Tuesday, January 18, 2011

the semi-naked truth

I consider myself a relatively modern woman.  I use anti-wrinkle cream, work out to keep my body somewhat cellulite free, watch E! news to stay up on celeb gossip, and try to be aware of national and wordly current events. I know all of the fad diets to stay away from, I can figure out my internet connection issues with little help, and I can find just about anything on the Internet in under three minutes.

Yes, I am truly a modern woman.

However, in my modern woman warrior life, there is one thing I have somehow missed out on. 

A massage.

Over the years, I've heard many a friend pontificate on the amazing massages they've experienced and I've always been kind of jealous. I've been curious to try it out, but never managed to take the steps toward making an appointment. There always seemed to be a few road blocks in my way.

For example
, the idea of a complete stranger touching me weirds me out. I mean, you may or may not know this, but...I'm a bit high strung. It's even hard for me to be still and quiet with Hubs, let alone with some random person putting their paws all over me and whispering, "Theez iz a place of haaarrrrmoneeee.  Breeth in ze eucalyptis flower sme-ahls.  Feel ze eenergee az I am to tooch you all over ze BODEEEEEE."

(Apparenlty my imaginary massuse is from another country. Like Transylvania.)

So for whatever reason, I had never experienced the joy of a massage. Until last week. Hubs' Mom gave me some moola for Christmas, and since a massage is something I would never buy for myself, it seemed like the perfect way to spend the money.

Like a good little consumer, I researched spas throughout Kansas City and finally decided on a winner. Great reviews, great recommendations, reasonable prices.

Done. Booked.

So the big day finally arrives...and I'm running late.  Like, super late. My morning appointments get moved up an hour, conference calls last longer than they're supposed to and I'm starting to wonder if I'm going to make it to my appointment on time. Needless to say, I'm stressed.

And while in the middle of my stressed morning, I realize I didn't shave my legs.

Grody.

What masseuse is going to want to touch a prickly pear legged woman?  Ew. But there's nothing I can do about it.  She's going to have to deal with it.

I arrive at my 11:45 appointment promptly at 11:35 to allow for check in. The nice woman at the counter finds me in the books and softly says, "Follow me".  She leads me down a flight of stairs and on the way down, I see at least three different signs that say things like, "Please No Cell Phones or Children Beyond This Point" and "This Is a Quiet Place. Keep Voices Low." and "If You Didn't Shave Your Legs, Turn Back Now."

Receptionist Lady leads me to a locker where I'm to put my clothes and personal items.  She gently reminds me to keep my cell phone on silent and place it in the locker, as cellular devices are not allowed in the treatment rooms.

We then arrive at a small changing room with a robe and slippers. She motions for me to go in and tells me to adjourn to the sitting area for some tea and a magazine when I'm ready.  My masseuse will come and get me.

After she whisks the curtain shut, I begin to have a small panic attack. I totally forgot to double check on the ONE thing I don't know about massages.

Do I have to be naked??

Seriously, I have no idea. I've seen movies where people are naked, but sometimes they aren't. Receptionist Lady didn't give any instructions, but maybe she assumes that all patrons of a spa know the rules.

What if there's some weird spa rule that EVERYONE but me knows, and my masseuse laughs and says, "AHH HA!  We hev a new cli-unt it zeems. You are neekid! Vaaaa ha ha ha ha!  Pleez to go beck to chenge room and put ohn yer pantees. Olso, een future, pleez to shev legs befoor me-sage."

What do I do?

Since I still have my purse, I break out my Blackberry and try to Google the answer. No dice. My 3G signal is too low.

I begin to panic. I can't risk the humiliation of making the wrong choice. Then I realize my texting should work. I'll text my friend that recommended this spa! Surely she'll know what to do. So I type:

Hi, T.  It's Kim. I have a dumb question.  Are you supposed to be completely naked for a massage?  I seriously have no idea.

I can't believe I actually just sent that text. Seconds tick by. I realize the buttons on my Blackberry are quite loud when I type...hopefully no one will hear me texting in "the quiet place." Pretty soon the masseuse is going to wonder how it can possibly take so long to change into a robe.

