...or can it? Dum dum DUM.
I don't remember how much I've told you people about my right arm. But if you already know all this, too bad. A little refresher never hurt anyone. Just think of it as "...previously on The Adventures..."
Two weeks ago my Superior Immune System failed me and I had, briefly (see, it's still superior), a very bad cold. Wednesday and Thursday of that week, I spent more or less all my time at home reading on my kindle and all my time at work quarantined in my office, using the mouse on this computer. I managed, with repetitive thumb motion, to give myself a nasty case of right elbow tendinitis by Memorial Day weekend. It really hurt, and I am not a pain wuss. I could feel the tendon inflamed, but it was also sending throbbing pain through my whole forearm, and less so, in the other direction up to my shoulder. I took lots of ibuprofen, kept icing it, slathered it with arnica, had Marcy put a magnet on it, and babied it in the gym, while giving massages, and in everyday life--kept off the damn kindle. By Thursday after Memorial Day, so a week or so after it started, it felt much better.
So last Thursday, with it feeling much better, I went to the gym to do cardio after work, and the half-assed abs that I do, and stretching. While on the mats, I had the brilliant (<--that's effing sarcasm, kids) idea to see if I could with, my newly-restored-to-health elbow, bust out some pushups. I know, I know. I got to number twelve, got an owwy in my shoulder and said to myself, shit, shouldn'ta oughtn'ta done that. But didn't think much of it.
Friday with my elbow feeling fine and my shoulder/upper arm just a tiny bit grumpy***, I went to the gym after work to lift. And seeing as how I am all peppy because I am bulking (heh) I shredded my legs, going up on almost all my lifts and doing a few things I really hate but really should be doing. When I went on to upper body, however, I was weak. My right arm, especially, was weak. I had to go down on some things, which never makes me happy. That's weird, I thought. I didn't even have to go down in weights when my elbow was acting up and now that it's better, I do? Huh. I attributed it to preexhausting myself with the killer leg workout.
Over the weekend my upper arm and shoulder were hurting, though nowhere NEAR the kind of pain the tendinitis had caused, and I'd occasionally get some tingling in my arm. What was more upsetting was that Sunday in the gym my right arm was even weaker. Oh fuck, I said to myself, you have done something very bad to your brachial plexis, you moron, you. Then I said, lalala, no I haven't, and I can't hear you.
On Monday I realized that when I flexed my neck, i.e. brought my chin to my chest, and reached a certain point in the movement, I would get a shooting pain and tingling in my armpit and down my right arm. Aha, a clue! I hauled out all my anatomy books to try to figure out exactly where my brachial plexis was getting impinged. I came to the conclusion that it was my scalenes. Your scalenes--there are three--are muscles on the side of your neck through which the brachial nerve passes, and one of their primary functions is neck flexion. This seemed curious because a.) I don't know what that had to do with the ill-fated set of pushups that appeared to start the whole thing and b.) my neck didn't feel any tighter to me than it usually does. I mean, M2 could tell you, my neck is never what one would call "not tight" but nothing seemed to be in spasm. My anatomy books also pointed to pec minor as a major culprit in brachial plexus compression and that seemed more likely: I went digging around under pec major and, yes, it felt pretty ouchy on palpation, and it seemed more likely to be injurable when doing pushup.
I decided to book a massage for Wednesday. I'm getting a massage from M2 in a couple weeks, but this seemed like I shouldn't wait. So I booked a massage I would actually have to pay money for. (I know, ::gasp::) I scheduled it with a guy at the place I had gone to on New Year's Eve, not knowing anything about him, just that his open time coordinated with the time I wanted to get my massage. Crapshoot. So off I went yesterday afternoon to tell him the tale of woe I just told you all. Less colorfully.
I have to say, for taking a crapshoot, I really liked this guy. I also was fairly sure, though I didn't ask, that he went to the same massage school I did. Just certain things he did and the order in which he did them were straight from our curriculum. But anyway, he thought my traps and levator were super tight and he spent a lot of time finding the trigger points in there and doing static compression. Also neck ROM and stretching, some of which was not comfortable. So what I liked about him was that he had a really nice quality to his touch and a really nice manner, such that even though he was doing all this NMT work which is semi-painful, I found myself dozing off at points in that way where you don't think you are sleeping but you find yourself with your thoughts a million miles away, then suddenly arouse and realize, oh yeah, I'm getting a massage.
Anyway, I tipped him very well and told him it was great, but I left feeling like while it was good, and that work on my trap and levator really needed to be done, it wasn't going to do much for the impingement. He didn't do any real specific scalene work nor did he go anywhere near my pec. (Which, honestly, male therapist, female client they don't know? They stay way away. Whereas M2 and I poke around in each other's armpits with abandon when necessary, completely without fear of accidental boob gropage.) My arm felt the same when I left as when I came in. Worth a try, I thought, but massage can't fix everything.
However! When I woke up this morning, I realized that flexing my neck, while still sending twinges into my armpit and down the arm, was NOT causing the same intensity of nerve pain and tingling. And my neck ROM was better too. Calming down those trigger points in my trap and levator apparently calmed down the scalenes as well.
The moral of this story? Go get a massage. Tip well. And when you injure yourself, do not do stupid-ass shit just because you "think" you're better. Rest is not a sin. Learn from my mistakes and successes, grasshoppers.
Also? I bought shorts yesterday! And we have a new (temporary) cat! There may be pictures of one or both of these things later.
xoxo
***That was my MT's phrase yesterday. When he'd find a trigger point and I'd wince or grunt, he'd say, "Is that grumpy?" I thought it was cute.
Showing posts with label bodywork. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bodywork. Show all posts
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Monday, March 21, 2011
what's new, pussycat?
Can I just tell you, I went to the new TJMaxx yesterday and bought a very cute shirt, which I am wearing even as I type, and a pair of jeans that depressed me highly? Just keep your comments about why a person would buy pants that depress them to yourselves please. Anyway, the thing is/was that I didn't have a pair of tight jeans anymore, suitable for going out and so forth. All my jeans that I wear day-to-day that fit are kinda loose, which is fine for the supermarket or the mall, but not for when you want to get dressed up. All my male readers are now going, "What is this concept of dressy 'going out' jeans you speak of?" (Except perhaps Mr Indemnity, because I think in all our years of friendship and my advising him on his wardrobe, I finally indoctrinated him in this.) Just take it on faith, male persons: a girl needs going out jeans.
These jeans I ended up buying are very silly and I should probably be embarrassed to wear them in any case. They are very low waisted, which is okay since I've got no muffin top, bitches, but not so okay in that, one wrong move, and underwear exposure or butt crack. They also have bling on the back pockets. You people know I have an unnatural affinity for bling. It's almost a sickness. They were also pretty damn cheap in comparison to what I usually pay for my jeans. But what made me sad, so sad, is that while these jeans look awesome from the front and okay from the side, from the back it is apparent that my saddlebag goo is still in full force. It's very discouraging. I cannot afford to lose any more weight. I have been working hard in the gym for seven months. That the backs of my legs still look that bad makes me want to cry, because I can't see what I could possibly be doing better. I'm keeping them as inspiration pants, with the hope that someday I'll actually look sexeh in them. Like I said, I'm out of ideas on how I'm gonna accomplish that, but whatever.
Also new? I actually have been writing for real again! I dug out a story that has been unfinished for literally years and over the past week wrote 3300 new words. That's the good news. The bad news is I still don't know what happens in the end. It'll come to me!
And also new? My national certification in massage therapy, which is good for 4 years at a time, was due to be up this month. M2 and G did their recerts in January after we all took a cheap online ethics course (because of your required CEUs, six have to be ethics ::insert eyeroll here::) I got my stuff together and mailed my recert stuff in February. Basically they want a list of your CEUs, which I had all in one nice folder which I knew exactly where it was--I bet you are surprised, aren't you, bitches?, and they wanted to know how many massages you've done per year in the last four years and where. You are supposed to keep track of that. Let us just say, I have not. But after a couple of days of going through calendars, old emails, and a notebook I had when I worked for the evil massage place, I was able to make a good honest guess. You do not have to provide any proof with your application unless you are selected to be audited. Then they want logs with clients' names blacked out, plus a letter from any place you worked at, testifying to that fact.
