Matt and Lisa at MetMy husband and I are currently in one of our favorite places on the planet.  Where, you ask? Fabulous New York City!

Other acceptable answers would have been (1) Chipotle, (2) a rescue shelter filled with playful puppies and/or (3) Dairy Queen

We come to New York fairly regularly and although I’m sure we play the role of the hardened New Yorkers quite well, we enjoy doing touristy things too.

Standing in the middle of the sidewalk holding up my iPhone to gauge which way is west is something all New Yorkers do, right?

Musings at the MetToday we went to The Metropolitan Museum, or “The Met” for us New Yorker folks.  For some reason, Matt had never been there, and it had been years since I was there, so we decided to spend the day looking at old stuff.  (Not to be confused with looking at old junk.  That would be a horse of a different color and a very different afternoon.)

As we walked through the museum, my husband’s brilliance shined through once again in the comments he made.  He didn’t realize I was keeping track of his musings, but he never does because I’m super stealthy that way.

He may, however, think I have a bladder control issue because I’m always going to the restroom so I can update my notes in private.

Do you see what I do for you?  Do you see the kind of concern I cause my husband just so you can have a chuckle?  I hope you enjoy this.  You better.

1. Broken

Lisa: “Aw, that statue’s wiener fell off.”

Matt:  “You’ll have that every now and again.”

Matt with broken statue

 

 

 

 

 

 

2.  Ingenuity

Pointing to an opening in armor that was hanging in an exhibit

Matt: “That’s for his pee hole.”

Armor at the Met

 

 

 

 

 

3.  Sports Fan

Matt:  “It looks like that’s a sculpture of a guy sliding into home.”

sliding into

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

4.  Gun Enthusiast

While pointing to a display case with several guns missing

Matt:  “I don’t like that…”

Gun case at Met

 

 

 

 

 

 

5.  Perky

While pointing to an armored statue with a genital region pointing upward

Matt:  “That soldier sure is…um…peppy.”

Matt looking at peppy armor

 

 

 

 

 

 

6. Accuracy Expert

While looking at a mosaic with pygmies and a hippopatomous

Matt: “That hippo isn’t to scale.”

7.  Education Advocate

Lisa:  “Will you take a picture of me on the Met steps in my Blaire Waldorff headband so I can totally channel her?”

Matt:  “YOU HAVE A LAW DEGREE!  WHY DO YOU WATCH GOSSIP GIRL?”

Gossip Girl outside the met

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was a fun afternoon at the Met, my friends.  Of course, it was made far more entertaining by my husband and his random comments, but that’s the case with most things, isn’t it?

Rental carI recently went to Florida for vacation.  Okay, it wasn’t vacation so much as it was a “If I don’t get out of here I’m going to lose my mind” trip.

I take those pretty regularly, as I’m frequently on the verge of losing my mind.  You should know that if you read this blog.  Actually, if you read this blog, you most likely believe I’ve already lost it.

It’s not an illogical assumption.

IMG_3472

This is the kind of view I need when I work. Not a homeless man peeing on the sidewalk.

Whenever I go to Florida I rent a car.  I don’t need anything flashy, as I like to keep a low profile.  I don’t want to draw attention to myself in my tankini and pale legs.

I usually rent the cheapest car there is, which frequently doesn’t include power windows.  It’s okay.  I need the work out.

This trip was no difference, and I got a sweet ride, complete with automatic windows AND automatic locks.  I was ballin’.

I like to go to the same beach every day.  It’s down a long strip on A1A, which is Beachfront Avenue.  I’m confident the beach I frequent is the area Vanilla Ice sang about in his catchy tune that was completely stolen from David Bowie.

I drove around forever in my rented ride, feeling every bump and pothole in my less-than-luxurious automobile.  I finally located a spot on the street and parallel parked that bad boy.

street with cars

Who could find anything on a street like this?

I’m an amazing parallel parker.  This has nothing to do with the story, but I felt it was relevant.

I pumped approximately $20.00 into the meter, because I knew this particular municipality would give you a ticket if you were even one second over your expired time.

As always, I had a million things running through my head, so I grabbed everything I needed and scurried away to the beach for some relaxation.

Just kidding.  I scurried away to the beach to work, but it felt better than sitting in a stuffy office.

After several hours on the beach, I headed back to the car, excited to use my automatic unlocking device.  One problem:  I had no idea where my car was.

Sure, I could walk up and down and look for it…if I knew what it looked like.  I didn’t.

In all the rush of getting the car and getting to the beach, I completely forgot to pay attention to the type of car I rented.

Things like color, make, size and model were details I suddenly wished I would have noted. It was time for some investigative work.

lisa with key

My only clue…the key to finding my car. Pun intended.

Looking at the keys told me it was a Toyota.  Great.  It’s not like that was one of the most popular cars on the road.  Yeah, that wouldn’t be difficult to find.

So I did what anyone would do in that situation.  I walked up and down the street clicking the unlock button, looking for my rental car and hoping the battery in the clicker was good.

Fortunately, the fine automobile I rented had a charged battery in the clicker, and I was finally able to locate my rental car.  It’s a Toyota Yaris, in case you were wondering.

Make no mistake, that’s something I won’t forget anytime soon.

IMG_3453

I named her Helen.
Isn’t that parallel parking job awesome?

