Lot's Wife

Every day, I get at least one email from Groupon or Living Social or Deal Chicken offering a discount on massage. I’m curious how my emails know how much I love massage, or how stressed I feel all the time, but whatever, I’m generally open to the idea of paying a stranger to rub my naked body, or better yet, to have said rub at a discount. Normally, I like to at least check with some friends or Yelp to see if these deals are really a deal or if it’s not that kind of massage. And sometimes, the offer is one I can’t refuse.

That could be said of the Groupon I used a week or two ago at a place here in my town. The spa billed itself as a medical salt spa, whatever the fuck that means. Apparently, in addition to the usual massages and facials and body wraps and Botox, this particular spa has a room they call the Salt Cove. The offer include a massage of my choice and a forty-five minute session in the Salt Cove, the ultimate in relaxation experiences, all for the low price of $65, or less than the cost of the massage by itself. How could I pass this one up?

I went for my appointment, which was in an office park building, not the most relaxing of settings. I don’t know if you are familiar with that Steve Martin classic, “The Man with Two Brains.” Well, in the movie, the mad scientist’s lab (Dr. Necessitor. Yeah, I loved that movie, so what?) was actually in a condo that was decorated to look like a castle. That’s what the medical salt spa was like, sort of. You walk into the office building and through the suite door and instantly it’s all dark and ornate and fragrant.

I stumbled up to the counter to check in and discovered my massage was to be conducted by a Russian woman. Now, I have nothing against Russian women; hell, some of my best friends are Russian women. She was a cute young petite thing with a minimum of facial hair, so I was expecting a mediocre at best rubdown. Looks can be deceiving, though. She was strong like bear, and I was already pleased with my money well spent.

After my sports massage (laugh all you want, but I go to the gym every day and that shit be sore!), it was time for the ultimate in relaxation, a trip to the Salt Cove. I had to leave my belongings, including my cell phone and purse, in an unlocked cabinet outside of the Salt Cove. Nothing makes relaxing more difficult than worrying about someone stealing your iPhone and wallet. Then I had to remove my shoes so that I could better interact with the salt. I have never interacted with salt before, other than in a shaker. Sometimes I knock it over and have to sprinkle some over my shoulder to ward off bad luck, but that’s about the extent of my usual salt interaction. I was almost giddy with excitement, except for the part where I worried about my iPhone and wallet and now shoes potentially going missing.

The Russian massage therapist pulled the door open to the Salt Cove, and we stepped inside. Every inch of wall was covered in slabs of Himalayan salt crystals, like those salt lamps they sell everywhere.  In various places in the walls were built-in lighting that changed from green to blue to red to yellow. My daughter had a night light like that once. We called it the disco nightlight, and we had to get rid of it because it kept her awake. The ceiling had fake salty stalactites and more twinkly lights, like little stars. There were four zero gravity lounge chairs in the room, and a few microfiber throws in case of a chill. On one wall was a fireplace, but instead of logs, it had more salt crystal slabs stacked like logs or possibly the Fortress from "Superman Returns". Even the floor was covered in a gravelly layer of salt, although it looked less like the walls' crystal slabs and more like coarse sea salt.

I settled myself in a chair with a blanket covering me, and the Russian massage therapist asked me if I needed to use the restroom before she started the relaxation. I declined. Big mistake.

She left the room, and I was alone in the Salt Cove, with the color changing ambient lighting. I noticed a vent on one wall, and for a brief moment, my inner Jew was on high alert. What if they pumped this room full of Zyklon B?

Instead of toxic gas, it was a recording of a man talking about the relaxing properties of salt. He spoke a bit like Bob Ross, relaxing and saccharin and sing song. He talked about the rules of the room. No touching the salt walls. No talking on your cell phone (which you couldn’t take in there anyway). No eating. Then he launched into a list of how salt therapy is beneficial. It sounded just like a pharmaceutical commercial. After listing every medical condition that can affect the human body, he then provided a just as lengthy disclaimer about how there was no scientific evidence to support any of those claims, and again listed each medical condition that had been listed previously to benefit from the Salt Cove relaxation experience.  I could feel myself relaxing already.