Well, you know I immediately freaked out when I saw the random audit threat. While I could recreate logs of all the massages I have done on my own--and if I made a mistake with a date here or there, who'd know?--I could never get a letter from those evil massage bastards (who hopefully are in federal prison by now) and while I have a list of most of my clients there, I have no idea what dates they were seen. M2 assured me that she thinks the random audit threat is just a threat and that she thinks no one gets audited unless they've also filled out the section asking if you've been arrested or sued. Or if your check doesn't clear. She's far less freaked out by this kind of thing than I am. So, anyway, I asked her the last time I saw her how long it took her to get a response, because I had, at that point, probably mailed my stuff in 10 days prior. She said that it took longer than that and not to worry. Well. What did I get in my email this morning, but confirmation that they had received my packet and that, unless they need further info from me, I should get my new certificate in the mail in three to four weeks. Cross your fingers I do NOT hear anything from them till my certificate arrives. And, btw? Apparently they do not move swiftly. It's gotta be a month now since I mailed that stuff.
Okay, I am sure this was all very fascinating. Carry on.
xoxo
These jeans I ended up buying are very silly and I should probably be embarrassed to wear them in any case. They are very low waisted, which is okay since I've got no muffin top, bitches, but not so okay in that, one wrong move, and underwear exposure or butt crack. They also have bling on the back pockets. You people know I have an unnatural affinity for bling. It's almost a sickness. They were also pretty damn cheap in comparison to what I usually pay for my jeans. But what made me sad, so sad, is that while these jeans look awesome from the front and okay from the side, from the back it is apparent that my saddlebag goo is still in full force. It's very discouraging. I cannot afford to lose any more weight. I have been working hard in the gym for seven months. That the backs of my legs still look that bad makes me want to cry, because I can't see what I could possibly be doing better. I'm keeping them as inspiration pants, with the hope that someday I'll actually look sexeh in them. Like I said, I'm out of ideas on how I'm gonna accomplish that, but whatever.
Also new? I actually have been writing for real again! I dug out a story that has been unfinished for literally years and over the past week wrote 3300 new words. That's the good news. The bad news is I still don't know what happens in the end. It'll come to me!
And also new? My national certification in massage therapy, which is good for 4 years at a time, was due to be up this month. M2 and G did their recerts in January after we all took a cheap online ethics course (because of your required CEUs, six have to be ethics ::insert eyeroll here::) I got my stuff together and mailed my recert stuff in February. Basically they want a list of your CEUs, which I had all in one nice folder which I knew exactly where it was--I bet you are surprised, aren't you, bitches?, and they wanted to know how many massages you've done per year in the last four years and where. You are supposed to keep track of that. Let us just say, I have not. But after a couple of days of going through calendars, old emails, and a notebook I had when I worked for the evil massage place, I was able to make a good honest guess. You do not have to provide any proof with your application unless you are selected to be audited. Then they want logs with clients' names blacked out, plus a letter from any place you worked at, testifying to that fact.
Well, you know I immediately freaked out when I saw the random audit threat. While I could recreate logs of all the massages I have done on my own--and if I made a mistake with a date here or there, who'd know?--I could never get a letter from those evil massage bastards (who hopefully are in federal prison by now) and while I have a list of most of my clients there, I have no idea what dates they were seen. M2 assured me that she thinks the random audit threat is just a threat and that she thinks no one gets audited unless they've also filled out the section asking if you've been arrested or sued. Or if your check doesn't clear. She's far less freaked out by this kind of thing than I am. So, anyway, I asked her the last time I saw her how long it took her to get a response, because I had, at that point, probably mailed my stuff in 10 days prior. She said that it took longer than that and not to worry. Well. What did I get in my email this morning, but confirmation that they had received my packet and that, unless they need further info from me, I should get my new certificate in the mail in three to four weeks. Cross your fingers I do NOT hear anything from them till my certificate arrives. And, btw? Apparently they do not move swiftly. It's gotta be a month now since I mailed that stuff.
Okay, I am sure this was all very fascinating. Carry on.
xoxo
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
oh, andrea, you know better
Yes, I do. I really do. And yet I ventured out in public without the blessed shelter of my blaring iPod covering up the inanity of the workings of other people's minds, as expressed through their vocal apparatuses. <--(I was reading some David Foster Wallace today; shit's about to get wordy in here.*** Ha!)
Let me give you the set up here: at Haymarket this afternoon, there was a lady with a sandwich board about Jesus and burning in hell and such trying to pass out pamphlets. I have never seen her before, but I assumed she was filling in for the guy with the anti-abortion and burning in hell sandwich board--c'mon, if you ever set foot in the city of Boston, you know the dude I'm talking about--who probably was taking a sick day or something. I ignored her, as I ignore all religious zealots and people who are unfortunately off their antipsychotics, and got on my bus, whereupon I remove my kindle from my bag and resume the stylings of Mr Foster Wallace (or Mr Wallace, whichever is correct, I dunno.)
Guy sits behind me. I take little notice. Other guy boards and sits next to him. They know each other. Guy1 (later to be known in this story as Black Guy) says--at this point I'm thinking jokingly--something along the lines of "Man, there's lots of empty seats and you gotta sit next to me?" Guy2 (who will later be known as Gay Guy) says something mildly joking back and comments on Black Guy having taken a pamphlet from Jesus Lady. Black Guy says Gay Guy should have taken one too, as he probably needs it. Gay Guy says he goes to church every Sunday, and confirmation classes too. Black Guy asks, "And they don't say nothing about your sexual orientation?" Gay Guy says that's coming up in confirmation class next week. (We never covered that in mine, but I was 11.)
Black Guy says, "Aren't you ever gonna change that?" This goes completely over Gay Guy's head and he starts discussing how, no, he's Catholic and he's gonna stay Catholic. The two of them talk at cross purposes in a who's-on-first conversation, to the point I want to turn around and say, "You moron, he's asking you if you're ever gonna give up fucking men, and *you* moron, it's not something you give up, like smoking." It's at this point I decide the iPod's coming out of my bag and why the hell hasn't it sooner?
But before I can get sweet sweet musical relief from this uncomfortable conversation, Gay Guy finally catches on and comments that he knew Black Guy was uncomfortable around him, and that is why when they're picking partners at school (ah! that's where they know each other from!) Gay Guy never asks Black Guy to work with him. Black Guy doesn't deny his discomfort, but does protest they have been partnered. "I worked on you. I did your back!" (Wait...do they...are they...)
I have my earbuds in at this point and crank the volume to 11, because, really I am so uncomfortable and I'm not even part of the conversation. But apparently the rest of it doesn't go well as Gay Guy gets up and moves his seat. To the sideways seat at the front of the bus, where I see him immerse himself in circling things he wants to buy in the Massage fucking Warehouse catalog. Yup, they know each other from massage school and I'm sure it ain't the one I attended 'cause Black Guy woulda had the homophobia skeered outta him by day 3 by our 80% lesbian teaching staff or quit. Or been thrown out on his ass for showing any signs he was unwilling to work with a fellow student because of sex, orientation, ethnicity, whatev.
Which, frankly? I wouldn't want to see either of these dudes with an LMT after their names. One's an ignorant bigot and one's apparently got the IQ of cooked cereal. But you know how it is. Some of these "career colleges" they advertise during Judge Judy will take anyone who can get a student loan they'll later default on.
So says the woman who didn't have her iPod cranked to 11 *before* stepping onto public transportation. Sigh. Who's got the IQ of cooked cereal now?
xoxo
***you ever find yourself doing that? semi-consciously drifting into someone else's writing style after you've just been immersed in their work? David Foster Wallace (in case you don't know) writes very very long sentences with convoluted clauses.
Let me give you the set up here: at Haymarket this afternoon, there was a lady with a sandwich board about Jesus and burning in hell and such trying to pass out pamphlets. I have never seen her before, but I assumed she was filling in for the guy with the anti-abortion and burning in hell sandwich board--c'mon, if you ever set foot in the city of Boston, you know the dude I'm talking about--who probably was taking a sick day or something. I ignored her, as I ignore all religious zealots and people who are unfortunately off their antipsychotics, and got on my bus, whereupon I remove my kindle from my bag and resume the stylings of Mr Foster Wallace (or Mr Wallace, whichever is correct, I dunno.)