Everybody loves Howard Stern. And by “everybody,” I mean probably about half of the population. The other half wants to chop off what are most likely disgustingly old and sagging balls and shove them down his throat.

Photo from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Howard_Stern

Photo from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Howard_Stern

I don’t really have a preference, although I agree he probably has disgusting balls. I fall somewhere in between wanting to have a beer with the guy (only if he’s buying), and wanting to feed him a scrotum sandwich with an extra dose of women’s rights.

I don’t know how to transition into this next part of the story so I’m just telling you I’m transitioning now, which is probably just making it worse. Follow along.

I’m currenty in South Florida, pretending like I’m a baller and not convincing anyone. I’m a horrible actress and I don’t think asking if they serve “Two-Buck Chuck” wine helped sell my story. (They don’t.) But a hey, girl’s gotta dream.

This afternoon I walked through the enormous lobby of the Ritz Carlton in West Palm Beach. In an effort to look important, (and to hide the fact I was wearing sunglasses from the dollar store), I looked at my iPhone as I briskly walked through the lobby. I wanted people to think I was reading important emails, when what I was really doing was checking to see if Amanda Bynes had any new Twitter updates.

SIDE NOTE: If you are not following her on Twitter, do it now. What’s wrong with you?

I quickly realized I couldn’t read and walk at the same time, so I headed for a comfortable looking couch to rest. I almost reached my safe place when I smacked into what I thought was a wooden mop with a black head.

I looked up, expecting to see the janitor and his cleaning supplies. As I lifted my head from my very important correspondence (tweet) I wondered why a janitor was bringing the cleaning equipment through the main lobby area. Didn’t he know very important people were tweeting in there?

And then I saw who it was.

It was fricking Howard Stern…all 92 pounds of him….

Frickety Frick!

I apologized in my best “I’m totally wealthy and I know who you are and don’t care because I’m really rich” voice. I don’t think he bought it. Or if he did, he wouldn’t have been willing to pay more than the dollar I paid for my sunglasses.

Immediately I cursed myself for not buying the fancy sunglasses at Target for $19.99. Had I known I would bump into America’s raunchiest/funniest radio host, I would have splurged. Once again, my love of bargains screwed me over!

He shuffled away with this wife Beth, who looked adorable in her floppy hat that probably cost more than my mortgage.

They both walked away and I realized that collectively they weighed as much as I did.

You know I’m not a good photo journalist, but you guys push me to be better, so here’s the best I could do without looking like a total freak show chasing him to his room with my iPad.

Isn't Beth adorable?

Isn’t Beth adorable?

 

Howard Stern in the hiz-ouse!

Howard Stern in the hiz-ouse!

Howard and Beth are looking to move to South Florida to avoid taxes in NYC, so says the word on the street (which is really just my Google search.) I don’t know if that’s true, but if they decide to move to Florida, do you think they will be looking for a roommate?

It could be just like “Three’s Company.” I would even be willing to be the super-annoying Janet and Matt could be the always dapper Mr. Roper.

Come and knock on our door, Howard! We’ll be waiting for you!

 

As you may know, we are in Austin for SXSW, which basically means that I curse the Austin highway engineers for a week, furiously writing complaints and threatening to “come down there” if they don’t fix their infrastructure.  (Would it kill them to put up a sign every now and again referencing which highway is which?  Apparently, it would.  It would actually kill them.)

Since we aren’t made of money, we only rent one car when we are in Austin.  However, we do it up right, and rent the best vehicle money can buy.  Or in this case, the best non-piece of crap vehicle we can rent that won’t automatically kill us in a small fender bender.  I know, the Newlins have high standards.

Check out this baby.  She’s our rental for the week.  Try not to drool all over the cloth seats and key-ignition.  Please also steer clear of drooling on the windshield.  I learned the hard way this week that the windshield doesn’t have a sensor and the wipers aren’t automatic.  I’m not sure how people live like that, but it isn’t a fun time.  Don’t worry.  I made Matt pull the level for the windshield wipers whenever I needed them.  I seriously made him do this.  Every.  Single.  Time.

Since we only have one sweet ride, and I don’t want to be at SXSW every second of every day, I drop him off first thing in the morning and pick him up at the end of each day (around midnight).  Before I send him off each morning, I make sure he has all the essentials…or at least I try to.

The first morning we began this ritual, we walked outside to my sweet mom-mobile and he commented on how chilly the weather was.  I pointed out that it was 40 fricking degrees and was forecasted to only reach the low 60s that day, so he should consider a change of clothes.  He rolled his eyes and told me he would be fine.  I swear he said “Aw, shucks” under his breath, but I can’t be sure.

As I drove him to SXSW, I tried to make conversation with him, making sure he had the apple I packed for him for a snack. (He did, only because I put it there.)  I instructed him to eat that as an early afternoon snack to avoid being hungry later.  We didn’t want him ruining his dinner.  He agreed to eat the apple as prescribed.

I also reminded him he needed a coat, and tried to give him the one I brought in the car, but he declined.  I suspect it’s because he didn’t want the cool kids to know I packed it.  I get it.  He was going for independence and I had to let him.  He needed to spread his wings…his wings that weren’t protected by a coat, but his wings nonetheless.

The first day I dropped him off I resisted the urge to kiss him before he left.  I didn’t want to embarrass him in front of the other film critics, so I casually said goodbye and told him to have a good day.  I watched him walk away, thinking about how far he’d come.  He was getting to be such a big shot with his press pass and all.

