Lessons in Massages

No, I'm not going to teach any porn moves. Dirty minds. Get out of the gutter.

Yesterday I realized that my back was really hurting and that I would be in a much better mood in general if it didn't hurt. This is especially important since I told the kids about the stupid happiness factor and that I would be the spoke of happiness in the yearbook room. Dumbass. Why did I do that.

Back on topic. So, I went to Massage Envy which is kind of like the Taco Bell of massages. I'd say McDonald's but it isn't THAT consistent. I mean you go anywhere in the freaking world and you know exactly what your hamburger is going to taste like in McDonalds. Taco Bell, you MOSTLY know, but sometimes it is a little off. Sigh. Again, I digress.

I was thinking about how I had to be sure and say that I wanted a deep tissue massage. One time I went and got this totally fluffy massage. Worthless. I know some people just like to get the fluffy massage, makes 'em feel good, like they are being pampered, but it doesn't really help the muscles. For instance, see below: clearly this woman is barely getting a massage at all. Pure fluff.
Me. I like a nice deep, dig in and get rid of those knots kind of massage. Go ahead, try to make me wimper. The thing about a deep massage is that there is a wee bit of pressure at the time. In fact, I've been known to let out an operatic cry a time or two as the masseuse really hit a hard knot. And, sometimes it feels like I might have a bruise from being knocked about by a future dominatrix or, at the very least, a total sadist. It's worth it, because I know, that in the end everything feels better.

My dearest amiga is not really a massage girl. I know, in part, it is because she is not really a throw your clothes off for a complete stranger so that they can rub all over your body girl. That's ok. I understand, although usually I tell her that it is totally modest, nothing to worry about. Occassionally though, even I get a little nervous.

Last night's massage was great. He dug in, worked on my neck a lot which hasn't been done in ages. It felt much looser and better at the end. However, there were a few times when I though to myself . . .hmm, self, I wonder if you are totally exposed to this stranger. Huh. Hope not. That would be really awkward if so.

Another visual aid, see how the sheet is covering the body and it is right at the bottom of the cheek and it is under the exposed leg so as not to allow air flow where there need be no air flow . . . (my dearest amiga is looking at this thinking NO freaking way). . .but I'm not sure that I had this much coverage at one point during the massage. Again, let me say, he totally was professional, and he wasn't inappropriate at any point, which made me feel ok, but still . . . So, as I lay there getting my little massage, I thought about all the different types of massages and how sometimes it takes a while to really appreciate how great it was and sometimes they are great, but still make you feel a little exposed and nervous. I think life is like that too.

Buddy, the 40lb lapdog

Buddy is delusional. Totally and completely delusional. He thinks he is a lapdog. I had one of my favorite people over, and she was climbed like a mountain by my dingdong lap dog. Can you see my poor friend? No, no, you cannot. You can see the magazine that she was flipping through when Buddy decided that he simply had to be sitting in her lap. Of course now that I study the picture I realize you can also see my complete inability to choose a paint color and that I haven't cleaned off my desk in a really long time. Damn.

I guess I should be grateful that Sabrina is happy just getting on the bed, she doesn't feel a need to actually sit in everyone's lap. See, there now she is able to go back to reading the magazine. Now that Buddy is esconsed comfortably on her lap.

An Ode to Susan

One of my very favorite people in all the world works with me. I met her 9 years ago I think. She rocks. Funny, smart, doesn't take crap off of anyone, cute husband, great kids, blah, blah, blah. Most importantly, (you knew I would circle back to me quickly enough) she gives great advice, and she really helps to keep me out of trouble. Not always an easy task. She has made little murmurs of retirement the last couple of years, but nothing really serious until now. NOW, she says she is serious. She will retire in June. I could just cry. I will miss her sooooo terribly I can hardly stand it.

I realize I still have 6 months and I should be happy for her getting to retire and spend more time with her grandchild etc, but the totally self-centered part of me bemoans the fact she is leaving me. waaahhhhhhhhhh.

Susan is the greatest. I'll try to be a grown-up now and be happy for her. . . because happiness IS contagious, don't you know.

Happiness is contagious, don't you know

Our principal put a Dec 22, 2008 Time Magazine article by Alice Parks in our boxes. (Actually, I think he put them in the English teacher's boxes.) It is an article about some research being done at Harvard and the University of California at San Diego.

They started with the passing of illness. "Contagious diseases operate like a giant infectious network, spreading like the latest YouTube clip among friends of friends online. We're social animals; we share." Tell me about it, hang out in a high school for a while and watch illness spread through the building like ants on sugar or something like that.