Guy sits behind me. I take little notice. Other guy boards and sits next to him. They know each other. Guy1 (later to be known in this story as Black Guy) says--at this point I'm thinking jokingly--something along the lines of "Man, there's lots of empty seats and you gotta sit next to me?" Guy2 (who will later be known as Gay Guy) says something mildly joking back and comments on Black Guy having taken a pamphlet from Jesus Lady. Black Guy says Gay Guy should have taken one too, as he probably needs it. Gay Guy says he goes to church every Sunday, and confirmation classes too. Black Guy asks, "And they don't say nothing about your sexual orientation?" Gay Guy says that's coming up in confirmation class next week. (We never covered that in mine, but I was 11.)
Black Guy says, "Aren't you ever gonna change that?" This goes completely over Gay Guy's head and he starts discussing how, no, he's Catholic and he's gonna stay Catholic. The two of them talk at cross purposes in a who's-on-first conversation, to the point I want to turn around and say, "You moron, he's asking you if you're ever gonna give up fucking men, and *you* moron, it's not something you give up, like smoking." It's at this point I decide the iPod's coming out of my bag and why the hell hasn't it sooner?
But before I can get sweet sweet musical relief from this uncomfortable conversation, Gay Guy finally catches on and comments that he knew Black Guy was uncomfortable around him, and that is why when they're picking partners at school (ah! that's where they know each other from!) Gay Guy never asks Black Guy to work with him. Black Guy doesn't deny his discomfort, but does protest they have been partnered. "I worked on you. I did your back!" (Wait...do they...are they...)
I have my earbuds in at this point and crank the volume to 11, because, really I am so uncomfortable and I'm not even part of the conversation. But apparently the rest of it doesn't go well as Gay Guy gets up and moves his seat. To the sideways seat at the front of the bus, where I see him immerse himself in circling things he wants to buy in the Massage fucking Warehouse catalog. Yup, they know each other from massage school and I'm sure it ain't the one I attended 'cause Black Guy woulda had the homophobia skeered outta him by day 3 by our 80% lesbian teaching staff or quit. Or been thrown out on his ass for showing any signs he was unwilling to work with a fellow student because of sex, orientation, ethnicity, whatev.
Which, frankly? I wouldn't want to see either of these dudes with an LMT after their names. One's an ignorant bigot and one's apparently got the IQ of cooked cereal. But you know how it is. Some of these "career colleges" they advertise during Judge Judy will take anyone who can get a student loan they'll later default on.
So says the woman who didn't have her iPod cranked to 11 *before* stepping onto public transportation. Sigh. Who's got the IQ of cooked cereal now?
xoxo
***you ever find yourself doing that? semi-consciously drifting into someone else's writing style after you've just been immersed in their work? David Foster Wallace (in case you don't know) writes very very long sentences with convoluted clauses.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
hot rocks report
While I was forcing myself to watch the instructional video last night--despite the cheesy music, the bad production values, and the aesthetically displeasing massage room--it occurred to me that the hot stone massage consisted of 80% therapist messing about with the stones and 20% client actually being massaged. And playing around with it with G and M2 today, my impressions were confirmed. We were all united in thinking there were parts of it that might be a nice luxurious adjunct to a regular massage (like warm towels!), but that we wouldn't be lining up to get a whole treatment consisting of nothing but. But, on the other hand, I'm kind of curious now to get one some place that does a lot of them just to see if I could be convinced to find it fabulous.
It would be, like, research, rather than a waste of money, right? RIGHT?
NO, IT WOULD BE LIKE HALF A FUCKING LEATHER JACKET.
Ahem. I'll stop whining about that any day now. Any.day.now.
xoxo
Addendum: Actually, I take it back. It's a whole leather jacket. I just checked a local place. $165.
It would be, like, research, rather than a waste of money, right? RIGHT?
NO, IT WOULD BE LIKE HALF A FUCKING LEATHER JACKET.
Ahem. I'll stop whining about that any day now. Any.day.now.
xoxo
Addendum: Actually, I take it back. It's a whole leather jacket. I just checked a local place. $165.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
december misc, procrastination issue
I need to watch the DVD before tomorrow's meeting of the Everybody Must Get Stoned committee, plus I need to make up some Merry Xmas arnica for M2 and G, but whilst I screw around on the internet instead, let me tell you a few things.
1.) I am getting callouses on both hands right where my middle finger meets the palm. This is not good for performing massage therapy. My hands are supposed to be as soft as the proverbial baby's bottom, yo. You know what this means, don't you? It means I have to get weightlifting gloves and then look like a douchebag wearing them at the gym lifting my weeny little weights. The affronts to my dignity never end. Sigh.
2.) I am reading Keith Richard's autobiography (on the Kindle--no tendinitis, baby!) and quite enjoying it. Keef says when he became a songwriter, something changed in him. He became more detached, more of an observer, always watching people and listening to what they said, because any little action, any little snatch of conversation could be the genesis of a song. See? Me n' Keef are kindred spirits. If only he rode the Prison Bus, just imagine how much career success the boy coulda had.
3.) I know I promised pictures of Kitschmas at Andrea's (which is like Breakfast at Tiffany's, only with less Audrey Hepburn) but I'm not *quite* done.
4.) But speaking of Christmas decorating abominations--I've got a lot to say. Remember how when people used to go bananas and over-decorate, it made people drive by their houses to gawk and maybe netted a puff piece in the local newspaper? To judge from my neighborhood, those days are gone. Now the house covered in 200,000 lights with 43 different glowing statues in the front yard seems to be the norm, not the exception. I could walk around here for a mere five minutes with the video camera on my new iPod and document ten of them. And if I wasn't so damn lazy, plus technically unsure of how to use that video function, I just might! Really, somehow over the past ten years, the concepts of "restraint" and "good taste" seem to have vanished. (Though, honestly? This *is* the lower North Shore. Our major highway landmarks are a giant orange dinosaur, a field of fake cows, and a humongous tiki hut. Good taste and restraint are relative here.)
5.) My tongue hurts.
xoxo
1.) I am getting callouses on both hands right where my middle finger meets the palm. This is not good for performing massage therapy. My hands are supposed to be as soft as the proverbial baby's bottom, yo. You know what this means, don't you? It means I have to get weightlifting gloves and then look like a douchebag wearing them at the gym lifting my weeny little weights. The affronts to my dignity never end. Sigh.
2.) I am reading Keith Richard's autobiography (on the Kindle--no tendinitis, baby!) and quite enjoying it. Keef says when he became a songwriter, something changed in him. He became more detached, more of an observer, always watching people and listening to what they said, because any little action, any little snatch of conversation could be the genesis of a song. See? Me n' Keef are kindred spirits. If only he rode the Prison Bus, just imagine how much career success the boy coulda had.
3.) I know I promised pictures of Kitschmas at Andrea's (which is like Breakfast at Tiffany's, only with less Audrey Hepburn) but I'm not *quite* done.
4.) But speaking of Christmas decorating abominations--I've got a lot to say. Remember how when people used to go bananas and over-decorate, it made people drive by their houses to gawk and maybe netted a puff piece in the local newspaper? To judge from my neighborhood, those days are gone. Now the house covered in 200,000 lights with 43 different glowing statues in the front yard seems to be the norm, not the exception. I could walk around here for a mere five minutes with the video camera on my new iPod and document ten of them. And if I wasn't so damn lazy, plus technically unsure of how to use that video function, I just might! Really, somehow over the past ten years, the concepts of "restraint" and "good taste" seem to have vanished. (Though, honestly? This *is* the lower North Shore. Our major highway landmarks are a giant orange dinosaur, a field of fake cows, and a humongous tiki hut. Good taste and restraint are relative here.)
5.) My tongue hurts.
xoxo
Friday, November 12, 2010
these.are.words
Not completely sure what would be more satisfying to my reading audience (ha!), continuing to just post pictures of attractive people (I was gonna say "fuckable", but then I remembered Marilyn, and there will be NO necrophilia in this blog, thankyouverymuch) interspersed with the occasional photo of myself in zombie makeup and/or flexing, or actually writing an entry that contains, like, sentences and paragraphs and perhaps even an idea or, god forbid, a point. I know what's easier for me, and you all know I R lazy.
But, seriously? I've got nothing to say. I mean, I've got shit to say, but you've either heard it all before or it's of no interest to anyone but me or it involves other people and so cannot be broadcast here.
