that I am, I was able to locate an English translation of the Japanese product highlights. 

I can verify that claims a - d are correct.

a. This is device that can be fitted into the mouth. - why, yes it is!

b. It is a curved plastic device. - and so is my bendy stick version!

c. It is shaped like a small and slim banana - a blue banana...

d. It gives the wearer the perfect smile. - only if I squint....

I'm less convinced about claims e and f:

e. It also has the ability to give one a face lift.

f. It tones the facial skin and muscles and reduces sagging.

I think I need a longer bendy stick.

Or some duct tape.

Desperate Measures and Dried Puke

The truth is, I was exhausted...both mentally and physically.

I had just started my new job in Jacksonville and I was living in temporary housing with 2 small kids and a homesick baby sitter. Dave was back in Wisconsin. Every day I'd leave the house at 6:30 a.m. and return at 6:30 p.m. bringing 2 hours of work to do at home that night.

It was my birthday, and I decided to take the kids to Chuck E Cheese for dinner.  (They serve beer).  In my weakened mental and physical state that evening, I let 7-year old Kimmy take 10-month old Linda into the Chuck E Cheese rat maze.

Once a child enters the Chuck E Cheese petri dish of fun, it's nearly impossible to locate them again.  Sure, there are some small plastic windows on the side of some tubal ports, but they are completely gunked up with --- well, let's not think about what it might be.

Which makes it difficult to locate your kids when you're ready to leave... unless you are bold enough to enter the hamster tube yourself.

I was wearing shorts. Crawling over hard plastic on bare knees may not be as painful as a root canal, but it's close. The further I traveled into the maze, the hotter and steamier it became. And the noise was deafening. Kids enjoy this? The smell inside the tubes was nauseating - a mixture of pizza, sweat, and feet. When I turned the corner into the blue wing I realized too late that I was crawling through a pool of vomit. 

I nearly added to the inventory.

I finally found the girls and practically had to apply a crow bar to remove Linda from the apparatus.

I must step back for a minute and mention that I have never experienced a child who could out-cry Linda.  Her crying was ear piercing...actually deafening. In fact, it's a shame we didn't live in Japan. She would have been a slam dunk in any sumo wrestling baby shaking contest.

I got the girls in the car. I slimy. I was sweaty. I was fantasizing about taking a shower. And Linda was screaming in the back seat. In fact she was wailing so loudly, I almost didn't notice the police car attempting to pull me over in Orange Park.

CRAP! I pulled over into the Orange Park Race Track parking lot. When the police officer asked me for my driver's license I discovered that I'd left it in our temporary apartment. DOUBLE CRAP!

I then proceeded to tell him the biggest sob story ever about my sad life: how I had moved down to Jacksonville with 2 small kids to start a new job and that my husband was 1,000 miles away trying to sell our house. The officer fell for it hook line and sinker. That is, until I got to the part about how Linda had been screaming her lungs out in the car.

He looked in the back seat and Linda, damn her, was laughing at the police lights.

I know it was wrong. But desperate times call for desperate measures. While the police office went back to his car to look up my name and address on some Inter-State-DMV database, I gave Linda my keys to play with. When I saw him coming back to my car I snatched them away from her.

You see, the police officer needed a demonstration.

And Linda did not let me down. She began to howl.  The policeman said something to me and I replied loudly, "I can't hear you! What did you say?"  He shouted some words I couldn't hear over Linda's howling.

I got out of the car in order to hear the officer. Since I couldn't leave poor Linda in the car, I took her out, too (dangling my keys in front of her face before shoving them back in my pocket.) Through Linda's screams I heard the policeman inform me that, not only was I speeding, but I was driving with an expired license.  (My license had expired on my birthday.)

That made Kimmy cry. I let the tears well up in my eyes as well. We were quite a sight.

The officer looked at me, then at Linda and Kimmy and said, "I think you have your hands full."

