Lesbians and Hot Rocks

Since it’s illegal for me to get married, I’ve always wondered if I shouldn’t just marry a nice lesbian, preferably one that is also a massage therapist. I’m fairly lesbian friendly. I want to go to Lilith Fair, I like Subarus and big dogs. I even have a huge crush on Portia de Rossi.

I had a fantastic massage therapist until a couple of months ago. She was everything that I wanted in a massage therapist/potential wife. She was…shall we say…appropriately sized for deep tissue massage. She was also friendly and chatty and it appeared we had a shared sense of humor. She was really everything I wanted.

However, she’s apparently quit or has been fired. I almost wonder if it wasn’t fired. I learned way more about her than a client ever should. I knew her partner’s name, I learned that both she and her mother were recovering alcoholics. I also learned that pretty much all of the male massage therapists working there are gay. This isn’t particularly surprising, but I wondered how they’d feel about her telling me who in the building was “family”.

While I was sad to see her go, the past few times have certainly been quieter and more relaxing. But now when I schedule, I’m in unfamiliar territory. I’ve had one girl who I’m certain was being a little flirty (anything for tips, I guess), another who was hearing impaired (which gave the receptionist quite a fit trying to decide how to tactfully warn me) and another who had gotten her “nails did” and appeared to be taking out the fact that I was her last appointment of the day out of my back.

See my posts on my (homo-phobia…here and here) about why I haven’t ever seen one of the guys. My fear of disrobing and getting massaged by one of the gays is really more immersion therapy that I can handle.

And yes, I know it sounds elitist to talk about my massages. I go because I have constant shoulder pain and it helps. I’ve tried physical therapy and exercises, but they didn’t help. My doctor says it’s all stress. The only stress I have is at work. Extrapolate from there.

I did the hot stone massage today. It was my first attempt at being rubbed with rocks. Turns out, they keep them in this little crock pot looking thing in water to keep them warm. It was as fantastic as you might imagine. Unfortunately, I didn’t schedule well and did it at 12:30, which meant I
had to come right back to work.

I Am Not a Breast Man

I’ve never really thought that breasts would cause me any grief. However, breasts were the cause of a complete meltdown for me earlier tonight. Granted, these were poultry and not silicone.

However, before I get into that story, let me add a little backstory. We’ll all recall that my job is auto insurance adjuster. (I refuse to identify as “I am an). So Friday, I went to the house of a retired husband and wife to talk about their claim. Once business was attended to, we got on the topic of my leaving there to go to Danville. I mentioned that while not where I’d want to live, I have a soft spot for quaint college towns. I went to a small liberal arts school in a different city. The husband then launched into a little speech about how liberal arts schools taught you nothing but how to “sound fancy at parties” and taught no “sell-able skill.” He asked my major. I told him I’d double majored in English and Political Science. He then said “if you’re doing this, then do you feel like a failure?” I politely said my goodbyes.

I drove back to Lexington terribly conflicted. First thought was “fuck you”. Second thought was that ol’ dude kinda has a bloody good point. Third, “fuck you”.

So, it was with all of this in my head, I set out to make dinner tonight. You see, I have a fantastic boyfriend and the one thing he consistently does for me is make dinner. To someone who is below a culinary novice, this is a big deal. I thought I’d return the favor for him. He’s in a very busy/stressful time. His work is just getting really involved and he is wrapping up his senior year in college. He’s been at class and work all day and I’ve sat on the sofa. It really only just seems fair.

I found a recipe, complete with a video on how to make it. It seemed easy enough. It wasn’t. First step, I screwed it up. This started a really unfortunate snowball.

This chicken breast that I couldn’t properly cut, suddenly got assigned a lot of meaning. It represented my failure as a person. It represented my inability to do something good for my amazing boyfriend. It represented my general kitchen ineptitude. It represented my being unhappy with where my work-life is. This now mangled piece of chicken was getting into my head and messing with me. And it was successful in its endeavor.

The boyfriend had to take over and finish dinner. This was really the worst part. Something that was supposed to be FOR him, had to be done BY him. All because I couldn’t. He didn’t seem pleased. Granted, my ensuing meltdown over a chicken breast would really try anyone’s patience. And let me tell you, kids, the meltdown was ugly.

I will say that my adventures into cooking are over for a time. If not due to my lack of ability, then due to how a small mistake will build into all that it did tonight. However, I’ve now got another story to tell should I need to do more than just sound fancy at a party.

Uncreative

I’ve been feeling like self-help platitudes and “Hey, buy my book” doesn’t get much done.

I’ve been feeling like there aren’t enough Indians.

I’ve been feeling like admission charges make it purposefully exclusive.

I’ve been feeling like self promotion comes above our supposed goal.

And so, I’ve gone to work these past few days decidedly uncreative. I think we all voice that we want the same thing and maybe even deep down we do. And if it takes a Summit to reach a peak, then I’m glad some make the journey.

Even this time of year when it makes us sneeze, I think we all bleed blue(grass). It just seems that it’s time to go work the fields and clean the stables. We have to train the colts before we let the horses run.

Luck be a Climax

I believe in luck like I believe in multiple orgasms. Sure, it can happen, but probably not frequently and not for most people. I’ve always been a nose to the grindstone, do your work and then reap what benefits, if any, there are to reap. However, I feel like I’ve had 24 hours of really just terrible luck.

First, I’m driving home last night on a road I’m not familiar with. I’m driving along and see a speed limit sign. I noticed that it had dropped from being 55 to 35 miles per hour zone. I was hitting my brakes to just slow down a bit and as soon as I did, I saw the policeman. So, that’d be a $200 ticket for me. I’d been back on the road less than 2 miles when I noticed something in the road ahead of me. I slowed down just in time to see a cute little raccoon scurrying across the road. I tried to avoid him. I didn’t. So, somewhere on Highway 460 there lies an animal that I killed. This is not something I take lightly. I don’t usually kill spiders in the house, let alone cute woodland creatures.

I made it home (hitting every red light in downtown at 1230am) and went to bed. Thankfully, nothing terribly catastrophic happened at work. But, I get home and can’t WAIT to take a shower, make myself a drink and just relax. I turn on the shower and the water isn’t hot. I turn it up a bit more, still not hot. I turn it all the way up and still cold. This is the water heater that was repaired last week. It turns out, not repaired. I usually give kudos to the landlord who is always on top of stuff. He still hasn’t returned my call.

So, I’m here. I feel kinda dirty, but I’ve made arrangements to shower at a friend’s house in the morning before work. But, I’d just like to say that if luck is gonna smack me around like this, I’d at least like some counterbalance with a multiple orgasm.