I will tell you a couple things M2 told me the other day (random blog is random.) 1.) Less than 1% of the American population is Buddhist and that's what's wrong with this country, and 2.) when I gave her her massage before she took the back pictures for me, she could tell I am a lot stronger--which I found interesting because I wasn't even trying to go particularly deep with her. The other M2 news is that, having long ago taken a hot stone seminar and having the equipment for it at her house, but rarely doing it 'cause she kind of hates it, she and I and hopefully (please, please) our friend G are going to get together next month and have a hot stone extravaganza wherein she teaches us everything she knows and reviews herself and we all play around with rocks on each other. The invitation to this event in my inbox was entitled "everybody must get stoned!" Heh. I suppose if I am actually ever going to add this to my repertoire, I'll eventually have to buy the equipment and then practice with it. This means I may need volunteers. In the winter, when it's cold, and hot stones feel good (<--selling point, so don't all y'all go telling me you're "too busy" or some such nonsense). Also, I promise not to burn you. More than first degree. Oh, I kid, I kid. Okay! How about "baby animals in clothing" to round out your Friday morning?
You squeed. Admit it.
Really, I will write something about something sometime soon. Really. Until then, namaste, bitches.
xoxo
But, seriously? I've got nothing to say. I mean, I've got shit to say, but you've either heard it all before or it's of no interest to anyone but me or it involves other people and so cannot be broadcast here.
I will tell you a couple things M2 told me the other day (random blog is random.) 1.) Less than 1% of the American population is Buddhist and that's what's wrong with this country, and 2.) when I gave her her massage before she took the back pictures for me, she could tell I am a lot stronger--which I found interesting because I wasn't even trying to go particularly deep with her. The other M2 news is that, having long ago taken a hot stone seminar and having the equipment for it at her house, but rarely doing it 'cause she kind of hates it, she and I and hopefully (please, please) our friend G are going to get together next month and have a hot stone extravaganza wherein she teaches us everything she knows and reviews herself and we all play around with rocks on each other. The invitation to this event in my inbox was entitled "everybody must get stoned!" Heh. I suppose if I am actually ever going to add this to my repertoire, I'll eventually have to buy the equipment and then practice with it. This means I may need volunteers. In the winter, when it's cold, and hot stones feel good (<--selling point, so don't all y'all go telling me you're "too busy" or some such nonsense). Also, I promise not to burn you. More than first degree. Oh, I kid, I kid. Okay! How about "baby animals in clothing" to round out your Friday morning?
You squeed. Admit it.
Really, I will write something about something sometime soon. Really. Until then, namaste, bitches.
xoxo
Thursday, July 8, 2010
hate on elizabeth hasselbeck...
and support bodyworkers everywhere.
M2 sent me a link this morning, asking me to sign a petition demanding The View apologize to LMTs for slandering our entire profession. I did, of course. I won't ask you all to sign it, since it's written from the point of view of a massage professional, but should you like to register your own displeasure by writing to The View and telling them they suck for implying M2 and I and all our colleagues are whores, I would not dissuade you. Want to see what we're talking about? This.
But the whole thing about Al Gore supposedly trying to get frisky with a therapist reminds me that someone once told me they had worked on him and that he specifically asked that his glutes and his abdomen not be left out. I wish I could remember who said that to me. It obviously wasn't one of my massage school classmates, and I'm fairly sure it wasn't one of our instructors. So it was either someone I took a seminar from or with or someone I worked with at The Evil Massage place.
Anyway, it occurs to me that perhaps that is the kind of thing that would lead to misunderstandings with a therapist who is inexperienced, especially one who didn't go to a good massage school and/or really doesn't know deep tissue work. I do glutes in probably 90% or more of the massages I give, because a.) it feels good and b.) most people need it. If you haven't had an elbow stuck into your piriformis, you haven't lived, yo. And when I've done it on people I haven't worked on before, I am always surprised at the number of people who've had lots of bodywork who tell me no one's ever done their glutes before and OMG why not? 'cause that was really helpful. In other words, there are a whole lot of massage therapists out there neglecting that part of the body, apparently, and if you haven't been taught to do it as a regular part of a treatment, maybe you do think it's somehow weird and inappropriate for a client of the opposite sex to ask for it. Abdominal work, on the other hand, is something I rarely do, even though I know how and am fine with doing it, because that weirds out most clients. Most people don't like their bellies touched, even if it would be good for them. It's a vulnerable area, plus people have all kinds of shame issues about exposing theirs. So, again, if it weirds you out as a therapist, too, having someone specifically ask for it might make you uncomfortable.
None of this rules out that Al Gore isn't just a skeezebag who made an inappropriate advance, of course. You know how American politicians are. But it just made me wonder. People are capable of misconstruing other people's intentions.
But, in any case, you know you hate those women on The View anyway. Don't you want to tell them they're ignorant just for me and M2?
xoxo
M2 sent me a link this morning, asking me to sign a petition demanding The View apologize to LMTs for slandering our entire profession. I did, of course. I won't ask you all to sign it, since it's written from the point of view of a massage professional, but should you like to register your own displeasure by writing to The View and telling them they suck for implying M2 and I and all our colleagues are whores, I would not dissuade you. Want to see what we're talking about? This.
But the whole thing about Al Gore supposedly trying to get frisky with a therapist reminds me that someone once told me they had worked on him and that he specifically asked that his glutes and his abdomen not be left out. I wish I could remember who said that to me. It obviously wasn't one of my massage school classmates, and I'm fairly sure it wasn't one of our instructors. So it was either someone I took a seminar from or with or someone I worked with at The Evil Massage place.
Anyway, it occurs to me that perhaps that is the kind of thing that would lead to misunderstandings with a therapist who is inexperienced, especially one who didn't go to a good massage school and/or really doesn't know deep tissue work. I do glutes in probably 90% or more of the massages I give, because a.) it feels good and b.) most people need it. If you haven't had an elbow stuck into your piriformis, you haven't lived, yo. And when I've done it on people I haven't worked on before, I am always surprised at the number of people who've had lots of bodywork who tell me no one's ever done their glutes before and OMG why not? 'cause that was really helpful. In other words, there are a whole lot of massage therapists out there neglecting that part of the body, apparently, and if you haven't been taught to do it as a regular part of a treatment, maybe you do think it's somehow weird and inappropriate for a client of the opposite sex to ask for it. Abdominal work, on the other hand, is something I rarely do, even though I know how and am fine with doing it, because that weirds out most clients. Most people don't like their bellies touched, even if it would be good for them. It's a vulnerable area, plus people have all kinds of shame issues about exposing theirs. So, again, if it weirds you out as a therapist, too, having someone specifically ask for it might make you uncomfortable.
None of this rules out that Al Gore isn't just a skeezebag who made an inappropriate advance, of course. You know how American politicians are. But it just made me wonder. People are capable of misconstruing other people's intentions.
But, in any case, you know you hate those women on The View anyway. Don't you want to tell them they're ignorant just for me and M2?
xoxo
Friday, June 18, 2010
if it's friday, it must be random
1.) First of all, lemme just tell you or remind you that Ubaldo won another game yesterday. I am hoping the rotation works out such that he will pitch against the Sox when they are in Colorado next week, but I haven't stopped and figured it out yet. It has been suggested to me that I price plane tickets to Denver, but alas, I have neither the budget nor the lifestyle to consider such things. More's the pity. Also, I need to register a complaint. When Ubaldo was 12-1, I read some list of pitchers who had started out their seasons thusly. The one that stuck in my mind was Roger Clemens 1986 (and as Mr Barma said to me, "And look how that turned out." Ha!) Then when Ubaldo won number trece yesterday, I read that Roger Clemens started the 1986 season 14-0. Both of these facts cannot be correct, and one would think online sports news sources would have better fact-checking. Boo! I wish I knew off the top of my head, but at the beginning of the 1986 Sox season I had a newborn baby and was getting approximately three hours sleep a night. That fucks with one's ability to form long term memories. (Except I know Chernobyl was in the spring of '86 because I was home on maternity leave following it. Did Roger Clemens's stellar pitching help those poor Ukrainians? NO.)
2.) What else happened in the spring of 1986? Celtics won an NBA championship. Unlike last night. And that's all I have to say about that, except to note that it will have made both my son and Our Lil MILF very sad. Which, y'know, I think is a good thing overall. These kids these days have become too used to the Pats and the Sox and even the Celtics winning stuff like playoff games and championships. They need to learn the heartbreak of a crushing loss like we Boston sports fans of old. It's character-building!