I nodded, pathetically. "I sure do."

He gave me a verbal warning.  Bless him.

Did I feel guilty?  Nah.  He was right!  I did have my hands full.  

And dried puke on my knees. 

Give me an "H"!

Okay. I'll admit it. I'm somewhat of a hotel snob. But I prefer my "otels" to start with an "H" rather than an "M".

We stayed at the M-variety on our trip to Wyoming last week.

Since we flew into Denver and were driving about half way to Jackson, Wyoming that night, our options were quite limited.

I must also mention that Dave is hotwire.com fan. Yes, hotwire paid off a couple years ago when we booked a 5-star hotel in downtown Chicago for about $79/night.  I trusted him. 

Fool that I am.

The Rawlins Quality Inn was just what you'd expect for a 2-star motel. The beds came up to my knees. The sheets were somewhere between 50 and 75 thread count. Although it was non-smoking, I felt certain that the Marlboro man had been a previous guest. The room air conditioner sounded like a B-52 turboprop taking off, followed by 3 minutes of placidity before the B-52 took off again, followed by another 3 minutes of placidity. (You get the picture.) 

(I suppose It could have been worse. About 20 years ago I cut open the bottom of my foot on a Dorito hidden in the shag carpet of a Cleveland Motel-6 I was staying at. At least I didn’t require first aid this time.)

I knew I was going to have a hard time falling asleep. Dave snores, and the trick to a good night's sleep is to fall asleep before he does. But I was prepared. I had brought along a special friend for the trip: my good buddy Ambien.

I brushed my teeth, popped the Ambien, and settled in for a deep, drug-induced sleep. 

The last time I'd taken an Ambien I was on a flight to London. I swallowed it at take-off and woke up rested about 8 hours later with a smile on my face and trail of drool down my shirt. So my expectations for a good night’s sleep were very high.  

I lay on my back and waited for the powerful wave of sleep to overcome my body. After about 15 minutes, Dave started snoring. CRAP!!!  The bed springs started poking into my back. I got a sliver from the sheets. And my mouth started tasting like nicotine.

But I was patient. I knew the Ambien would eventually kick in. (And thankfully, the B-52 air conditioner blocked out half of Dave's snores.) 

Midway through the night I fell asleep, but unlike on the flight to London I woke up sore and cranky. 

Then I attempted to take a shower. This is the way the shower was supposed to look. 

This was our shower.

It wouldn't have been so bad if there had been a way to keep the shower curtain open: perhaps a set of magnets or some duct tape. 

Even talented Body Jammers like myself have a difficult time washing our bodies while holding a shower curtain closed with 2 hands. 

Thank goodness for the breakfast at the Hoot'n'Howl, the bar/diner attached to the Quality Inn, and it's remarkable decorating scheme! There was a wall of fascinating oxymoronic concert posters, such as the 1967 Monkees’ concert with Jimi Hendrix as the opening act.  

Then there was the celebrity mug shots section.  

It was a nerdling blogger's wet dream!

It even made up for the waiter who came to our table announcing that they didn’t get a food delivery that week, "so don't even bother looking at the menu. You can have pancakes or pancakes”. We had pancakes.

The next night I was bound and determined to get a good night's sleep. I decided to have a heart to heart discussion with my good buddy.  

"You really let me down last night. You'd better work tonight!" 

My Ambien laughed at me.  "You should put on your reading glasses before taking prescription medicine," she said. 

"And by the way, Einstein, I hope you didn’t mess up your thyroid by taking that extra dose of Synthroid last night." 

With friends like that who needs enemies?

One Big Honkin' Bear

I'm leaving for Wyoming tomorrow and I'm a wee bit nervous.

About the bears.

You see, I plan to do a lot of hiking in the Grand Tetons and Yellowstone, which is home to an estimated 1,000 Grizzly Bears. Yellowstone Grizzlies weigh 325 to 600 pounds...some even larger.