Except I was wrong. It was just my bladder. It was relaxed and ready to pee, and I was in essence trapped in the Salt Cove, no clock on the crusty walls, no other person for miles around, except possibly in the next room, and I had to go. By this point, the talking portion of the relaxation tape was over, and the same music from the massage therapy room was piped in. I could hear voices outside the door, but I was too scared to leave. What happened if I interrupted my forty-five minute session? Would I be allowed to get my shoes because I do not walk barefoot in any bathroom not in my own house? Where was the bathroom anyway? Would I have to start my relaxation all over again? How was all this bathroom anxiety relaxing?

 Needless to say, I wasn’t relaxed.

After trying to close my eyes and breathe deeply and not concentrate on my very full inner pee bag, I was exhausted and fell into a very light sort of sleep or septic coma. I don’t know how long it lasted, but the next thing I know, the man’s voice was instructing me to gather my personal belongings, as my relaxation experience had come to an end. I sat for a little longer, waiting to see if anyone would come to collect me, but no one showed up, so I folded the throw over my zero gravity chair and shouldered the door open. That was one heavy door. It must have been all the salt slabs.

After putting on my shoes,I located the bathroom, which was also dark and ornate, and relieved myself in the appropriate receptacle. I made sure my purse still had all its contents,  left a tip at the counter, and got in my car.

Now, call me vain, but I do like to look in the rear view mirror when I first get in my car to make sure everything is in order. Clean nostrils, nothing in the teeth, no smears of lipstick or mascara, that sort of thing.  I looked at myself, and I realized they let me walk out of their medical salt spa looking like I spent the afternoon doing blow. My nostrils were crusted white and salty, two little margarita glasses. I jabbed my fingers into my nose to try to clean off my nostrils, because of course who has a Kleenex when you need one? I wiped my hands on the inside of my shirt, which now looked like I had deodorant smears all over it. 

I licked my lips and was surprised to find they tasted salty. So I licked my arm. Salty. I was covered in a thin crust of Himalayan salt. What the actual fuck? Maybe that’s why I got the massage first, so I could have a barrier of moisturizer to prevent me from shriveling like a slug.

All in all, it is an experience not to be missed. I highly recommend it.

Celtic or Gaelic? It's all Greek to Me

Sometimes, it’s just impossible to get motivated to do anything but grumble and complain. Today is one of those days. It’s St. Patrick’s Day, which makes it March 17, and it is cold and rainy. Below forty degrees cold, and wet and grey and miserable. Everybody wearing various shades of green isn’t helping to make the day bright and happy.

See, here’s the thing. I don’t care about St. Patrick’s Day. I’m not Catholic, nor am I Irish. Honestly, I don’t even know what the holiday is for. Is it a Catholic holiday for Catholics or is it an Irish day for Irish people, or is it both?  I seem to recall a story about him driving the snakes out of Ireland, although apparently there weren’t any snakes to begin with. Whatever its origin or purpose, St. Patrick’s Day is celebrated all around the world and seems to focus primarily on excessive drinking, which seems to be something that the world at large can get behind.

I don’t much care for excessive drinking. I have a two drink maximum, unless it’s a long night, in which case I might splurge and make it two and a half. For some reason, I cannot seem to choke down the last half of the third drink, which means I know my limit. I am not a fan of bed spins or vomiting, which my body prefers to passing out as a way to deal with too much alcohol. So I don’t generally allow myself to get to the point where such a choice is made.

One thing I do know is that watching other people drink too much is not my idea of a good time. I don’t like to watch other people throw up any more than I care to do it myself. I am not a fan of slurred words, and I find that pissing and defecating on oneself should be the domain of the very old or the very young. The rest of us should not step into that territory without a note from our physicians.