3.) I read an article yesterday about "disposable clothing" and the environmental and social impact of that, the moral being buy less and if you do buy, buy this fairly expensive and pretty damn ugly clothing made by these few designers who are actually "green" and socially responsible. Can I just say, I am sick of feeling guilty about everything I do. Every action that we do has far-reaching consequences, and thinking that if I do x which is a good thing without considering that also means y which negatively impacts something else is stoopid. Like, yeah, I've bought some of my new work clothes from the Gap recently. Yes, they were probably made in sweatshops. Yes, the textile factories that produced the cotton they are made of use lots of energy and pollute the water. If I and people like me didn't buy them, however, probably those sweatshops slaves would lose their jobs and a crappy, crappy abusive job is preferable to STARVING. Plus the college kids who sell me those Gap clothes would lose their jobs, and where would their beer money come from then? And if the college kids don't have beer money, the local drinking establishments tank, which means more job loss. And if there are no bars and clubs, where do the up-and-coming musicians play? Do I want to be responsible for the death of live music because I didn't buy a cheap cardigan to cover up my cleavage? I mean, hopefully I don't need to give you all an irony alert tag, but you see my point. The economic, social, and environmental impact of everything we do is so complex, it's impossible to do some mythical "right thing." Also, let me say this: yes, I wouldn't have to have bought all these new work clothes if the ones I bought 3 years ago hadn't fallen apart, but I cannot help that either. I didn't save all my well-made clothes from 1980 which didn't fall apart when you washed them 20 times and my workplace probably frowns on me showing up in garments with visible holes in them. It's not in the dress code but I think it is implied. (Side point: in the comments on this article, a bunch of women suggested the green answer to all this is buying vintage. I can only assume they are all college students, because as much as I love vintage, you cannot wear it to a regular job. Vintage looks vintage. Okay, if you're a hairdresser or a record store clerk or that extremely adorable waitress at the Gulu that I have a girl crush on, but most professional people can't dress like that at work. Real life slaps your idealism upside the head once again.)
4.) Remember how I bitched in here about that Tom Myers fascia film commentary/lecture that cost $50 to attend? Well, I saw M2 this week and while she did not attend either, some other friends of ours did. One of them left her a message about it afterwards, which I will paraphrase. "He said everything we know and everything that he was about to tell us is wrong or will be wrong in five years, which made me wonder why I was sitting there listening to it." Ha! Glad I saved my fifty bucks.
5.) Read "Good Calories, Bad Calories" by Gary Taubes. Then report back. (Maybe the science in that will all be proven wrong in another ten years, but for now it's pretty compelling.)
6.) Have a great weekend. It's gonna be hot, hot, hot. I would like to go to the beach, but I cannot eat potato chips. How can I reconcile those two things?
xoxo
2.) What else happened in the spring of 1986? Celtics won an NBA championship. Unlike last night. And that's all I have to say about that, except to note that it will have made both my son and Our Lil MILF very sad. Which, y'know, I think is a good thing overall. These kids these days have become too used to the Pats and the Sox and even the Celtics winning stuff like playoff games and championships. They need to learn the heartbreak of a crushing loss like we Boston sports fans of old. It's character-building!
3.) I read an article yesterday about "disposable clothing" and the environmental and social impact of that, the moral being buy less and if you do buy, buy this fairly expensive and pretty damn ugly clothing made by these few designers who are actually "green" and socially responsible. Can I just say, I am sick of feeling guilty about everything I do. Every action that we do has far-reaching consequences, and thinking that if I do x which is a good thing without considering that also means y which negatively impacts something else is stoopid. Like, yeah, I've bought some of my new work clothes from the Gap recently. Yes, they were probably made in sweatshops. Yes, the textile factories that produced the cotton they are made of use lots of energy and pollute the water. If I and people like me didn't buy them, however, probably those sweatshops slaves would lose their jobs and a crappy, crappy abusive job is preferable to STARVING. Plus the college kids who sell me those Gap clothes would lose their jobs, and where would their beer money come from then? And if the college kids don't have beer money, the local drinking establishments tank, which means more job loss. And if there are no bars and clubs, where do the up-and-coming musicians play? Do I want to be responsible for the death of live music because I didn't buy a cheap cardigan to cover up my cleavage? I mean, hopefully I don't need to give you all an irony alert tag, but you see my point. The economic, social, and environmental impact of everything we do is so complex, it's impossible to do some mythical "right thing." Also, let me say this: yes, I wouldn't have to have bought all these new work clothes if the ones I bought 3 years ago hadn't fallen apart, but I cannot help that either. I didn't save all my well-made clothes from 1980 which didn't fall apart when you washed them 20 times and my workplace probably frowns on me showing up in garments with visible holes in them. It's not in the dress code but I think it is implied. (Side point: in the comments on this article, a bunch of women suggested the green answer to all this is buying vintage. I can only assume they are all college students, because as much as I love vintage, you cannot wear it to a regular job. Vintage looks vintage. Okay, if you're a hairdresser or a record store clerk or that extremely adorable waitress at the Gulu that I have a girl crush on, but most professional people can't dress like that at work. Real life slaps your idealism upside the head once again.)
4.) Remember how I bitched in here about that Tom Myers fascia film commentary/lecture that cost $50 to attend? Well, I saw M2 this week and while she did not attend either, some other friends of ours did. One of them left her a message about it afterwards, which I will paraphrase. "He said everything we know and everything that he was about to tell us is wrong or will be wrong in five years, which made me wonder why I was sitting there listening to it." Ha! Glad I saved my fifty bucks.
5.) Read "Good Calories, Bad Calories" by Gary Taubes. Then report back. (Maybe the science in that will all be proven wrong in another ten years, but for now it's pretty compelling.)
6.) Have a great weekend. It's gonna be hot, hot, hot. I would like to go to the beach, but I cannot eat potato chips. How can I reconcile those two things?
xoxo
Friday, February 12, 2010
from my brain is where I bleed
You've heard about Lindsey Vonn, the Olympic skier, and her shin injury? In an attempt to get her recovered enough to compete in all her events, they are trying a number of desperate measures. She is having manual lymph drainage, which is a type of massage that I know very little about, other than it exists and is very popular in Europe. They are slathering her leg in castor oil, which puzzles me, since I thought that was an internal, not topical, treatment. And, finally, they are also topically applying a certain type of Austrian cheese. Huh? I know cheese is in many ways a magical substance, but I was totally unaware of its physical healing properties. (Obviously, mentally it makes everything bettah.)
Dunno. I'm thinking that if you have a huge debilitating sports-injury bruise and you're looking to Alpine products to heal it, you might be better off with arnica.
xoxo
Dunno. I'm thinking that if you have a huge debilitating sports-injury bruise and you're looking to Alpine products to heal it, you might be better off with arnica.
xoxo
Thursday, October 29, 2009
bureaucracy and the crazee
So, yesterday I did two extremely stressful (for me) things. The outcome of one is as yet uncertain and not to be talked about in here, but the second? I mailed my MA state (massage) licensure renewal. Why is that so stressful? (Besides writing out the ridiculously large check, that is?) It's stressful because I am crazee.
I even waited until after lunch with M2 to do this, because I wanted to go over it with her, assuming her renewal had already come up. Unfortunately, I forgot to stick the form in my purse. You may judge me. The whole thing was fraught with uncertainty for me, because in the many-paragraphs long letter that came with the renewal form, one of the things that it said was not to send in your renewal if you didn't have liability insurance. However there were no instructions indicating they wanted to see any proof of that insurance. I read and reread and examined the part you mail back, and as far as I could tell, they weren't asking anywhere for a copy of your insurance certificate. So I confirmed this with M2, who couldn't quite remember, but thought all they wanted was your signature affirming that you aren't cheating on your taxes, you aren't working at an unlicensed facility, and you don't have criminal convictions you haven't reported to the board. And, of course, your big fat check.
So that's all I mailed them. And I'm thinking, okay, I have a whole month till it's actually due, which is plenty of time, if I've made a mistake, for them to mail me back and say so and have me correct it without even incurring a late renewal fee. This should be totally nothing I spend any time fretting about, right? But of course the answer is I am terrified of the bureaucracy.
