I need a massage. Badly. Not one of those sissy frou-frou "spa massages" where someone smears oil on my back. I need a real massage, preferably one in which heavy items are whacked into my shoulders blade, beating the knots in my muscles into wimpering submission. And it's stressing me out. Either that, or I'm stressed out, which is causing my back to holler like a hound dog under a truck's front wheels. Actually, there are many reasons for my back malady. They include:
-having a little child who believes in her tiny little heart that she will immeditely die of neglect if she's not held at least 20 hours a day.
-Spending a chunk of that time dancing in circles around my house to "Shaky Puddin' by The Soledad Brothers until we're both ready to puke.
-lugging around perpetually engorged boobs that were breaking my back long before I got pregnant.
-spending at least an hour a day hunched over a Medela breast pump (moo.)
But just try getting a massage when keeping banker's hours, which I'm essentially doing, since I won't take Clara Jane to a massage appointment. Oh, there are therapists who will make house calls, but why in the hell would I want a massage in my house? Yeah, that would work. We can set up the massage table in my cramped living room where I can listen to B. watching the same episode of "Stargate SG-1" over and over (as best as I can tell, there's only one episode of the show). We can just park Clara Jane under the face hole in the massage table so that I'm not out of her sight and will be able to fulfill my re-binkying duties. Whiney, The One-Toothed Wonder, can perch on my ass while my hounds jump and claw at ther massage therapist. Throw in a few phone calls from my mom, and drop-ins from my neighbor's 8-year-old son and you've got the ultimate in relaxation. And forget that New Age music crap. The sounds of my neighbors running their dune buggy up and down my street will lull me into a state of nirvana, I'm sure.
Lucky me, B. is able to take off work a few hours early today, so he's going to be in charge of Clara "I will not be ignored" Jane while I hopefully get someone to pound the hell out of my back. If I wasn't ready for a massge before, I certainly am now. Apparently, one must be a rock star in order to get a last-minute massage appointment in this town. And speaking of rocks, that's what I want - a hot stone therapy massage. I found a therapist in St. Charles last night who does this for a mere $55/hour. So, I dropped her an email. Alas, her daughter has a dance rehersal this afternoon, so she's not working.
Well, my daughter has a hissy fit scheduled for this afternoon and you don't see me taking off work for the occasion.
This morning, I resumed my search online. Now, can someone answer me this: why, oh why, have salons and day spas not discovered the wonder and magic that is the internet? These businesses have woefully few websites. And quite frankly, I'm not going to make an appointment unless I know how much it's going to cost, and I don't have all day to call every salon and day spa in town. Not unless they'd like to listen to Clara Jane screaming through the phone, and I prefer to save The Screaming Time for phone calls to bill collectors and insurance agencies.
I found a few local salons with websites, so I quickly tried to call during the 15 minutes The Scream Queen was dozing.
"Salon de Blah Blah. May I please put you on hold?"
Um, do I actually have a choice in the matter. No, dammit! No, you may not put me on hold!
She put me on hold, where I listened to the Muzak version of "Broken Wings" by Mr. Mister in its entirity. It's not a whole lot different than the original version. My waiting was rewarded by being told that, no, that would not have me today.
Fine.
Spa Blah Blah didn't have any openings, either. I mean, honestly! Don't these people leave blanks on their schedules for emergencies? And this is an emergency, dammit! If I don't get a massage today, I'm gonna be throwing hot stones at someone!
I did manage to get an appointment for a plain ol' regular massage. There will be no flinging of hot rocks at my bare flesh today. Just a good pummelling, I hope.
Posted by Robin at June 18, 2004 12:54 PM | TrackBackTry: www.janeshousestudio.com
While you can't look at Lori's schedule, she does work at varied and sundry times and she'll hot rock you (though I don't think she flings them) and I know she can pound the hell out of your back. It's just up the street from my house (within walking distance, but a *good* walk).
You might try a chiropractor - actually you might see if Logan has any student clinics. I know in KC that Cleveland Chiropractic school has a clinic that the students on their last leg do all the stuff for cheap (don't worry a real chiropractor is around also) - at Cleveland they have this awesome bed that rolls all the lumps out of you - I want one of those beds & they have these electric shock things that do amazing things to knots and well a nicely aligned back can do amazing things for helping muscles relax. But all this could be just b/c my best friend has convinced me of such things b/c he just graduated and is now a chiropractic doctor.
Posted by: i.e. at June 18, 2004 04:00 PMJane - Actually, Lori was the therapist I originally tried who had a prior commitment with her daughter. I definitely want to give her a try, though.
I.E. - Every massage therapist I've had until now has been through a chiro's office. Definitely a good way to go, especially when my insurance covered it. :)
Posted by: Robin at June 18, 2004 06:12 PM