Drinking too much seems to lead to many bad choices, but I will concentrate on the two F’s: fucking and fighting. When you think of Irish stereotypes, does anything else come to mind besides drinking, fighting, and, well, procreating? You can’t make babies without making babies, if you know what I mean. Now, I am fully aware I am perpetuating stereotypes, but I guess my point is, if I have one, that too much drinking leads to too much sex and violence. Is that really fair to the rich heritage of the Irish people? What about potatoes and red hair and the Lord of the Dance?

And limericks. Don't forget those. The only one I can remember is about a young man from Nantucket. That is the only one that counts.

Also, and this is a big one, we aren’t all Irish. Or Catholic. So why are we all celebrating St Patrick’s Day? I don’t like to wear green, but I also don’t like to get pinched. Who designs forced celebrations through bullying?

As a Jew of Eastern European and Russian descent, I am about as far removed from an Irish Catholic as I can get, yet even I wore green because I didn’t want to be pinched. That’s just fucked up. I wore a green sweater today. With a hole in it. It’s just about the only green thing I have. My daughter wore a green striped shirt to school but still got pinched. Apparently the green wasn’t green enough. It might have even been teal, which technically is blue-green and should still count. So not only was she pinched, she was called stupid and color blind. Is that what St. Patrick would do? I think not.

I am fascinated by the parts of cultural celebrations we adopt in the United States. A lot of Irish people immigrated to America, so we honor the culture in an unofficial capacity, drinking green beer and dying rivers green and kissing strangers and parading around, unless it’s New York or Boston and you are gay, in which case no parade for you. I’m sorry, but is there anything gayer than a St. Patrick’s Day parade? It’s got a pot of gold and rainbows, and a little man with a beard dressed all in green that everyone is looking for, and way too much drinking. That sounds like every weekend for most of the gay people I know. And what about Gaelic? Just say it out loud. See? For all we know, St. Patrick was gay. He did have a thing for snakes and spreading his agenda. Just sayin'.

Seriously, if they want to make  St Patrick’s Day political, turn those parades into an anti-abortion rally. That’s something both Catholics and Irish can get behind.

Celebrating St Patrick’s Day is the whitest thing America does. If urban centers adopted other colors, say, blue or red, and took to the streets in a giant drunken street party, it would be considered gang land riots. They would break out the water canyons and tear gas and swat gear and break up that motherfucker.

In conclusion, I don’t want to celebrate St Patrick’s Day. I don’t want to wear green and I don’t eat corned beef and I don’t want you to pinch me. Also, I want the sun to come out and dry up all the rain. Then I can think about something fun and lively and warm for spring. Like Cinco de Mayo.

Get a Leg up on Summer

It’s March, and in the South, things should be looking spring-like. Normally this time of year, the daffodils are finished with their yellowy show, and the tulips are starting to push through the soil. The horrible stench of Bradford pears blooming permeates the air, and everywhere, the honk of blowing noses herald in the new season. This year, well, it’s been snow after snow after ice and freezing rain. Why, just this morning, the skies opened up and dumped a rainfall that would have been typical for a summer afternoon, but instead was accompanied by gusty winds and almost freezing temperatures. I think by now we have all had enough of this cold business. I don’t even care about spring; let’s just get to the good stuff.

In short, I miss summer. I especially miss going to the beach. Nothing beats waking up when your body has decided it’s had enough rest, eating a leisurely breakfast, and then hitting the not-yet scalding sand for a nice low tide stroll. I am particularly fond of low tide because that’s the best time for critter hunting.

Now, I was never a big fan of science or anything science-related, but I do love a good critter hunt on the beach. I might curse the squirrels and frogs and other wild life at home, but at the beach, it’s a different story. If a ghost crab pops out of his sandy hidey-hole in my presence, I will drop down on all fours like a mad dog until it surfaces again, not so I can grab it, just so I can see it. I love me some sea critters.

You never know what is going to be uncovered when the tide goes out. Usually, it’s an assortment of broken shells and garbage and seaweed that greets us. Sometimes, interesting things wash up on shore, say a dead shark or horseshoe crab. Once, my daughters and I even found a squid, not a rare giant one from the deepest depths of the ocean, but it was still pretty cool to us. If we are really lucky, we might find a whelk or a sand dollar or even a few sharks’ teeth.