That's a whole lot of big, honkin' bear!

Of course, being the nerdling that I am, I've done my research in terms of how to prevent bear attacks. And it's making me even more nervous.

If Kimmy and I run into a bear while hiking, the first thing we must be aware of is the bear's mood. Apparently, the bear's body language can help determine its mood. The mood we want to avoid is "agitation".

In general, bears show agitation by swaying their heads, huffing, and clacking their teeth.

Clacking their teeth? OMG. Let the nightmares commence.

Experts say that if a bear sees you, you should begin speaking in a low, calm voice.  It doesn’t matter what you say.  (So when I say "Holy crap, there's a freaking bear", I have to use my inside voice.)

They say we should retreat slowly, keeping an eye on the bear but avoiding direct eye contact. Bears interpret direct eye contact as threatening. And no winking at the bear. (Okay, I made that part up.)

Here's the scariest part: individuals who panic, run, or fight an aggressive grizzly bear usually end up with the worst injuries.

I promise you I have no intention of fighting an aggressive grizzly bear.  But I guaranty you that I will panic, and most likely run.

One of the articles I read said: "If you get attacked by a bear you will need a cool head, acting skills, and a change of underwear."

 

(Damn writer thinks he's a comedian.) 

Many hikers wear bells on their feet or backpacks to keep the bears away. But I understand that the Wyoming locals them "Bear dinner bells", since they are more likely to attract bears than scare them away.

Actually,  that information gave me a scathingly brilliant idea!  I'm going to be testing my own version of a bear bell: The Nerdling Show Tunes Bear Deterrent Device.

I think it will work. It's amazingly effective on my family. 

I just start singing and they run for cover!

Cake Decorating School Dropout

I have updated my resume to include my newest talent: cake decorating. 

Educational Background:

• B.A. Mathematics- Geneseo State
• M.S. Applied Statistics- Bowling Green State University
• Intro to Cake Decorating- Michael's Craft Store

Do you think anyone would follow up with Michael's and discover that I'm a Cake Decorating Class dropout?

Truth be told, I'm kind of an idiot savant when it comes to cake decorating.  After 2 classes it was clear (at least to me) that I knew all I needed to create extraordinary masterpieces for my friends and family.  

We practiced on cookies in the first class.  (As you can see, even then my gift for cake decorating was obvious.)

For those ignorant in the fine art of cake decorating, it's simple.  You just put frosting into triangular shaped bags with metal tips on the end. You squeeze the bag, and it gives birth to a line of frosting.  Different tips result in different shaped lines. 

That's all I needed to know to become a pastry powerhouse.

My friend Becca didn't believe me. She thought my goal was too lofty. She did not think I could possibly make a cake and decorate it to look like a drunken Mexican toothpick holder!

But first I had to buy a mixer. As you can see, I love it. (I know what you're thinking. Yes, I am on the rebound from my Kirby, but this feels real.)

It's critical to look good when decorating a cake, so I donned my new apron.  

Ready for action!

While we were waiting for the cake to cool, Becca studied my collection of drunken Mexican toothpick holders.

"I think you should just make a sombrero," she concluded.

"What? Are you kidding?" I said, appalled.  "You don't think I can do it?"

"It looks complicated," she said diplomatically.  "What if you lay one of your drunken Mexican toothpick holders on top of the cake and decorate around it?" 

She actually suggested crumbling up Ritz crackers on top of the cake to pass as sand.

Duh! It's a cake, Becca! Who wants to eat a cake with Ritz crackers? 

I have 3 words for her: rookie cake decorator.

But I have to give props to Becca. She was especially helpful when it came to cleaning up the frosting bowls.

And, after a couple glasses of wine, Becca came up with just the right words to finish off the cake. 

It's perfect!

To thank Becca for her encouragement and assistance last night, I've decided to make her wedding cake.  I've found the perfect design!

I may even enter it in the State Fair!