I headed back to the condo in the frigid cold and got back in bed for a bit to warm up.  About 2 hours later my phone rang.  It was Matt calling from school the convention.  He said it was cold and he really wanted a change of clothes.  (I strongly resisted the urge to say “If only someone had told you to bring a change of clothes.”  He didn’t need to hear “I told you so” while he was freezing to death.  I would make sure to tell him that later.)

He politely asked if I could come get him since he was cold.  After asking him what the magic word was, I told him I would be there to come pick him up from school the convention.

Although I had plans to get things done that day, I was secretly delighted to go pick him up.  It meant he needed me, and I was okay with that.  After all, there would come a time where he wouldn’t need me anymore, and I didn’t want to think of that day.   (That day will be Thursday, when we return home and return to our separate vehicles.)  Until then, I decided to bask in the glow of knowing I was needed, and knowing I was right.

I’m always right.

After taking him back to change clothes, I returned him to the convention and we agreed upon a specific time and location for pick up. I reminded him not to talk to strangers, and not to give anyone on the street money.  It’s Austin and you can’t tell if they are truly homeless, or just hipsters.   We do NOT give money to hipsters (except when we buy anything made by Apple).  I made him repeat that back to me to ensure it sunk in.

Later that night, I picked him up at the agreed upon location and he was exhausted.  He said he’d had a long day and it definitely showed.  I asked him if he made any movie critic friends and he didn’t really say much.  At least he didn’t eat lunch alone in the cafeteria.  (He went to a sushi place and read a book.)

I knew what would make him feel better after a long day because it’s what makes everyone between the ages of 2-10 happy; Mc Donald’s.  I drove to the drive thru and watched his face light up as he realized he was getting a special treat.  It was nice to see him smile.

As I drove away, watching him bask in the joy of his new happy meal toy, I realized that I don’t need to have kids.  I’ve got my own kid to take care of, and I’m just fine with that.  I’ll take Matt Newlin over a child of my own any day.  He’s easier to manipulate and at least he’s potty trained.

My husband can be a funny guy at times. Granted, most of the time he doesn’t realize he’s being funny, but those are the times he’s at his best. It’s not that he’s funny because of the jokes he tells. I assure you, he is not. Actually, if my husband asks to tell you a joke, punch him in the jeans and run away immediately. Seriously. It’s for your own good.

Despite his inability to master the “knock knock” joke, he has an ability to make me laugh at the most random times. It’s one of the things I love most about him. So because I love you guys so much (and because I don’t have time to write a full blog post tonight because I’m super busy and important), I’ve decided to let you in on some of my husband’s recent statements that made me laugh.

*Please note that none of these statements are ones that made me want to run to the divorce lawyer and take him for his entire collection of old and stained movie posters. (They are stained from water basement from the damage, you perverts!) A blog post about those statements will be saved for another day. Somehow, those statements also manage to make me laugh, which is probably just pathetic.

**Please also note that all of these statements were said innocently by him, and not a single one of them were said ironically or with the intent of getting a laugh from me. I’m sad about that part, but it’s the truth. He was completely genuine in each one of these examples. Every. Single. One.

1. Mr. Obvious

Matt: “I hit my elbow!”

Me: “Where?”

Matt: “On the pointy part!”

Yeah, because I definitely want to know where exactly on your elbowyou hit your elbow. The very use of the word “elbow” tells me exactly where you hurt yourself. I want to know what object caused you pain, mostly so I can ensure that object is in the way the next time you tell me my purse should go “in the purse spot.”

2. Mathematician

Me (while standing in the pool on vacation): “How much of this pool is pure urine?”

Matt (while also standing in the pool): “I don’t know, but I’ve contributed to it.”

At least he’s honest. And who am I kidding? I contributed to it too.

3. Ghetto Superstar

Matt: “Soledad O’Brien is my home girl.”

 

I feel like I don’t even need to explain this one. She clearly is his home girl, and I’m totally cool with that. Of course, it would have been more appropriate if he was watching her on TV at the time, or if there was some reference to her anywhere at the time he made this declaration. Yes, that would have been appropriate, yet that wasn’t the case.

4. Loverboy

Me (standing in the ocean hugging him): “I love you.”

Matt: “I’m peeing right now.”

See, people?! This is another reason I don’t fricking hug people! The one time I venture out and try to hug someone, they pee on me and an hour of disinfecting my body begins.

5. Motivational Speaker

Matt: “Do you want to go on a walk?”

Me: “Yeah, let’s go.”

Matt: “I don’t want to.”

Wow. This guy really knows how to make a girl happy. I’m thinking I will use this tactic the next time he wants to engage in sexy time.

6. Comedian

Matt: “I’m a funny guy, you dick!”

The word “dick” was strongly emphasized. When he strongly belted out this statement, I can assure you, I thought it was hilarious. So maybe that makes him the dick.

7. Food extraordinaire

Matt: “That thing I order here is awesome!”

Me: “What is it?”

Matt: “I don’t remember.”

Well, I guess we will just order two of those.

8. Schoolboy

Matt: “Did I ever tell you my elementary school principal looked like Kurt Russell in a wig?”