For the past few years, we have found starfish, lots of starfish. I don’t really know why, after over twenty starfish free years of going to the same beach, we suddenly seem overrun with the five legged echinoderms, but nonetheless, it has become the go-to sea critter of low tide. I will fill up buckets with them, until, you know, I don’t know what to do with them, and then release them back from whence they came. Catch and release. I would never dry them out or soak them in bleach, even though I love a pristine white starfish in a gift shop. It seems cruel, not to mention there has got to be a wicked bad smell that goes along with that process. I love starfish too much for that kind of abuse.

 

 

Which is why I am thrilled that the tides have turned, so to speak, and have delivered unto our sandy shores more than the normal amount of starfish. I don’t mind picking them up and letting them walk across my hands. I scour the wet sand for that familiar outline, dig with my toe until I uncover it, then bend down and pick it up and show it to anyone who is interested.

Last time I was at the beach, that’s exactly what I did. One day, I took a walk with my teenage daughter along the water’s edge, looking for star shapes in the sand. The teen pointed at something with her toe, so I leaned over. A starfish! I dug at it, perhaps not gently enough, as it was missing one of its limbs or legs or whatever its appendages are called. I scooped it up into my hands, and noticed that not only was it down to four limbs, but one of those four looked injured as well. This starfish was not having a good day, and it was about to get worse.

About this time, a group of ladies called out to us from their beach chairs stationed by the water. “What did you find?” one of them asked.

The teen and I walked up to where they were sitting. I held out my hands for them to see. The starfish had overcome its fear of being seen and was slowing moving along my palm.

“It’s one of them what you call it?” said another. Did I mention we go to the beach in South Carolina?

“A starfish,” I said, with no hint of contempt. “We’ve been finding a lot of them this year.”

As we all gazed down on the four legged starfish in my hands, we noticed that the injured fourth limb had gotten, well, gooey. It started to ooze a little, like when you break a stalk of aloe, and slowly detached itself from the main starfish hub. Then, with the help of the little finger-like protrusions on the bottom side, it walked across my palm and flung itself into the sand in front of the ladies in the beach chairs.

I did what any normal person would do in such a situation. I screamed, loudly. My scream started the chain reaction of an all-girl scream, the six of us sitting and standing, screaming our heads off. Listening to all the screaming made me stop and switch to laughing. So now it was five screaming ladies and one crazy sounding laughing one. It’s a good thing starfish can’t hear.

The leg continued its trek across the sand, its destination unclear to all of us, including itself. It didn’t know where to go, but go it did, until a kindly wave came up and carried off into the ocean.

“Sorry about that,” I told the ladies. “I didn’t really expect that to happen.” They tittered or did whatever polite Southern women do in the company of awkwardness, and I set the rest of the starfish down in the sand away from them. My teen and I said goodbye to them and slunk away.

Just a few more months, and it will be summer again. I for one cannot wait.

It's All Downhill

I joke a lot about how I have never been skiing because I am not the most coordinated person you’ve ever met. I am not a total klutz, but I do tend to get hurt pretty easily. That is because I am a delicate flower. I have broken eight of my ten toes, some of them more than once, doing such dangerous activities as walking down the stairs or folding laundry. So, no, I have never been skiing. It doesn’t strike me as my cup of tea. I've also never been snow tubing, which looks way easier, except for those videos of people hitting a rock or something and going airborne. No, I'm much more of an observer, a casual bystander. Someone has to be able to call 9-1-1. I'm the one with the phone.

In the past month, we’ve had a couple of big snows, well, by South Carolina standards, and honestly, there is only so much sitting inside with movies and cups of cocoa that one can take. I decided to make my family join me outside for some quality snow play. My daughters seemed pretty content to sleep what I like to call cat hours, a good sixteen out of twenty-four, but I encouraged them to get off their asses and join me in the cold.