Any time I have to deal with any governmental agency, I am irrationally scared that any honest mistake I make will be penalized in such a way that it will ruin my life forever. (See why doing my taxes is so fun?) I have no idea where this fear came from and I have no idea how to fix it. Exposure therapy (or whatever it's called) certainly hasn't helped, because no matter how many forms I've filled out in my life, the anxiety that I'll screw up somehow and face horrible consequences remains. It's probably grown worse over time, actually. I'm trying my own little version of CBT, trying to logically think through what's the worst that could happen (i.e. they send my renewal back asking for the proof of insurance and if it's after November 28, I pay the late fee--that's the *worst* that can happen) but it didn't make sealing that envelope and sticking it in the mailbox any easier.
Once again, I recommend that those of you with normal brains hug your parents or send them a thank you card or some such shit, thanking them for the good genetics, because having an abnormal one really isn't that much fun.
xoxo
I even waited until after lunch with M2 to do this, because I wanted to go over it with her, assuming her renewal had already come up. Unfortunately, I forgot to stick the form in my purse. You may judge me. The whole thing was fraught with uncertainty for me, because in the many-paragraphs long letter that came with the renewal form, one of the things that it said was not to send in your renewal if you didn't have liability insurance. However there were no instructions indicating they wanted to see any proof of that insurance. I read and reread and examined the part you mail back, and as far as I could tell, they weren't asking anywhere for a copy of your insurance certificate. So I confirmed this with M2, who couldn't quite remember, but thought all they wanted was your signature affirming that you aren't cheating on your taxes, you aren't working at an unlicensed facility, and you don't have criminal convictions you haven't reported to the board. And, of course, your big fat check.
So that's all I mailed them. And I'm thinking, okay, I have a whole month till it's actually due, which is plenty of time, if I've made a mistake, for them to mail me back and say so and have me correct it without even incurring a late renewal fee. This should be totally nothing I spend any time fretting about, right? But of course the answer is I am terrified of the bureaucracy.
Any time I have to deal with any governmental agency, I am irrationally scared that any honest mistake I make will be penalized in such a way that it will ruin my life forever. (See why doing my taxes is so fun?) I have no idea where this fear came from and I have no idea how to fix it. Exposure therapy (or whatever it's called) certainly hasn't helped, because no matter how many forms I've filled out in my life, the anxiety that I'll screw up somehow and face horrible consequences remains. It's probably grown worse over time, actually. I'm trying my own little version of CBT, trying to logically think through what's the worst that could happen (i.e. they send my renewal back asking for the proof of insurance and if it's after November 28, I pay the late fee--that's the *worst* that can happen) but it didn't make sealing that envelope and sticking it in the mailbox any easier.
Once again, I recommend that those of you with normal brains hug your parents or send them a thank you card or some such shit, thanking them for the good genetics, because having an abnormal one really isn't that much fun.
xoxo
Saturday, October 24, 2009
and in not-so-weirdness
Here's part of an email I received this morning from someone who was also an employee of the Evil Massage Place (I think he was one of the chiropractors, but I didn't know him):
I am e-mailing everyone to let you know that the Keith, Michelle met with the U.S Department of Labor this past Thursday. Two investigators came down to our office last week and we agreed to set up a meeting with them. They are currently actively investigating [deleted] and our former employers [deleted] and [deleted] for criminal charges.
Specifically, they are focusing on [deleted] 401K plans (for those of you who opted in) but are also interested in other violations (ie - non-payment of wages, benefits, health etc..).
They have kindly asked us to reach out to all former [deleted] employees to see if anyone would like to speak with them or provide them with any additional information that may help them with their investigation.
Okay, I wasn't in their 401k, but it pissed me off no end that not only did they owe me wages, but that after hiring me as an employee and paying me as an employee (taking out taxes and SS), they sent me a 1099 form for 2007, as if I was an independent contractor, instead of the W2 I should have gotten. (i.e. They stole our tax and social security payments.) So, yeah, I would kinda like to see these thieving bastards go to jail.
Should I email the investigators? I'm thinking I should.
xo
I am e-mailing everyone to let you know that the Keith, Michelle met with the U.S Department of Labor this past Thursday. Two investigators came down to our office last week and we agreed to set up a meeting with them. They are currently actively investigating [deleted] and our former employers [deleted] and [deleted] for criminal charges.
Specifically, they are focusing on [deleted] 401K plans (for those of you who opted in) but are also interested in other violations (ie - non-payment of wages, benefits, health etc..).
They have kindly asked us to reach out to all former [deleted] employees to see if anyone would like to speak with them or provide them with any additional information that may help them with their investigation.
Okay, I wasn't in their 401k, but it pissed me off no end that not only did they owe me wages, but that after hiring me as an employee and paying me as an employee (taking out taxes and SS), they sent me a 1099 form for 2007, as if I was an independent contractor, instead of the W2 I should have gotten. (i.e. They stole our tax and social security payments.) So, yeah, I would kinda like to see these thieving bastards go to jail.
Should I email the investigators? I'm thinking I should.
xo
Saturday, March 14, 2009
god loves me after all
1.) Mr "Julie, Julie, Julie" Lugo has a possible torn meniscus. Thank you, Jesus!
2.) For the first time in seven--that's seven!--months, my period came just when it was supposed to. Thank you, Jesus! (Or, possibly, Marcy.)
3.) My dad, instead of just moaning, whining, and bitching about how much his shoulder is killing him, gave in and let me give him a massage when I got home from work today. I even snuck some arnica on him. Jesus, deliver me from stubborn men, and thank you!
On the other hand, I am still probably going to hell, because every time they start mentioning on the news about how Donte Stallworth hit a pedestrian "with his Bentley," I start giggling uncontrollably. Something about how we just *have to know* what kind of expensive car he was driving when he killed the poor bastard strikes me as absurdly hilarious.
xoxo
2.) For the first time in seven--that's seven!--months, my period came just when it was supposed to. Thank you, Jesus! (Or, possibly, Marcy.)
3.) My dad, instead of just moaning, whining, and bitching about how much his shoulder is killing him, gave in and let me give him a massage when I got home from work today. I even snuck some arnica on him. Jesus, deliver me from stubborn men, and thank you!
On the other hand, I am still probably going to hell, because every time they start mentioning on the news about how Donte Stallworth hit a pedestrian "with his Bentley," I start giggling uncontrollably. Something about how we just *have to know* what kind of expensive car he was driving when he killed the poor bastard strikes me as absurdly hilarious.
xoxo
Monday, October 27, 2008
i cannot imagine
I was just randomly browsing the craigslist employment ads for massage therapists--not that I'm looking for a massage job, I just like to see who's hiring--and I saw one for "Knockouts", a day spa for dudes. They're looking for hair stylists and MTs. Well, besides the vaguely suggestive Hooters-type name, they've got some pictures attached to the ad of their current employees in team uniform. In other words, a bunch of young girls in tight t-shirts and short track shorts.
Now, maybe there are a bunch of hairdressers who wouldn't mind plying their craft in that kind of get-up in search of better tips. If an obnoxious customer tries to grope them, they've got sharp objects readily at hand to jab them with. And they don't already live with the confusion between their profession and whoredom. But I cannot comprehend a professional bodyworker who would take a job like that. For the amount of inappropriate touching and skeevy suggestions you'd have to fend off, you'd might as well just be a cocktail waitress if you're a sexy young thing. The money's better, you'd get the same level of benefits (basically none), and you wouldn't have to blow thousands of dollars on massage school tuition.
Wow.
xoxo
Now, maybe there are a bunch of hairdressers who wouldn't mind plying their craft in that kind of get-up in search of better tips. If an obnoxious customer tries to grope them, they've got sharp objects readily at hand to jab them with. And they don't already live with the confusion between their profession and whoredom. But I cannot comprehend a professional bodyworker who would take a job like that. For the amount of inappropriate touching and skeevy suggestions you'd have to fend off, you'd might as well just be a cocktail waitress if you're a sexy young thing. The money's better, you'd get the same level of benefits (basically none), and you wouldn't have to blow thousands of dollars on massage school tuition.
Wow.
xoxo
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
back to random crap
1.) My dad just asked me deadpan why Julie didn't make the All Star team. And you people wonder where I get it from.
2.) In a semi-related Red Sox note, I must shamefully confess that I am never quite able to look at Mike Lowell without imagining him in a white suit and one of those hats, standing on the veranda overlooking the sugar plantation. C'mon now. Admit it. You'd suck down some mojitos with him if you were me. In your dreams.
3.) If you were a Deadwood fan, I would highly recommend reading Missy by Chris Hannan. With a plucky laudanum-addicted 19 year old whore for a heroine and plenty of alcoholism, drug use, senseless and purposeful brutality, profanity, filth, and shopping, I'm sure you can see the parallels. Fun and yet smart book. Read it on the beach, yo.
