Random Tuesday Thoughts

Here’s what I’m thinking about right now. If you’d like to randomly spew your thoughts across the page on your blog, then join in the fun at The Unmom. She’s the one who started the craziness.

One. I (heart) my comment spam.

Whenever I’m feeling a bit down, I go read my comment spam. These spammers, they have the compliment DOWN. They make me feel so smart and useful and successful. Except for the one that tells me maybe I should do more research on the topic, because I’m an idiot. And, if I click through (but not at work for god’s sake), I often find some decent porn.

Two. The overwhelm continues.

I was concerned that my new director didn’t know that I exist. Not anymore. Four emails yesterday. He is enthusiastic. He is smart. He is ON IT. And he’s not even officially in the job yet. This is going to be a sea change for me, because I’ve pretty much been able to do my job and check in with the person in that seat as I wanted to. He’s going to keep me on my toes.

I’m struggling between sticking to my already overflowing to-do list and jumping on what he wants me to do. And that’s why I’ve worked almost 20 hours between yesterday and today.

Three. LOST!

The season premiere better live up to expectations.

Four. New nephew the late-night host.

My new nephew is very cute for a newborn. However, I’m struggling to remember his name: Carson. I keep saying Carter. Since I’m not a late-night TV watcher, I keep thinking: Ok, what was that dude’s name on the Tonight Show? The original one? With the turban and the fat dude? Johnny something … ah yes. Carson. This morning I called Laurel and told her she has to name her kid something easy, like George or Mary, so I can remember it.

I held Carson for 10 minutes in the hospital on Sunday, and I had ZERO baby craving. None. I batted my eyes at Steve, who was sitting in the corner of the room as far away as possible from said newborn, and asked, “Don’t I look great wearing this baby?” His reply, in effect: “Yes, but you look better when you take it off.”

Five. Woot! Personal Essay Writing Class!

I used to be a regular at Lighthouse Writers Workshop, Denver’s rock star writing community. Can you say Carleen Brice? And David Wroblewski? Not to mention Colorado’s Poet Laureate, Chris Ransick, and a bunch of other figures of literary awesomeness.

I had been an avid poet and short story writer, and I loved my workshops–the sharing, the bonding, the teachers, the students, the writing. When I had Lauren, I stopped workshopping. OK, I stopped writing. For years. I’ve taken a few half-day courses. And in 2005 I attended about half of the 8-week novel writing class I paid for (I didn’t love that teacher, unfortunately).

I’m very excited about this new 8-week class on personal essay writing because I already have a place to publish my essays: here. And I’m excited to learn from the teacher, Shari Caudron.

Mostly, I’m excited to have story assignments. I do so much better with them.

Six. Massage Envy: Rubbing me the wrong way.

For the past 2 years, I’ve had a membership at Massage Envy, that chain massage place where you pay $49 a month for a massage. My experience there has been touch-and-go: The first year, I found a therapist I loved. Then he left, probably to open his own place and make more money. Since then, I haven’t found someone who rubs me the right way.

I’ve decided to quit my membership for a few reasons.

First, I’m not going often enough to justify $50 a month. I have four unused massages sitting in my account right now.

Second, no one is clicking with me.Did I mention the very overweight therapist I’ve gotten stuck with who SWEATED on me during treatment? Or the guy with bad cigarette breath?

Third, the therapists have time management issues when it comes to sessions longer than 50 minutes. For example, last month I had a 90 minute massage, during which the therapist spent a ton of time on my lower back, then lost track of time and had to rush through the rest of it. Since I’m so bad at using my membership, I tend to do 90 and 120 minute massages. See first.

Fourth: Each massage room has a sign suggesting the tip. In general, I think that’s rude. It makes your customers think tipping is required, or that if they don’t tip they’re a schmuck. (I do tip every time; I just don’t like being told to do it.) In addition, the tip card suggests tips on the “industry standard” rates of $65 for an hour massage or $95 for 90 minutes.

I’m sorry, but that’s like saying to a restaurant guest, you know, we decided as a marketing ploy to charge a regular price of $50 for your steak, but across the street you’d pay $95 for the same thing, so why don’t you tip the waiter on the amount you’d pay across the street. Call me petty, but this bugs the shit out of me to the point that I think about the tip the whole time I’m being massaged.

Final Straw: Sunday. I signed up for a two-hour massage, and got booked with a new therapist. She was nice, and we chatted a bit to get started. She did a great job of working my arms, hands and wrists for about 10 minutes total, which is much longer than anyone ever works those areas. Then, she started on my shoulders. And stayed on them — and particularly on two silver-dollar-sized sections on the front of my shoulder joint — to the point where it hurt and I had to ask her to move on. And she kept coming back to those points. I had asked for full body massage. I had asked her to move on. I was  naked under a sheet. I was in a vulnerable position. I couldn’t exactly get mad out loud now could I? So I lay there and seethed. And winced.

In the end, she spent more than an hour and 10 minutes rubbing my shoulders and neck, and then rushed the rest of the massage. She hit every raw nerve in my body. It was like she was massaging my bones instead of my muscles.  (I know these people are certified by law in Colorado, but this person must have barely passed.) And then, the time was up and I had to tip. I gave her $20 and was pissed (see Fourth, above). For the rest of the day, I was sick, and sore, and headachey, and nauseous. Yesterday morning, I saw the bruises: two black and blue points on the fronts of my shoulders. I am pissed. It’s the last straw, so I’m quitting.

I’ll have 30 days to use up my remaining 4 massages, but I guarantee I’ll to them in 4 50 minute sessions. Talk about rubbing me the wrong way.