Getting ready to play in the snow is not nearly the ordeal it was when the girls were little. At twelve and fourteen, they can dress themselves in layers and remember to use the bathroom. When the teen decided she didn’t need a coat while making a snowman, then she was a fool. A cold fool. But she wouldn’t freeze to death or catch a cold, so what did I care? It’s not like she would have stayed outside long enough to develop frostbite. The only bad part was the twelve year old stole my good gloves, the waterproof ones. And my favorite hat. I had to wear her knit cupcake hat. Do you know what a woman in her forties looks like wearing a cupcake hat? You will in just a few paragraphs.

We went outside, and my husband began the extremely intense job of making a snowman. I grew up in Florida, so I haven't really developed much of a snowman technique. My husband likes to take a snowball and roll it all over the yard, picking up the bits of mown grass while densely packing the snow. The burgeoning snow mound takes on a life of its own, growing in diameter and weight to the point where it has to be the bottom ball because no one can lift it. He duplicates this method on a smaller scale for the other two balls of the snowman, the head and the above the belt body. By the time this meticulous procedure has been completed, the rest of us have lost interest in snowman making and concentrate instead on eating handfuls of fresh snow and making intricate footstep patterns.

One of the girls  went in the garage and got out our purple plastic snow disc, the closest thing we have to a sled. It had a crack in it from last year and probably should have been thrown out then, but instead, it was all we had to work with. My tween, who is taller than me, sat on the disc in the middle of the driveway and waited for someone to push her down the gentle slope of concrete. No one had the strength to make her slide, so she just sat there like a frozen lump.

The teen decided we needed to try a better spot for sledding, so we trudged across the street to the empty lot catty-corner from our house. She found a nice little clear spot for sledding and went down the hill on the broken disc, screaming like the girl she is.

Next was the tween’s turn. Her ear piercing yells were either pure joy or terror, it was kind of difficult to tell. She fell over half way down the slope, but came up smiling, so it must not have been too bad. The two of them convinced my husband to take a turn, and he looked like that Norelco razor commercial from Christmas time, sitting upright and stoic as he wove through the trees until he came to a resting point in a clearing.

I was perfectly content watching the three of them go down the little hill and videotaping their efforts. Their joy gave me joy. But no, they wanted me to try it too. I declined, and with good reason too. It looked pretty steep there from the edge. And they were going pretty fast, something I don't cotton to. Also, I am a delicate flower, even in the snow.

As I protested, I somehow found myself sitting on the purple disc, continuing to say I didn’t want to try it. Don’t be scared, Mom, they said. It’s fun, they insisted. Don’t be a pussy, their father taunted.

“I really don’t want to,” I said, right before I was shoved down the hill. Everyone seemed to enjoy my ride, maybe including me, until I hit the tree.

Now, there is some discussion about whether I hit a tree or a sapling. I am going with tree. First of all, a sapling would have bent or snapped under the force with which I hit it. Secondly, it was solid, like a tree. And finally, it hurt bad, as evidenced by my screaming “Goddamn,” right before my husband stopped filming me, which was when the tears started. I hit the thing growing out of the ground, and it felt like a tree, and so, tree it is.

You know when you get hurt so deeply it takes a good week to bruise? Yeah, well, that’s what happened when I slid into the tree. A week until any discoloration developed. I did, however, have a lump that was like an extra butt cheek, only on my hip. We all referred to it as my lovely lady lump, and I liked to show it to my family to cement their guilt forever in their memories.

"I told you I didn't want to take a turn," I am still reminding them.

It was a big lump, but it was also a painful lump. The kind that makes you sleep on your other side because even a slighted whisper of a touch sends waves of pain throughout the body. The kind that makes your jeans fit funny. The kind that makes you hate your family for making you go down the hill in the first place.

Lucky for you, there is video evidence. Even luckier, I am posting it. According to my family, it gets funnier each time you watch it. If you are having a bad day, about three or four times is about all it takes to turn that frown upside down.

 

Don't even think I am ever going to try anything involving a hill, snow, and two sticks under my feet. I can't even sit on a big plastic Frisbee.