Perhaps this is true. I’m not sure, but for the sake of his principal, I hope it isn’t, as Kurt Russell does not-a-pretty-girl-make. But what was most humorous (and disturbing) about this statement, was that he made it as he was drifting off to sleep. After this observation, I immediately threw away our copy of Overboard, which sucks, because that movie rocks. (It was her money all along people!!!!!  Who saw that coming?)

9. Judge and Jury

Matt (while laying on the beach in Mexico): “Not to be a snob, but is that woman using a god….damned….flip phone?”

Speechless….

10. Fashionista

Me: “You look creepy in that skull cap.”

Matt: “It’s not a skull cap, it’s a knit cap.”

Me: “What’s the difference?”

Matt: “I don’t know.”

And there you have it; a list of unintentionally funny things my husband said recently. I could go on and on and post several more quotes from him, but it’s getting late and I need to use my flip phone to order something amazing for him for dinner.

Funny things my husband said on vacation

Bloodshed and Cheddar BallsI know, I know.  I’m behind on blogs.  Pipe down.  Doesn’t absence make the heart grow fonder?  Actually, I don’t think that’s true.  In the case of my roommate, freshman year of college, absence didn’t make the heart grow fonder with her boyfriend, but it did make her grow genital warts.  True story.

I realize that it’s almost February and I’m writing a post about Thanksgiving, but doesn’t everyone love the holidays, no matter what time of year?  And Thanksgiving is the best holiday of all because it celebrates food, and freedom, and comradery, and killing Indians with cholera.

Well, maybe we don’t so much celebrate that last part, but it’s worth noting and shaming ourselves for…which is personally why I drink on that holiday.  I guess that means I’m a good American.

I really do have a lot of stories to tell you from when I was gone from the blog, but there’s only so much I can tell at once.   So bear with me, as some of these stories may not be timely. (Much like my college roommate’s “special visitor” one particular month which led to a pregnancy scare.  Another true story.)

But don’t get mad about it.  I’ve been backed up!  I feel like since I just had my gallbladder removed, I should make a joke about poo, but I won’t.  I’m better than that…and I also can’t think of anything clever to do with that joke.

On to Thanksgiving and the story.  This year we went to my brother’s wife’s parents’ house for Thanksgiving.  Isn’t that where most people go for the holidays?  I would like to think it’s because my brother’s wife’s parents think we are awesome and want to spend the holidays with me and Matt, but somehow I think pity plays a big role in our invitation.  Whatever, they had good wine.

As soon as we arrived, we felt like ass-hats because we didn’t make anything.  Don’t get me wrong, we brought something.  (We aren’t horrible people!)  That something just didn’t happen to be ours.  Rather, we snagged a bag of pies from my parents as they were loading the car.  We didn’t want to look like ass-hats…but we were fine being them.  (Side note:  “Bag of Pies” would make a great band name.)

processor.jpg

Since I have an amazing moral compass, I knew I needed to pull my weight, so I immediately began helping in the kitchen.  This may have been partly because I wanted to help, and partly because I wanted to make the cheese balls. I wanted to ensure I would have complete control over how much cheese was used for said balls. (Hee hee…balls…)

The recipe called for finely chopped nuts.  (I know, these balls and nuts jokes are getting to be too easy….much like my college roommate.)  Once I realized the “fine” description in the recipe wasn’t telling me that I needed to do a good job, I looked around for a food processor.  But for the record, had I chopped the nuts myself, I would have done a fine job.  Just FYI.

The processor was packed neatly in a box, instead of thrown in a random cabinet like it is at my house.  I immediately began trying to put the food processor together.  I wanted to earn my keep, and I was also seriously craving cheddar.

My brother’s mother in law, Hallmark (not her real name), and I decided to tackle this project together, because two heads are better than one, but also because she is a fan of the cheddar balls too.  (I’m resisting yet another ball joke.  I’m so mature.)

Unfortunately, Hallmark and I together may actually have been collectively more clueless than we were separately when it came to putting together the food processor.  Fortunately, we are both adorable and amazingly awesome, so it made up for our inability to follow written directions.  Since I was the guest, and wanted to show it wasn’t a complete mistake allowing us to crash Thanksgiving, I took the processor by the blade and took action.  Sadly, the blade retaliated against me by taking a chunk off the tip of my finger.  He was clearly not in the holiday spirit.

Immediately blood began gushing out of my finger, and dripped all over the nuts.  (Seriously, people.  Get your dirty minds out of the gutter.  I’m referring to the peanuts.)  I looked around helplessly and locked eyes with the one person I didn’t want to know about my mishap; my husband.  His reaction was exactly what I expected from him, although I can’t say it was out of line.

He shook his head as said in an exasperated tone, “Two minutes, babe.  You’ve been here two minutes.”

I want to say that he was exaggerating on the time.  I want to say that so badly.  But I can’t, because he was right, and I’m also fairly certain he rounded up.  At that point, the blood was gushing everywhere and judging by the look in his eye, I knew Matt wouldn’t be the first to volunteer blood for my inevitable transfusion.  Fortunately, Hallmark came to my rescue and helped me bandage my wound.  (Didn’t I tell you she was awesome?)

Matt gently sat me down on the couch and said we should “just sit here for a while.” Again, I wanted to be irritated with him, but I figured it would be more efficient to only drip blood on one spot of the carpet instead of all over the house.  I was a considerate house guest.

We waited for dinner to be served, all the while ensuring my finger remained over my head to stop the bleeding.  Finally, the food was ready and we proceeded to the dining room to eat.  I hoped the cheese balls were amazing, and fortunately, they were.  But then again, of course they were.  They had a little piece of me in every bite.