Finally, a response.

Sorry, I just about spit water all over my computer.  Yes, you can be completely naked or wear panties.  If you're getting their vichy shower, I'd recommend your b-day suit.

REJOICE!! I can keep my under-things on and won't get paddled by Inga the mean Swedish massuse. I text back quickly,

I knew I could count on you for info!  I'm texting in the changing room...I think that's frowned upon.

As I type, I suddenly hear through the curtain, "Hello, Miss?  Are you all right in there?" 

Crap. It's Receptionist Lady, come to whisk my phone away. Nazi.

"Uh, yes!" I shout back, forgetting about the quiet rule. "Just about finished. I, uh, couldn't get my boots off!"

God, I'm lame.

Quickly I throw on the robe, toss my cell into my bag and stash all of it in the locker. My massuse is obviously annoyed with waiting on me, because she is standing by my locker. So much for tea and magazines.

"Hello, Kim," her voice is neither foreign, nor creepy. "I'll be assisting you today. We'll be in room 2."

The massuese gives me a quick run down of everything after I tell her I'm a massage virgin. She explains that she won't touch anything "sensitive", which loosely translated means, "I won't touch your special lady parts."

Fine with me.

My massage is scheduled to be an hour long. I lay on the table as instructed and she begins with my feet. Great, only the most ticklish part of my entire body.

My mind instantly flashes back to my wedding, when I got my very first pedicure at the age of 26. (Perhaps I'm not such a modern woman after all.) I all but kicked the poor pedicure dude in his front teeth when he tried to use that scratchy puma stone on my heels. And I may or may not have screamed and laughed like a hyena for the whole ten minutes he worked on my feet. Poor guy.

To my surprise, the relaxed atmosphere is soothing and my masseuse did not in any way give me reason to kick her. In fact, as she moves toward my head to work on my shoulders, I truly start to relax.

But this is me we're talking about. High strung, remember? The more that I try to concentrate on relaxing, the more my brain starts making up wacky sitcom scenarios that cause me to want to laugh.  Scenarios like...

This is pretty relaxing...but what if all of a sudden I have to fart?  Will I let it out and hope it doesn't smell? What if it's one of those toots that you CAN'T hold in and it comes out, ready or not? I wonder if the massuese ever had someone fart on her table. I bet with the warm room, it would be extra smelly.

or

I wonder if she notices that I clench up every time I'm about to laugh from thinking about fart scenarios?  Does she sense I'm trying not to laugh?

and

What if I fall asleep and I start to talk in my sleep like at home?  What if I say something dirty like, "Do me, Hubs!". Will she ask me to leave? I wonder if anyone has ever said something offensive in their sleep before? Would she slap them and just tell them it's part of the massage and to stop crying?

or

I wonder how many massages this lady has done. Can she tell I'm  dehydrated from drinking Dr. Pepper all day? Can she determine my body fat percentage by massaging me? God, I need to work out. Tonight I'm going to start running again. Then I'll come back in three weeks all toned and skinny, and she'll be like, "Ooh!  Someone's been working out. It's so much easier to work on her muscles when she actually has some."

and

I kind of have to pee. I wonder what time it is. Has it been ten minutes? Twenty? Do I interrupt and ask to go to the bathroom? Will that cut in on my massage time? Can I just hold it? What if I think I can hold it but I get so relaxed my bladder lets go and I pee all over the table? God, that'd be so gross. Ew, I wonder if anyone has ever peed on THIS table. What if I'm laying in old PEE? OMG, thank God I left my undies on.

Despite my mental wanderings, I do manage to keep my mouth shut and finally relax into the massage. (Except when it's time to massage my legs. Then all I can think about is how this woman must think I'm a direct descendant of King Kong.)

Soon the massage is over. And surprise, surprise, I feel good. Relaxed, rejuvenated and very, very sleepy.

(Word to the wise: Don't book massage appointments over your lunch hour if you have to go back to work.  You will be, in a word, worthless.)