4.) Mmmmm, cherries.
5.) D's boundaries are about to be really pushed later this week. I will report back with either the good or bad news.
6.) However, my reporting may be sparse, because I'm taking my myofascial release course the end of the week. Yay! You people know how much I like fascia. Almost as much as I like topical anti-inflammatories. But I will report back at some point. You all know how responsible I feel for your entertainment needs. Ha.
7.) Oh, yeah. Do you think I ought to put one of those content warnings on this blog? How many people am I inadvertently offending and how many impressionable teenagers am I leading astray with my content anyway?
xoxo
2.) In a semi-related Red Sox note, I must shamefully confess that I am never quite able to look at Mike Lowell without imagining him in a white suit and one of those hats, standing on the veranda overlooking the sugar plantation. C'mon now. Admit it. You'd suck down some mojitos with him if you were me. In your dreams.
3.) If you were a Deadwood fan, I would highly recommend reading Missy by Chris Hannan. With a plucky laudanum-addicted 19 year old whore for a heroine and plenty of alcoholism, drug use, senseless and purposeful brutality, profanity, filth, and shopping, I'm sure you can see the parallels. Fun and yet smart book. Read it on the beach, yo.
4.) Mmmmm, cherries.
5.) D's boundaries are about to be really pushed later this week. I will report back with either the good or bad news.
6.) However, my reporting may be sparse, because I'm taking my myofascial release course the end of the week. Yay! You people know how much I like fascia. Almost as much as I like topical anti-inflammatories. But I will report back at some point. You all know how responsible I feel for your entertainment needs. Ha.
7.) Oh, yeah. Do you think I ought to put one of those content warnings on this blog? How many people am I inadvertently offending and how many impressionable teenagers am I leading astray with my content anyway?
xoxo
Monday, July 7, 2008
adventures in passive-aggression
Or, how to win in life through immaturity!
Do you all remember my story about the one doctor (LK) I work with who was extorting free massage out of me, five or ten minutes at a time, every time she threw her shoulder out again? And how I would always do it because I felt guilty saying no to someone in pain, but I was getting more and more resentful every time it happened? (Oh, sure, you do so remember; I know you're all taking notes when you read the blog. )
So, last week. Our office manager SH, she of the Led Zep fan fic, also has chronic neck/shoulder issues. Her trap was out of whack, and she wanted to schedule some work with me. We decided to do it the next day at lunch and I said I'd bring my chair in. "If LK knows you have your chair with you, she'll probably be interested," she said. I kind of rolled my eyes and said, "I doubt it. She's only interested in what she can get for free...but I didn't say that."
Cut to today. LK runs into me in the hall, tells me she heard I've been "fixing" SH, and says she's in horrible pain again, and can she hire me to fix her, too? So, after work, I gave her twenty minute chair massage, with the trigger point work that works so well for her, and charged her $25. She a.) raved about how much better she felt, b.) said it was worth far more than $25, and c.) actually tipped me, too. I am absolutely sure SH must have told her what I said (they're tight).
Apparently my problem is solved. Not through my acting like an actual mature adult person, but y'know, that's okay by me. Who says passive aggressive snottiness has to be wrong?
xoxo
Do you all remember my story about the one doctor (LK) I work with who was extorting free massage out of me, five or ten minutes at a time, every time she threw her shoulder out again? And how I would always do it because I felt guilty saying no to someone in pain, but I was getting more and more resentful every time it happened? (Oh, sure, you do so remember; I know you're all taking notes when you read the blog. )
So, last week. Our office manager SH, she of the Led Zep fan fic, also has chronic neck/shoulder issues. Her trap was out of whack, and she wanted to schedule some work with me. We decided to do it the next day at lunch and I said I'd bring my chair in. "If LK knows you have your chair with you, she'll probably be interested," she said. I kind of rolled my eyes and said, "I doubt it. She's only interested in what she can get for free...but I didn't say that."
Cut to today. LK runs into me in the hall, tells me she heard I've been "fixing" SH, and says she's in horrible pain again, and can she hire me to fix her, too? So, after work, I gave her twenty minute chair massage, with the trigger point work that works so well for her, and charged her $25. She a.) raved about how much better she felt, b.) said it was worth far more than $25, and c.) actually tipped me, too. I am absolutely sure SH must have told her what I said (they're tight).
Apparently my problem is solved. Not through my acting like an actual mature adult person, but y'know, that's okay by me. Who says passive aggressive snottiness has to be wrong?
xoxo
Thursday, June 26, 2008
conversations with M2 and updatery
I had lunch with M2 yesterday and got a massage, which is not a bad way to spend one's day off, all things considered. We ate at a vegetarian, not to say vegan, restaurant, outside in a little tiny courtyard which was, by the time we finished our hour and a half of gabbing, pretty much our own, all the other poor suckers having had to go back to work. Ha!
One of the things M2 ordered was a watermelon gazpacho and it made me remember what was probably the peak eating experience of my entire life. 1996, late July, somewhere in the Village, sitting in a cafe in a window open to the sidewalk, in the midst of falling in love/lust/deep infatuation, and eating cold strawberry soup. I had never before and have never since eaten anything like that soup and I probably never will again. Not even if the chef came to my house and used the same recipe with strawberries he grew and picked himself. Just perfection in every way. (The lust probably had something to do with that.)
M2's watermelon gazpacho was not of this caliber, but we had a very pleasant meal. Except, you know? We split a vegan brownie? And, while tasty, it was the consistency of fudge. I don't think you can make real brownies without chicken embryos.
During my massage, M2 was telling me how loose and open my low back felt and asked if I was still doing the yin yoga faithfully. I had to admit that I've been slacking. (It's summer. I've been walking. There's only so much physical fitness I can cram into one day and still cook dinner, blog, and look at stuff for my redecorating. Give me a break. Sigh.) Well, she was of the opinion that all those weeks and months that I was working on my low back and hip openers was still showing an effect, because my QLs felt really, really strong while being not in the least hypertonic. So, yay, Andrea's QLs. I should probably go back to working on them, though, because I'm sure they'll start atrophying and tightening up any day now.
In other news, I finally bit the bullet and tried to put in the new deadbolt...and it went great! The back door can now actually be locked from the inside again. Yay, Andrea's mad locksmithing skillz. I'm so proud of how much money I saved doing this myself. I rock, I tell you what. Now to buy the exact same deadbolt and fix the other door.
Oh, and my super-discounted luxury bedding finally arrived, including my 800-thread count sheets, which are thick as a mofo and a very rich saturated color, but not the sublime sleeping experience I was visualizing. The bed looks good though.
xoxo
One of the things M2 ordered was a watermelon gazpacho and it made me remember what was probably the peak eating experience of my entire life. 1996, late July, somewhere in the Village, sitting in a cafe in a window open to the sidewalk, in the midst of falling in love/lust/deep infatuation, and eating cold strawberry soup. I had never before and have never since eaten anything like that soup and I probably never will again. Not even if the chef came to my house and used the same recipe with strawberries he grew and picked himself. Just perfection in every way. (The lust probably had something to do with that.)
M2's watermelon gazpacho was not of this caliber, but we had a very pleasant meal. Except, you know? We split a vegan brownie? And, while tasty, it was the consistency of fudge. I don't think you can make real brownies without chicken embryos.
During my massage, M2 was telling me how loose and open my low back felt and asked if I was still doing the yin yoga faithfully. I had to admit that I've been slacking. (It's summer. I've been walking. There's only so much physical fitness I can cram into one day and still cook dinner, blog, and look at stuff for my redecorating. Give me a break. Sigh.) Well, she was of the opinion that all those weeks and months that I was working on my low back and hip openers was still showing an effect, because my QLs felt really, really strong while being not in the least hypertonic. So, yay, Andrea's QLs. I should probably go back to working on them, though, because I'm sure they'll start atrophying and tightening up any day now.
In other news, I finally bit the bullet and tried to put in the new deadbolt...and it went great! The back door can now actually be locked from the inside again. Yay, Andrea's mad locksmithing skillz. I'm so proud of how much money I saved doing this myself. I rock, I tell you what. Now to buy the exact same deadbolt and fix the other door.