I’m also confident we will not be invited back next year, so Matt and I are now accepting invitations for Thanksgiving!

cheeseball.jpg

I fricking love going to the spa!  Yes, I used the word “fricking” because my love of the spa and pampering calls for a strong descriptive word, and that’s my PG version of the F-bomb.

Matt and I went to Mexico for the holidays and while we were there, we indulged ourselves with several visits to the spa.  We also indulged ourselves with ridiculous amount of food including one entire cheesecake, half of a french silk pie, and around 5 pounds of guacamole.  And by “we” I mean “me.”

At some point I think the wait staff figured out I didn’t have a sick child in my room whose dying wish was to eat an entire cheesecake in one sitting.

One morning during our trip, I got on the elevator to go to the gym.  Yes, I took the elevator to go to the gym.  My room was on the 3rd floor.  Did you really think I would take the stairs?  Pfft!

Why would I work out before I worked out?  Ridiculous. And close your mouth.  I know you’re shocked I went to the gym but reading this post with your mouth open in awe isn’t a good look for you.

Massages on the beachWhen I got in the elevator I was greeted by Rick, a friendly gentleman who was quite chatty despite the fact it was 8:00 a.m.  I know you’re thinking “Wow.  They must stay at a really nice resort if there are elevator operators.”  Um, no.  Rick wasn’t the elevator attendant, as it wasn’t 1952.  Rather, Rick was simply another guest at the hotel who had a clear affinity for the color red.  He had on a red shirt and red swimming trunks.  Did the reds match?  Of course not.  Immediately I pegged him as a communist.

“Wow, there are a lot of people going to the beach this early in the morning,” Rick in Red said, trying to start a conversation on the 20 second elevator ride.  (I will now refer to Rick in Red as RIR because I’m lazy and don’t want to type that out each time.  You should be able to follow along with this crafty abbreviation.)

For some reason I felt compelled to explain to RIR that I wasn’t going to lay on the beach, but I going to the gym instead.  I would have thought he could have deduced that from the work-out clothes I was wearing, and the water bottle, sweat towel and iPod I was holding.  Obviously RIR wasn’t an overly observant guy.

“I’m going to the gym,” I responded, feeling proud of myself for actually going instead of laying in bed telling myself I needed to work out and then ordering room service instead.

jacuzzi at spa

“Where do you shower after you work out?” RIR asked.

What the hell?  Who was this guy and why was he asking about my showering routine?  And why was I answering him?

I told him I shower in the spa locker room after my pathetic workout of walking slowly on the treadmill on an incline of 2. I probably didn’t need a shower afterwards, but I liked to use the spa’s shower, as it has dispensers on the wall for various body washes.  I’m a simple girl.

“You go to the spa here?” RIR responded.  I told him I did and it was nice.

“I bet sumthin like that is pretty expensive, huh?” he asked, obviously mistaking me for some kind of high roller.  “You know, I just go down to that Sea Breeze place down the beach and get an hour massage for $20.  It’s pretty good and the women are nice and do a real nice job.  You should check it out sometime and save yourself some money.”  (This should be read in a bit of a hillbilly accent with “Dueling Banjos” playing in the background.)

I don’t know why, but I could tell Rick knew a quality massage, and I was confident in his recommendation for some strange reason.

Later, I told Matt about my conversation with RIR and his recommendation to get a massage on the beach instead of at the spa.  Strangely enough, we were actually at the spa when I broached this subject, and we were both laying on the tables waiting for our massages to start.

“I think it’s worth a try,” I suggested.  “It will be a lot cheaper and a massage right on the beach would be nice.” I have no idea why I wanted to get his permission.  I had Rick’s recommendation.  What more did I need?

Matt wasn’t as convinced as I was, but that’s because he didn’t see the look in RIR’s eyes when he described how the women remove the sand from your feet during the massage.

“You will come with me to make sure I’m safe and that there’s no funny business.”  I said, assuring him.  “And by funny business, I mean anal.”

“Too bad we never have any funny business,” my husband muttered under his breath.  He’s clearly a jackass.

 

The next day, I decided to give the random women on the beach a try for a massage.  I couldn’t find the Sea Breeze location RIR spoke so fondly of.  I suspect that’s because the outfit was probably busted for smuggling women and heroin…or it was because it was Sunday and they were closed.  Both are plausible explanations.

I found another tent on the beach that looked somewhat on the up and up.  There was a guy with a clipboard standing out front, which completely legitimized the operation in my eyes.  Matt?  Not so much, as he has a strict “Don’t trust anyone with a clip board” rule.

I approached the gentleman and made an appointment for later that day.  He asked for my first name and we agreed I would get a massage at 5:00 for $30.00.  I could hardly wait.

When the time came, Matt accompanied me to the massage tent, where he said he would be there to make sure I wasn’t robbed.  (He made no mention of whether he cared if I was assaulted, so I suspect that wasn’t in his wheelhouse of concerns.)  He found a comfortable spot on the beach with a view of the tent.  Here he is ready to protect me from danger.

And here he is about 5 minutes later.  No joke.  I hadn’t even started my massage yet and this a-hole was sound asleep.  Rick wouldn’t have left me there alone to fend for myself; I just knew it.

TOTAL fail.