In the end, I did choose to do the aroma thearpy steam shower (which was fantastic) and all in all, it was a very pleasant experience. Being that it was my first time, I was quite preoccupied with the logistics of everything, which didn't allow me to get as comfortable as I'd hoped. That being said, if I was to go back again, I think I would be more ready and able to fully enjoy the experience.

But maybe next time I'll book a wax appointment first...

Wednesday, January 12, 2011

just a little favor...

Listen, bloggies. I very rarely ask anything of you. Most of the time, all that is expected of you is a quick read once or twice a week and comment if you can spare the time.  In exchange, I provie you stories that make you laugh and potty in your pants a little.

Can you do something for me?

I entered this contest called "A Perfect Day Aboard Amtrak". In order to win, I need votes. 

So, if you would be so kind as to go to this link...

http://amtrak2.votigo.com/contests/showentry/695721

...and vote for my little story, I would really appreciate it. I might win $1500 in tickets for Amtrak. And then I can come and see you.

Well, not really.  I'll probably just go on a nice vacation. But you can PRETEND I came and saw you and we went shopping and ate mexican food. 

The kicker is, voting ends tomorrow. Tee hee. In exchange for your voting, I vow to continue to tell you funny stories.  And isn't that worth its weight in bloggy gold??

PS- the story I tell on the website got cut off for reasons I don't actually no.  The last line of the story is supposed to be, "Now let's go have a ball."

Also, I am not responsible for the horrific formatting of this story.  When I submitted it, it had paragraph breaks.  But when it came up on the website, it was just one big, long paragraph.  Amtrak and trains = good

Amtrak and coherent web contests = could use a little work. 

Monday, January 10, 2011

the light bulb went off...

This blog is my safe place. Like a tree of trust. And in the tree of trust,I tell embarrassing stories about myself from years gone by (and years that are still very, very nearby), you laugh at them, and we all move on.

Usually I am the only contributor of stories. Until now.

After three years of reading my self deprecating blog, Hubs has officially decided to join in on the action. No, he didn't start his own blog. Instead, Hubs posted a FB status this weekend describing one of my, shall we say, less than stellar intellectual moments.

In other words, Hubs scooped me. And I can't have that. My own husband scooping me on my own stories? No can do.

One of the first rules of journalism is, "if someone is beating you to the punch, hire them."

(Okay, I don't actually know if that's a rule of journalism. My degree is in Interior Design.  But it sounds legit.)


And so...without further ado, I would like to announce the exciting addition of a contributor to "The Antisdel Abstract."


Hubs. Welcome to my club. 


(Don't get excited for him; this is a non-compensated position. No health, dental or 401k, either.)


Anyways...


After Hubs posted his Facebood story and scooped me, quite a few people were concerned that I was upset at Hubs for telling a story about his loving and dutiful wife.  To which I say...


Have you read my blog? 

I mean, c'mon. 90% of its content is a recount of my mental and physical misadventures. If I was truly worried about people discovering that I'm not MIT worthy...well, that ship has long since sailed.


Besides, reading my funny stories probably allows a few people to sit back and say, "Wow, at least I'm not THAT dumb."


(I'm like the Jessica Simpson of North East Kansas. Whether or not that's a good thing...eh, jury's still out.)

Furthermore, I dare say that every person on this planet has had a moment when they stop and say, "Whoa, my brain left the building on that one." I just happen to have the guts to talk about it freely with a bunch of strangers via the Internet.


Yay me.

So here is my darling Hubs' story from this weekend, retold with a hint of my dramatic flair, as you've all come to know and love. Enjoy!


***



Setting: Me in the kitchen, scrounging for something to eat while Hubs and I prepare to watch the play-off's.


Me: (opening fridge) *GASP* Oh no! Our light bulb is out in the fridge, Hubs!


Hubs: (from the living room) We'll get another one next time we're at the store.


Me: (thinking) But wait, won't our food go bad? Shouldn't we go to the store right now? I don't want all this fruit to get gross, we just bought it!