Oh, and my super-discounted luxury bedding finally arrived, including my 800-thread count sheets, which are thick as a mofo and a very rich saturated color, but not the sublime sleeping experience I was visualizing. The bed looks good though.
xoxo
Sunday, April 27, 2008
totally wasted opportunity
Do you know what the lolcats are? (If not, the rest of this entry isn't going to make much sense. Deal.) I go on icanhascheezburger pretty much every day, and I make my kid look at the ones that I find particularly funny if he happens to be in the same room, and forward them to his e-mail if he's not. You guys well know I have never claimed to be anything but easily amused.
Anyway, last night I was down on my yoga mat and Evil Kitty came upstairs to see what I was doing. I was in a spinal twist, lying on my back with my knees going in one direction and my head in the other and my arm extended over my head. And, as I've mentioned, I do yin yoga where I hold each pose for five minutes to loosen up my fascial restrictions, yo. So when Evil Kitty comes over and starts head butting me and licking my bare arm, I don't move. I also try hard not to laugh, 'cause I don't think that's particularly helpful for my fascia, but it's a losing battle. Finally she sits down on top of my shoulder and extended tricep and makes herself comfortable, pressing me down into the mat.
And it occurs to me that if only I had one of my family members standing by to capture this on, y'know, digital film, I'd have a perfect lolcat.
"Facilitated stretching...ur doin it rong."
That's probably only funny if you're a massage therapist or a personal trainer, though, right?
xoxo
Anyway, last night I was down on my yoga mat and Evil Kitty came upstairs to see what I was doing. I was in a spinal twist, lying on my back with my knees going in one direction and my head in the other and my arm extended over my head. And, as I've mentioned, I do yin yoga where I hold each pose for five minutes to loosen up my fascial restrictions, yo. So when Evil Kitty comes over and starts head butting me and licking my bare arm, I don't move. I also try hard not to laugh, 'cause I don't think that's particularly helpful for my fascia, but it's a losing battle. Finally she sits down on top of my shoulder and extended tricep and makes herself comfortable, pressing me down into the mat.
And it occurs to me that if only I had one of my family members standing by to capture this on, y'know, digital film, I'd have a perfect lolcat.
"Facilitated stretching...ur doin it rong."
That's probably only funny if you're a massage therapist or a personal trainer, though, right?
xoxo
Monday, April 21, 2008
my fascia
...says hi to your fascia.
I had a whole session of myofacial work done today (my first time!) and then, when I got home, my Mass state license was in the mail. $225 for a piece of flimsy cardboard, not even laminated, but I guess that's just the way it goes.
Marathon Monday? Nah. Massage Monday!
xoxo
I had a whole session of myofacial work done today (my first time!) and then, when I got home, my Mass state license was in the mail. $225 for a piece of flimsy cardboard, not even laminated, but I guess that's just the way it goes.
Marathon Monday? Nah. Massage Monday!
xoxo
Sunday, March 9, 2008
doulas
Speaking of labor and birth, when I was in massage school, one of the possible career paths I pondered was becoming a doula. If you don't know what that is (and even if you do!), a doula is a person a pregnant woman hires to support her, physically and emotionally, in preparing for birth and then during labor. (There are also postpartum doulas who help the new mom in the weeks after birth.) Not all doulas are massage therapists, but if *I* were hiring one, I personally would want the one who could give me prenatal massage and help my back pain during labor.
I would be so good at this. Think about it, those of you who know me and know what my energy is (when I'm not bitching about something on here). Am I not totally the kind of person you would want talking to you and touching you while you attempt to get an eight pound baby out your vagina?
But I really decided against this because of the big downside. You have to be on call 24/7 so that when one of your clients goes into labor, you are there. There's no going away for a weekend if you have a client anywhere near her due date. And if you don't have any clients near their due dates, where's your income coming from, huh? It'd be a fun and rewarding career path, I think, but that's a tough way to live. I dunno. Maybe ten years from now when I'm in another place in my life.
Of course, there's the other downside too. When I think about my (highly prejudicial, I'm sure) impression of the kind of woman who would hire a birth doula, I think of someone who's upper middle class and entitled, yet thinks of herself as somewhat crunchy and New Age. Probably lives in Cambridge, or possibly Marblehead. Maybe Newton. Drives her big ass SUV to Whole Foods to buy organic vegetables on her way to bikram yoga, talking on her cell phone all the way as she cuts people off. You know, not the kind of person I would actually like. So that's a stumbling block, too, haha.
You know what I'd like to do in the best of all possible worlds, like if I won the lottery or something? (Yes, I know, big talk about something that'll never happen.) I'd be a volunteer labor doula for poor young women whose babies' fathers may or may not be involved and who don't have much family support. In theory, that sounds very rewarding. In practice, I'd probably hate them all too.
Oh, just kidding. I think.
Maybe I wouldn't be so super awesome at this after all!
xoxo
I would be so good at this. Think about it, those of you who know me and know what my energy is (when I'm not bitching about something on here). Am I not totally the kind of person you would want talking to you and touching you while you attempt to get an eight pound baby out your vagina?
But I really decided against this because of the big downside. You have to be on call 24/7 so that when one of your clients goes into labor, you are there. There's no going away for a weekend if you have a client anywhere near her due date. And if you don't have any clients near their due dates, where's your income coming from, huh? It'd be a fun and rewarding career path, I think, but that's a tough way to live. I dunno. Maybe ten years from now when I'm in another place in my life.
Of course, there's the other downside too. When I think about my (highly prejudicial, I'm sure) impression of the kind of woman who would hire a birth doula, I think of someone who's upper middle class and entitled, yet thinks of herself as somewhat crunchy and New Age. Probably lives in Cambridge, or possibly Marblehead. Maybe Newton. Drives her big ass SUV to Whole Foods to buy organic vegetables on her way to bikram yoga, talking on her cell phone all the way as she cuts people off. You know, not the kind of person I would actually like. So that's a stumbling block, too, haha.
You know what I'd like to do in the best of all possible worlds, like if I won the lottery or something? (Yes, I know, big talk about something that'll never happen.) I'd be a volunteer labor doula for poor young women whose babies' fathers may or may not be involved and who don't have much family support. In theory, that sounds very rewarding. In practice, I'd probably hate them all too.
Oh, just kidding. I think.
Maybe I wouldn't be so super awesome at this after all!
xoxo
Thursday, March 6, 2008
just say no, part deux
One of the MDs I work with has an old shoulder injury, which she periodically reinjures because she engages in extreme sports and has never gotten the physical therapy her orthopedic doc wanted her to have and, in general, doesn't take care of it the way she should. When I was in massage school, I used her for some homework and a paper, because she was an interesting case. So she got free bodywork from me, and she found out her injury responds very well to trigger point work. Which is all well and good.
However, now that I've been out of school for a year, she still thinks she can just come up to me and whine when her shoulder's spasming and expect me to go into her office and jam my knuckle into it for fifteen minutes. Still for free. She's paid me for one massage in the past year, but has found it more cost-effective to just beg for me to donate my services a few minutes at a time.
And, you know, of the four docs in my department, she's the one I'm least friendly with. She doesn't pop into my workspace to chat like the others. She only seeks me out when she wants something, work-related or personal. Well, today she's in pain and angling for "just a few minutes..." She tried to get me a few minutes ago and I told her to go away, I'm eating. As full of the milk of human kindness as I am, if it comes down to eating lunch or jumping to work on her whenever she wants, I think I'll go with lunch, thanks.
And now, of course, I feel like a bitch, so you know I'm going to do it.
It's right up there with not being able to forgo tipping. I really suck!
xoxo
However, now that I've been out of school for a year, she still thinks she can just come up to me and whine when her shoulder's spasming and expect me to go into her office and jam my knuckle into it for fifteen minutes. Still for free. She's paid me for one massage in the past year, but has found it more cost-effective to just beg for me to donate my services a few minutes at a time.
And, you know, of the four docs in my department, she's the one I'm least friendly with. She doesn't pop into my workspace to chat like the others. She only seeks me out when she wants something, work-related or personal. Well, today she's in pain and angling for "just a few minutes..." She tried to get me a few minutes ago and I told her to go away, I'm eating. As full of the milk of human kindness as I am, if it comes down to eating lunch or jumping to work on her whenever she wants, I think I'll go with lunch, thanks.
And now, of course, I feel like a bitch, so you know I'm going to do it.
It's right up there with not being able to forgo tipping. I really suck!
xoxo
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