The tent was fairly small and there were five massage tables set up in a row.  There were five women working and an older overseer who looked like she would cut a bitch if someone got frisky.  She was obviously far more concerned about me than my sleeping husband was.

The massage began and although it was a little strange at first, it actually ended up being pretty good, especially for $30.00.  The only awkward time came about 10 minutes into the massage when the woman whispered softly in my ear “Do you want more pleasure?”  Or at least that’s what I heard her say.  Allegedly she said “Do you want more pressure” but I’m not so sure that’s really what she said.  Either way, my response was the same…a big fat no.

The hour went by quickly and once I stopped clenching from fear of assault from the rear, it was actually quite relaxing.  When the massage was over, I tipped the woman, who seemed utterly shocked by it.  I could see the mean lady eying the money, and I’m sure she snatched it from the masseuse as soon as I walked away.  (I hope she used it to buy some tweezers, as she had some mean chin hair.)

The next day I ran into Rick.  He was wearing the exact same red outfit as the day before, confirming my suspicion of his communist status.  I told him I took his recommendation and had a great massage.  I considered asking him about other recommendations for services in the area, but figured I would stop while I was ahead.  I wasn’t feeling brave enough to venture out again, and I didn’t want to rely on RIR for all of my entertainment needs.  That’s what the bar was for!

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I don’t normally complain.  Okay, wait.  I do complain sometimes, but only to my husband.  And only on this blog.  And only to my boss.  Wait.  Strike all of that.  Never mind.   I’m going to start over.

Sometimes complaining is warranted.  For instance, when I schedule a one-hour couples’ massage it doesn’t start on time.  That warrants a comment.  When we get to the massage room and are left alone to disrobe for 10 minutes, that warrants a full complaint.

At some point, Matt and I looked at each other and questioned whether we were supposed to give each other the massages in the room instead of receiving them.  Thank goodness I denied his suggestions.

So when this atrocity happened the other day, I complained to the spa about the shortened massage.  However, it should be noted that I restrained myself and didn’t complain about the low quality of toilet paper in the locker room. I was trying to be nice.  But seriously, 2 ply?  Pfft!

Because of the complaint, and the fact the receptionist was an astute woman who knew I wouldn’t leave until a proper remedy was given, we got free body scrubs for the next day.  (Yeah, as if I didn’t already experience a scrub from the chaffing from the 2 ply toilet paper… She should have also included a tube of Neosporin, but I didn’t push the issue.)

Matt and I were happy for the free scrubs, and the next day, we got to the spa ready for the scrub down.  We didn’t know we were going to be brutally assaulted by two angry women.  We should have known, but we were clueless (much like the spa on the issue of scratchy toiletries)

At the beginning, we were greeted by two women.  Unfortunately, they were the two women who cut short our massages the previous day.  They didn’t look happy to see us.  The feeling was mutual.

They took us into a room where we were each given our “outfits” for the procedure.  Mine was a small piece of tissue paper in the shape of a diaper and what appeared to be a hair net.  I wondered what kind of “service” we were in for if I needed a hair net, but then I realized it was for my boobs.  I felt uncomfortable and awkward…until I looked at my husband’s required attire.

My husband was given paper underwear that looked like Depends for a skinny old man.  And they were blue….you know…to make them more manly. They were basically a handful of napkins from one of those small metal napkin dispensers from an ice cream shoppe from the 1950s.  He looked cute.  I also found myself craving a chocolate malt.

We took our positions on the massage tables, not just because we didn’t want to lose a single second of our free service, but also because we were fearful seeing each other wearing paper mache underwear might permanently damage our relationship.  We waited for the women to return, focusing our attention on the lyrics to “Total Eclipse of the Heart,” which was the song playing in the background.  For reals.

The women arrived and immediately started the procedure.  My masseuse had manly hands that began scrubbing me down really hard.  It felt good but hurt at the same time. (Does this mean I’m a masochist?) She continued to scrub briskly and firmly. (Translation: really fricking hard.)

I considered yelling “Out damned spot!” but didn’t think she looked like much of a Macbeth fan.  A Midsummer’s Night Dream? Yes. Macbeth? Not so much. (There’s a little Shakespeare humor for you. An added bonus to an otherwise mindless post.)

I decided to just close my eyes and picture myself somewhere magical and relaxing…like a spa…on a beach…in a tropical location. Wait…

Since that didn’t work, I figured a glance at my husband might remind me of better times. It worked. I looked over to see me husband was also being punished and he appeared to be liking/hating it as much as I was. I found comfort in his discomfort and turned my focus back to me (where it belonged).

After she assaulted me with scrub, she told me to get up and get in the shower, like I did something wrong;  like I needed to be punished. (Frick! Maybe this experience did turn me into a masochist!).

She turned on the water, adjusted the temperature and told me to take off my bikini and shower. It was a little generous to call the generic paper towels covering my genitals a “bikini,” as I couldn’t even absorb a Kool-Aid spill with what was covering my crotch, but I didn’t want to correct her for fear of a second round of scrubbing.

I also found it curious that the one time she felt generous was in her explanation of the flimsy coffee filter I was wearing. Cuz that’s a time to be generous.

I stepped into the shower, confident this woman was a big fan of the Fifty Shades of Grey trilogy, and began to shower. (I made a mental note to yell “Holy cow!” later in the session.  She was clearly a lover of the Grey literature, which dictated she must also love the phrase commonly used by the author of that book…and Harry Carey.)