(silence)

Hubs: You're kidding, right?


Me: (running into living room) No, I'm not kidding! The light bulb helps keep the food cold somehow, doesn't it?


Hubs: Please tell me you're not serious.


Me: (smiling and pointing at Hubs) Aaaah HA! I'm on to you, buddy.  The light bulb DOES have something to do with the food, and YOU'RE just trying to make me second guess myself. Well it won't work!


Hubs: (shaking head) Babe, seriously. No.


Me: (throwing up hands, exasperated) Well, then what is the POINT of a friggin' light bulb?


Hubs: So you can see the food.


Me:  (walking back over to refrigerator, opening and shutting the door) So, you're telling me the light bulb automatically goes off when you shut the refrigerator door? It isn't on inside there?


Hubs:  Right.


Me: (thinking) How does it know to shut off?


Hubs:  Because there's a censor.


Me: STOP IT, HUBS. You are so full of it! Be straight with me, is that all the light bulb really does?


Hubs: (burying his head in his hands) Yes, baby. It's just so you can see the food.


(pause)

Me:  Whatever. You're just messing with me.  Nice try, Hubs!


***


Obviously later, after having a nice long "let's think this through" moment, I came to the realization that Hubs was in fact not messing with me. A refrigerator actually does not require a light bulb to cool its contents in the way an EZ Bake oven uses a bulb for heating brownies. 


Who knew?


(No seriously, who but me didn't know this?  Anyone? Anyone?)

In other news, I've officially decided that I need my own reality TV show.


Monday, January 3, 2011

(don't) walk this way

Remember how when you were younger you did really stupid things? And then the next morning you'd wake up and think,"Wow. That was a really stupid thing I did."

I was always under the assumption that once I became an adult, those moments of stupidity would dwindle down to almost nothing.  Sure, every now and again I'd have a slip and do something silly, like buy a pair of boots at full price, or maybe play hooky from work to go tan and get highlights.  But for the most part, my stupid days would be behind me. I have a job, I have a family.  As Florence + the Machine (almost) said...the dumb days are over.


Or are they?


Earlier this summer, I had a moment of stupidity that probably rates a 10 on my "I Can't Believe I Did That" scale. I've only told a handful of people about it because, quite frankly, I don't want the world knowing how ridiculous I truly can be.

Oh well, here we go...


It's summer 2010.  Hubs and I drive over to the nearby shopping hot spot for a nice patio dinner and Friday celebratory drinks.  The weather is lovely, a pleasant 82 degrees and sunny. Despite it beings shorts and skirts weather, I'm dressed in my trusty flip flops and a light pair of jeans. A gray cotton jacket lays over my shoulders just in case we're out late enough for it to get nippy.


Hubs and I are immediately seated on the patio. He orders a Guinness, I order a red wine.  We sip our drinks and laugh about the week that is now behind us. I get another drink. Hubs asks me to slow down, the food's not even here yet.  I don't listen. The food arrives.  We eat, and I have one more drink.


We chat some more and somehow a subject comes up (because I brought it up) of how we will raise our children once we decide to go down that path.  Since we already have our two daughter's every other weekend, we feel like we have a pretty good handle on kids.  However, having your own children 24/7 is an entirely different ball game.


Look, Hubs and I have this conversation all the time under sober normal circumstances, and it usually goes fine, with a little bit of tension. I tend to get the teeniest bit defensive about my upbringing anyway...add in three glasses of wine, and well, ya know.


Here's what happened after dinner:


Me: (drawing circles around the rim of my glass) So...what do you think will be the hardest challenge of us having our own kids?


Hubs: (chewing his steak) Um, I don't know.  I just do know that when you have a child, you find things to argue about you never would have imagined.


Me:  Like what? (sluuuuuuurp of wine)

Hubs: (sighs) Babe, I don't know. It's been a long time since the girls were babies. (thinks for a moment and then leans forward) Okay, like this.  You were raised to never have sugar cereals as a kid, right?  I was allowed to eat pretty much whatever I wanted.