So, they then extrapolated and studied the passing of other health-related behaviors like smoking, eating, exercising etc. If unhealthy is contagious, then is healthy behavior contagious, too? Turns out they think the answer is yes.

In effect, if I am in a really good mood all day, my good mood can effect my students and cause them to be in better moods. Then it passes from them on to their friends.

In addition, the whole thing is even more effective if two people actually like each other, so students that really like me would have an even better chance of being in a better mood if I'm in a good mood than kids that don't like me as much. It works the other way too . . . So, they can make me happy, and if I'm in a foul mood, I can ruin their buzz potentially.

Another of my favorite quotes that "people who are smiling on their Facebook pages tend to cluster together, forming an online social circle like a delirious flock of cyberbirds."

Think about it. Being happy isn't just for you, it is for everyone around you. Weird. I may have to write more on this later.

An encounter

Oh, what the hell, I had a date. I was a wee bit nervous (Need I mention the orthodontist?) I almost backed out twice, but I had a friend hanging with me in the yrbk office most of the day, (Hey, it isn't busy this time of year.) and she kept me on the straight and narrow.

I might have also had a wee sip of liquid courage. No, not a big ole drink. A wee sip or two.

At any rate, do I dare say, it wasn't all that bad. He was cute. He had his hair. Tall. Intelligent. Thought I was funny. Yup. I liked him. Now, the waiting part. . .

Running by the nail salon

So, I did a mad dash by the salon in an effort to at least make my finger nails not scar me until I can grow them back out and get them to stop breaking off. Totally annoying, but I digress.

The ladies at the nail salon are lovely, so please, do not take this as casting any aspersions upon their character.

The lady that did my nails had a mole with a seriously long hair growing out of it. It was awkward to say the least. Well, it was awkward for me. The photo below is designed to impress upon you that even had she been stunningly beautiful, the sight of a mole (hers was actually right above her jawline) with a FREAKING long hair coming out of it is disconcerting. On the plus side, I managed to not totally embarrass myself by totally staring at it until I fell into a stupor. Let this be a lesson to all of us. Pluck the unsightly hairs.

Big Love

I'm at that point that I have begun looking about and contemplating the possibilities of dating and perhaps getting serious with someone who might, just might, I hope, return the favor by getting serious with me. Cause that one sided crap is for the birds.

At any rate, I have begun researching and testing the waters of various venues. It is not easy. In fact, at times it is awkward, painful, unpleasant and worse than cramps. Bad cramps. Really bad cramps.

Now, to protect the innocent (in this case, I am the innocent) I shall try to be discreet. Heaven knows, I don't want to be blogging about my adventures and have students start showing up at this affairs. That gives me heart burn just thinking about it.

Several things I feel a need to acknowledge at this point.

A. I like my men to have hair. I blame this on my father. He has a nice full head of hair, and I think he would look funny without it. Most guys look funny without their hair. I am really sorry if there are any bald men reading this and feeling badly about themselves right now. Not my intent at all.

B. Also my father's fault. I like tall guys. I met a guy recently who stood up and clearly had lied about his height. Admittedly I was in boots, but I'm thinking I was looking him straight in the eyes which would put him at about 5'6". That is just too short. Really, the tall guy thing is for his own protection. I'm gonna bring some guy to meet the family and I am the ONLY person shorter than he is???? I've gone 14 year old nieces and nephews taller than that. So actually we could blame my entire family for my need to get neck pains from looking at the people I love.

C. I want a man with a little religion in him. I like going to church, and dag nabbit, I want a guy who wants to go to church with me . . . or is at least willing to fake it. That's love.

All of that being said, I have met/communicated with some real doozies lately. Have I mentioned the orthodonist? Going out with him was like having my teeth pulled without novacaine. Truly painful. He talked about politics for half the time. He did have the decency to try to get me liquored up. He chose Spagetti Warehouse, not great, but not horrible, until he told me that it was a test to determine if I was one of those gold digger girls just out for a nice meal. Obviously not if I agreed to freaking Spagetti Warehouse.

Finished dinner, walked me to my car. Asked for a ride to his car, put his leftovers on the dashboard where he promptly let them slide all over the freaking place when I turned a corner. Sigh. That was a $40.00 detailing job I would have preferred not have had to get. There was more to why that turned out to be a worthless evening, but I can't even bear to revisit.

These stories shall all be filed under the category of Searching for Big Love. More to come.