Okay. Back to the story. The shower water was scalding but I was scared to adjust the temperature for fear she might actually whip me with a bamboo stick. She would enjoy that too much and I didn’t want to give her that satisfaction. (Plus, I bruise easily. I’m a delicate flower that way.)

So I continued to scald myself with water in an attempt to wash off the morsels of sand that were now permanently embedded in my body.  I thought about how I would return from vacation with a burn on my back, but instead of a sunburn, it would be a second degree water burn from a vindictive masseuse.

I turned the shower off and immediately froze, as I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to touch the faucet. All of a sudden, a hand reached into the shower and handed me a towel. I took it before the hand had a change of heart and started beating me with said towel. I dried off and stepped outside of the shower, where I found my husband in his blue scrub thong waiting for the shower. I tried to warn him with my eyes but he seemed oblivious to my signals, probably because he was focused on the piece of paper that was slowing creeping up his crack.

I decided to leave him to it.

She told me to lay down on the table and I did so, being careful to keep myself covered with the towel. A quick visual pat down of the room revealed my paper bikini was nowhere to be found. I never thought I could become so attached to such a thin layer of paper, yet I found myself wishing I had it back.

I was then jolted back to reality when she pulled my towel off, leaving me laying naked on the table. I felt like one of those women who lays on a table and has sushi served off of her crotch at fancy dinner parties. Based upon the scrub down I just got, I was confident anyone could eat dinner off my private parts. Whether they would want to or not was an entirely different question. Either way, I knew my “business” was certainly cleaner at that moment than my kitchen counters, and my kitchen counters sparkle! (I use Comet and it’s awesome…it’s also $1.00 at the Dollar Store).

As I laid there completely naked, I realized there was only one logical explanation for this horrid torture.  There was a camera in the room and I was somehow on an exposé episode of “Dateline” about spas where people paid to be abused. I looked expectantly at the door for Chris Hansen, but before I could get my hopes up for my TV debut, the masseuse smashed them down by throwing a towel over my genitalia.


She then began the lotion application, which was done with a firm hand. I was sore from the massage and it was as if she had a map of all the places I was bruised.  Instead of avoiding them, she proceeded to punch each area repeatedly.

I suspected she knew exactly where the tender spots were located, as I’m convinced my back was black and blue from the beating I took from her the day before. I also suspected she was enjoying the experience but I was too frightened to speak.

I knew if I made a sound she would send me back to shower for more burns and my skin couldn’t take anymore.  It was the one time in my life where the phrase “It puts the lotion on the skin, or it gets the hose again” was completely applicable. I swear I heard the lambs screaming.

After the lotion application, the “service” was over.  We silently did a celebratory fist pump as we located our undergarments.  (I’ve never been so happy to see a cotton-poly blend of underwear in my life.)  We dressed quickly and bolted out of the treatment area before we could be further accosted by the women.

Once we got out of the spa we agreed that was an “experience” and something we wouldn’t forget.  Then we scheduled another scrub for 2 days later.

I’m back, baby! Go ahead, admit it. You missed me and this blog. There’s no shame in admitting it. The only shame is mine for all the embarrassing things I do and the fact I am dumb enough to post it on a site approximately 3 people read.

Either way, I’m back in black! Seriously. Look at the photo. I’m literally wearing black. Look. And while you’re at it, check out the back hair on homeboy next to me. No wonder that guy is sitting in the shade in the pool. He’s practically sporting a winter coat with those luscious locks of wiry hair. You can almost smell the aroma of his Old Spice deodorant wafting through the photo. (Only the Original Scent though.  No Summer’s Breeze scent. He looks old school).

So I’m sorry for being away so long. I know you have been anxiously awaiting my return, mostly because there are only reruns on cable and it’s too cold to go outside and harass the neighborhood kids. I’m back to entertain you with my recent developments. I’m sure you’ve wondered why I haven’t written and I can imagine you all whispering in the “Gossip Girl” narrator’s voice “Where is she? Where has she been?” Well, unlike our favorite anonymous blogger from NYC, there are no secrets I’ll never tell. I have no shame that way. xoxo.

You’re probably wanting answers to the whispered questions posed above. Well I don’t have time to give you a complete update now, as the sun is out and I need to roll over to tan my back. But I can give you a preview of some of my adventures. It’s a teaser of sorts. A tickler. Something to wet your palette other than the Grey Goose you’ve purchased for me for Christmas.

Go ahead and ship that directly to my house.  I will get it when I return to the states.) I’ve been quite busy with several balls in the air. Since I can’t juggle and I try to avoid anything involving balls, I haven’t been able to manage my time efficiently. (Insert perverted joke here about balls.

But I’m back and dedicated to updating you on my regular antics that embarrass my husband and provide him more ammunition for what will inevitably be divorce papers. I know, I know, make with the teasers, right? Fine. Calm down. You’ve waited this long, what’s a few more poorly worded sentences?

Some of the upcoming updates will include my volunteer work with a neighborhood association for a neighborhood where I don’t reside; my smack down with two cats in heat; the day my husband spilled an entire beer on my newly dyed red hair; and the worst story of all…the betrayal of Pajama Jeans (the person, not the jeans, although those have fallen out of favor as well).