Me: (crossing arms as hairs prick up on the back of my neck) Mmmm hmmm.


Hubs: I don't have a problem with sugar cereals.  I mean, I was allowed to eat brownies for breakfast.  But when our kids want to eat Lucky Charms for breakfast someday, we might have to compromise because of how silly it is that -


Me: (cutting him off) Okay, Hubs. (single finger raised and wagging) First of all, sugar cereals can be VERY harmful. Do you realize how addictive sugar is?


Hubs: (rolls eyes) This coming from the person that lives on Dr. Pepper.


Me: (gasps and clutching hand to chest) How DARE you! 

Hubs: (chuckling) Babe, this is silly.  We've talked about the sugar cereals issue before and you even told me that you were always jealous of your friends that got to have S'mores for breakfast.  And I've agreed that maybe a little guidance in food is a good thing, unlike my upbringing.  We'll find a middle ground between our two childhoods, remember?


Me: (near tears) Dr. Pepper isn't THAT BAD.


Hubs: (folding napkin in his lap and signing the check) This was a bad idea.  We shouldn't talk about this kind of stuff when you're...


Me: (both hands up in the sky) Oh, oh, PLEASE!! (holding up empty glass) Are you EMBARRASSED OF ME?  Because I'm DRINKING A GLASS OF WINE after a busy week?  When we have children will wine be forbidden?  I thought only MY parents forbid things.  Now look who's suddenly jumping on that bandwagon!  (sitting back in my chair, quite satisfied with myself for taking a stand against such hypocrisy.)

Hubs: (stands up) I need to go for a walk, I think.  I can't be around you like this.


Me:  FINE!  Go!  Maybe I'll leave, too!


Hubs stands and walks away to ponder how in the world he managed to marry such a complete lunatic.  


I, in what I now refer to as my Cabernet Haze, stand up from the table and begin walking back to the car. Then I decide if I'm going to really show Hubs how much I don't need his judgments, then I needn't ride home with him.  I will just walk.


And so I begin.

Ten minutes later, Hubs pulls up alongside me in the car.  I am nearly to the edge of the shopping center where the true roads with cars on them begin.


Hubs: (rolls down window) Get in the car.


Me:  No.


Hubs: (firmly) Get in the car.  You can't walk on this upcoming road, it's a 50 mph street and there aren't any sidewalks.


Me: (shrugging) Don't care.


Hubs: Kim, get in the car. Seriously.


Me: No!


Hubs: (sighs) Fine. I don't know what else to do.


Hubs slowly drives away and for a moment I think, perhaps I should have gotten in the car, but then I remember the horrific tyranny display at dinner and decide I'm better off walking.


I reach the edge of the shopping complex and can either turn left or right. I scratch my head and think, isn't there one more road I have to turn left to get to, and then the next road takes me home?

I decide I've got it figured out, and turn left.

This really isn't so bad.  Yes, I'm in flip flops, and my purse is getting a little heavy, but so what? It's a beautiful evening, the sun is in the perfect place and - 

HONK! HONK HONK!!! 

 
Goodness, people are rude.

I walk down the road, half-drunk and feeling good. A few people even ask if I need a ride, but I refuse. I am making a point. 


Fast forward ten minutes.  The sun is getting lower in the sky, and my head is beginning to clear from the wine.  In fact, I'm having a hard time remembering why I'm so angry at Hubs.  He did have a valid point.  Many times in our marriage Hubs and I have discussed the melding of our two upbringings so that neither person feels left out or walked on.  And it is true that I always did want to try Cookie Crisp as a young girl.


This is stupid.  I'm going to walk to the end of this road, where I'll turn right to go home, and I'll call Hubs to come and get me.


A few minutes later, I arrive at the end of the road, just as I expected.  Now I turn right and should arrive at our house any second.


Easy peasy. Don't need Hubs after all. He was kind of mean to me, and now that I've started this, I've got to finish it or he'll make fun of me forever.
(Drinking drastically increases your pride levels, by the way.)