So sit back, grab your Chipotle and a glass of Greg Goose, and get excited for the upcoming posts. If we’ve learned anything from White Snake, it’s that you don’t know what you got ’till its gone (and that skin tight jeans never look good on men). I’m pretty sure they wrote that song about missing my blog, but no worries, as I’ve returned.

And don’t act like you won’t have time to read the updates. We all know you’re back at work but you’re not doing anything other than playing on Facebook and trying to beat your high score on Bejeweled. So get ready to feel better about your own life, as my ridiculousness always seems to remind people their lives could be worse. They could be me. You”re welcome. I’m prepared to update you on my recent happenings and embarrassing moments (of which there are several). And isn’t that really the greatest Christmas gift of all?

Because my life is super glamorous, I often have to go out of town for work.  I like to think it’s because my company wants to send the best man (er…woman) for the job, but I’m pretty sure they send me because it’s an excuse to get me out of the office for a day or two.

Apparently some people don’t like my afternoon reggae party and the smell of Indian food makes others nauseous.  Whatever. (If they think the food smells bad, they should come into my office a few hours after I’ve eaten it…)

Today I was in the Windy City of Chicago, which is a far nicer city than the ones I’ve been to lately. (However, I didn’t see a single restaurant offering bags o’ burgers, which made me a bit sad).  I arrived in Chicago the night before my meeting because I’m not a morning person and didn’t want to take a red eye flight in the morning.

I also wanted to partake in room service and the complimentary robes the hotel provides.  (I also secretly wanted a bed to myself without having to share it with 3 dogs and a husband, but don’t repeat that.)

This morning I met a coworker and we headed out on foot to the location of our meeting.  When it comes to Chicago, I only have a slight idea where I am at any given time and even less of an idea where I’m going.  (Come to think of it, that’s typically how I am no matter what city I’m in.)  When it comes to New York, I can get anywhere in no time, which subway line to take, and which homeless men to avoid.  When it comes to Chicago, I can barely hail a cab.

I’m not sure why we decided to walk to the meeting.  It certainly wasn’t my idea, as I have a strict “no exercise” policy.  However, my coworker started walking and I didn’t want to not be a team player, so I joined him.  I think you know where this story ends up…we got lost.

My phone couldn’t figure out where we were or where we were going and the trail of crumbs from my Fiber One bar was long gone, eaten by a combination of pigeons and homeless people.  (Please note the trail of crumbs was inadvertent…but then again, you totally knew that.)  We were screwed.

I was in heels and didn’t want to walk anymore, so I decided to hail a cab.  (Okay, so maybe the fact I was in heels had nothing to do with my desire to sit down, but let’s go with that, as it’s a reasonable excuse.)  I hailed a cab, got in, and cursed Michael Kors for making such uncomfortable shoes.

Before I go any further, I must point out that my coworker had never been to a city like Chicago.  He’d never taken a cab in a big city and had no idea what he was in for.  Okay, calm down, I’m getting back to the story.

We told the cabbie our destination and he sped off down the road, leaving skid marks and a pile of smoke in his wake (which, strangely enough, is the same result I get when eating Indian food, but that’s another story).  As we were just settling in to our wheelchair accessible cab, we were shaken from our thoughts by our cabbie dropping f-bombs at every-single-person on the road.  Seriously.  Every. One.

But then it escalated.  A woman in her twenties was riding her bike IN THE BIKE LANE when he came up on her in his cab, going approximately 100 miles per hour.  She rode right next to his cab, unaffected, although she came dangerously close to hitting him (BECAUSE HE WAS DRIVING IN THE BIKE LANE.)  And then it was on.

“That b&%^$ thinks she can f#$# with me today?” he yelled at the two of us, as if we were supposed to do anything other than shit our pants and text our loved ones a good bye message.

Before we could answer, he pulled around her, barely missing her, and then pulled in front of her to cut her off, all the while calling her mother a whore.  I looked at my coworker, who was petrified and I’m pretty sure I saw him praying the rosary, although I can’t be sure.

When the cabbie nearly struck the biker, he then yelled that he hoped the bi$#@ was struck by another car and seriously hurt because she was being so stupid (IN THE BIKE LANE.  RIDING HER BIKE IN THE BIKE LANE.)

“Who does she think she is?” he asked my coworker, as if he could say anything other than a few dozen Hail Marys.  “If she got hit it would be her fault and then where would she be?  I’m fully insured, Mother F@#$$.”

He then proceeded to cut off another vehicle who he just referred to as “Tennessee,” almost clipped two pedestrians, dropped a few racial slurs, and then dropped us off right in front of our destination.

My coworker gathered the things that spilled out of his bag when it went tumbling upon the first near homicide.  As he did that, I paid the cabbie.  I only had a $10 bill for the $5 fare, but I feared he would pop a cap in my face if I asked him for change.  Instead, I gave him the $10 and told him the extra money was for his troubles.  That actually seemed to make smile, which was good, as I wasn’t entirely sure he wouldn’t run me over when I exited the vehicle.

He sped away as quickly as he arrived, and I looked to my coworker to see how he enjoyed his first big city cab ride.  He said he enjoyed it just fine, and then immediately asked if there was a drug store close by.  He needed to buy Pepto Bismol, although I’m sure it wasn’t related at all to the roller coaster ride of death we just experienced.  Fortunately for us, the cab got us there early, so we had plenty of time to buy medicine to calm our stomachs, and caffeine to calm our nerves.