I quickly do a mental calculation and estimate that I'll be home in fifteen minutes.


So I walk.  And walk. I can make it.  The blisters on my feet aren't that bad.  The sun has a good 25 minutes left. Wait, was that a BEAVER?


Jesus, my purse is heavy. Why do I carry so much shit all the time? My legs are starting to sweat.  Damn these jeans.

Twenty minutes pass, and I'm approaching a street. HA! Made it!

But this is...what the hell?  I'm at the HIGHWAY.  As in, the INTERSTATE.  And then it hits me.  I have walked in a huge ginormous half-circle.  Let me show you picture.


In the drawing below, the Black line indicates the correct route from the restaurant to our home.  The Red line indicates my Tour de Stupidity.






And that big empty space in the middle of the circle?  That's the Kansas Speedway. Yes, the gigantic Nascar Kansas Speedway out in the middle of nowhere.  

But wait. Hubs is always saying to people that we live right next to the Speedway, right?  Of course, "next to" in a car isn't exactly the same as "next to" in flip flops and jeans.


By taking that left turn back at the shopping center, I have walked in the complete wrong direction and have been way too distracted in thought to figure it out


The power of wine is a serious thing.


At this point, I know I'm sunk. I have a LONG LONG way to go.  At least another 45 minutes. My feet are killing me. It's getting dark. I'm dehydrated. It's time to call it a day.


I dig into my purse and frantically retrieve my phone to call Hubs. A blank screen looks back at me. It's dead. My phone battery has died.


I begin to hyperventilate. Where is Hubs, anyway? Why isn't he looking for me? Of course, it fails to dawn on me that even if Hubs is looking for me, it's very unlikely he would venture two miles in the wrong direction to pick me up.


No one is coming for me.  I am truly on my own.  The only way home is to keep walking.

So I do.

Gravel is flying up into my flip flops, I'm sweaty and smelly.  Cars are fewer and far between now, and I truly am in dangerous territory.  A psycho could come along and kidnap me, and no one would know.


A mere 35 minutes later, I am a quarter mile from home, walking in three foot weeds on the side of a busy road.  I feel dejected, tired and most of all, very stupid.


Suddenly, a mini-van (!!!) pulls up to the side of the road and rolls down its window.


"You need a ride?" a woman calls from the van.  "It's just me and my daughter.  We're on our way home from getting some ice cream.  Just us girls!"


I'm tempted to finish the last quarter mile since I've made it this far.  My bloody feet disagree. I don't even speak, just nod and slowly climb into the van.


I still don't know who that woman was, or what she must have been thinking, but she acted as if nothing was amiss. She light-heartedly says "nice night for a walk!", but otherwise keeps her mouth shut and lets me be.


When I finally walk in the door, Hubs is less than thrilled with me.  He assumes I had gone to a bar to drink considering he's been driving everywhere (well, almost everywhere) looking for me without success.

When I tell him the truth of what happened, he's either dumbfounded with shock, or thinks I'm totally lying.

Hubs: (flabbergasted) We've lived here three and a half years and you STILL don't know how to get home from four miles away?  God, you could've been hurt walking on that road by the Speedway, Kim. Or somebody could have just picked you up and taken you.  All of this because you wanted to be stubborn and ridiculous. (shakes his head)


Me:  I know.  But YOU got up and walked away at dinner!


Hubs:  (throws hands in the air) For two minutes to clear my head! You knew I wouldn't leave for long. I never would just walk away and leave you.

Me: I know. I was just upset. I'm sorry.

Hubs: (standing up) Well, you definitely made your bed and got to lay in it all in one night. I begged you to get in the car. You took this one way too far, and it completely bit you in the ass.


Me:  (looking downward) Not so much my ass as my feet.

***
So take it from me, bloggies.  When you find yourself in an argument with your husband or boyfriend, remember these tips:

1) Cabernet Haze is real.
2) 4.5 miles is a long walk in flip flops.
3) No one can find you if they don't know you're lost.
4) It's much easier to say "I'm sorry" when you don't have eight tons of dust in your teeth.