Peas in a Pod

It’s not easy looking like a celebrity. I have one of those faces that always remind people of someone else. I get stopped at least once a week by a stranger frantic to tell me who I look like. I stop to talk because after all, I couldn’t disappoint a fan. The conversations usually go something like this:

Crazed Fan (CF): “Hey, do you know who you look like?!?! That girl from Fried Green Tomatoes! You know, the one that died. What’s her name?”

Me: “Mary Louise Parker.”

CF: “Is that her name? Hmm. Oh! Or that girl from Boys on the Side! You know, the one that dies? No, wait, is that the same actress? What IS her name??”

Me: “Mary Louise Parker.”

CF: “Yes! Mary Louise Parker! You look EXACTLY like her!”

CF’s Friend: “No, you know who she looks EXACTLY like? That girl from Princess Diaries! What’s her name?

Me: “Anne Hathaway.”

CF: “Oh, yeah! Anne Hathaway! You look EXACTLY like her!”

I say thank you and that I’m flattered, and I guess in some ways I am. At least these aren't Rosie O'Donnells I'm being compared to. The thing is, it's never kinda/sorta, I'm always told I look EXACTLY like someone else. In my dating years, guys said that stuff all the time. Now, everyone knows any guy you meet in a club is full of s-h-i-t, but I still wonder… how many celebrities can one person look EXACTLY like? Does everyone fool me with flattery or do I have a special chameleon gift? Did we go skinny dipping in the same gene pool or do we all just have brown hair? Anyway, I'm starting to consider a job as a professional body double. So just for fun, let's see which starlet I could "be"...

Oh, if only I could be Sarah McLachlan. American Idol would never knew what hit it! Fortunately, the guy who told me I looked like her never got to hear my singing. Why spoil the illusion?

This princess seems a little high maintanence. Even though she's starring in the biggest gay cowboy film EVER, I'm not dying to hob-nob with this drama queen. That is, unless she were in another film with Heath & Jake. Mmmm... brokeback ranchers...

This is the only picture of Alanis I think looks even a little like me. She's amazing live and I dig Canadians, but I don't think I'd fool anyone sober.

I can't remember who called me Winona - some guy in a bar somewhere. He didn't get far.

When my roomie's cousin told me I looked like Ashley Judd, I swooned. It got scary when he would only call me Ashley, and when he would call just so he could call me Ashley, and when I realized he probably didn't even know my real name. It kind of turned me off, but I still think she's cute.

I don't know something (or anything) about Mary, other than she is always playing a dying lesbian. I could stand in for that role.

Yes, the Virgin Mary. A man once gazed into my eyes and told me I resembled the Blessed Virgin. Apparently he didn't know I was a dying lesbian. Sure fooled him!

So, I'm sure I'm not alone in this. I know at least one person has been told they look like Britney Spears. Anyone else?

Under Where?

We’re about to delve into some sensitive subject matter… Underpants.

I could say: “Check your fantasies at the door,” but I’m no bouncer. Besides, isn’t the fantasy what makes blogs so awesome? So I'll simply say this: Read at your own risk.

Yesterday I had a client that made me wonder... is she dressing up for me, or does she wear this stuff all the time? I was almost embarrassed to see the back of her black silk, lace up thong. Her selection seemed more suitable for a party dress then for a massage. And no, I didn’t check the label, but Frederick would have approved. (Whoa, did I just put a link to Frederick’s of Hollywood on my blog? I sure did.) To be honest, I was pretty annoyed; the ribbons kept getting in the way.

On that note, I've seen some interesting choices (I’ll spare you the scary ones). When men wear puppy and kitty boxers, I tell myself the girlfriend bought them. I want to cry for the old women in tight-as-hell “shapewear.” They must be suffocating–no wonder they tell me they’re constipated! Finally, once I had to bite my tongue when a fellow therapist complained about her client's “knee length white cotton/spandex biking shorts” (yes, all you Mormons, that IS what she was talking about).

I'd estimate that about 30-40% of my clients wear underwear for their massage. They’re always draped, so I don’t see anything I don’t want to (and believe me, I don't want to). As a side note, most veterans go commando, which is actually a lot easier, although I don’t have much of a preference.

Lucky for me, people generally don’t like to show off their nasties. I rarely see the laundry day granny panties. And if the undies are crappy (I hope not literally), they probably end up stored in the locker or shoved into a pocket. That’s fine with me. At least I haven’t seen these yet.

If I Could Save Time In A Bottle

I have big plans for myself. Sometimes I wonder if they’re too big. See, I haven’t made much progress on the plans I made years ago, and my excuse is pretty awful… Here it is, World:

I don’t have time.

It makes me feel lame. Sheepish. Embarrassed. Pathetic. It’s a horrible excuse, but life gets crazy. We all know how it is. I hate time. But since lists help me manage my time, here is list of things I can’t manage to find the time for:

1. Check my email and blog daily. People besides my husband actually do that, right?

2. “The Website.” I have an idea for my very own dotcom. I’d rather not give details, not that I don’t trust you, but... well, okay, I really don’t. Suffice it to say that if I have my way, I will someday be the Willy Wonka of Published Wonders.

3. Open my own spa. I’m 3 years into my 5 year plan, so expect it soon.

4. Get a potter’s wheel and throw pots in my basement. I want to make beautiful art, and Marc wants to re-enact Ghost. Hey, whatever gets me the wheel.

5. Run another marathon THIS year. I’ve had a sufficient break from running my first and only marathon 4 years ago. I won’t let you down, TFB!!

6. Write a book or two… or three? First, “How to Receive the Ultimate Spa Experience”-full of massage do’s and don’ts (many of which I plan to include in my blog), along with interviews with “the pros” and personal anecdotes. Second, my autobiography. I’ve experienced some crazy stuff, and even if no one reads it, it will be interesting to re-live. I’ll probably have it published after I die anyway. Or write it under a pen name. Or maybe I’ll just squeeze it onto a postcard.

7. Go to college and study business or marketing… or writing? Heck, why not all three?

8. My own NPO. Someday I’ll create a non-profit organization geared towards bringing under-privileged kids and their overworked parents closer through art, music and massage; all activities parents and kids can do together far, far away from the TV. The jam sessions will have to be in a room far from the infant massage class, and things will get messy pottery and painting room, but it will be beautiful. Incredibly time consuming? You betcha. Lobbying local corporations and their mothers for donations and free materials on top of running a center? May have to wait for retirement.

So there they are. My major goals. Wish me luck and lots and lots of time.

Race to the Finish

What do you call someone who spends the last few days of the year struggling to finish the Book of Mormon?
A suicide B.O.M.-er

Shout Out to My Mom

BTW, blog dreams really DO come true! I got some sweet new sheets for Christmas. No more hoochies on my pillow!

Thanks Ma!

For my birthday I'll write blogs about how Marc hogs the ipod and his laptop, and how a hybrid car would really help me to save the environment.

Misery Loves Company

Women have this fixation. Sick female=expectant mother. Who knows where it started, as if women didn't get sick all time from things like rollercoasters, video games and (those damn) Van Damme movies. Women want to see babies-if they're not gushing over their own, their ooing and ahhing over someone elses. They are baby crazy. And if you're like me, childless after 2 years of marriage, you would feel the pressure rising. I can't mention that I feel a little woosy without a flock of hens hovering around, clucking about a bun in the oven. But this post isn't about them, it's about me. I, too, fall victim to the pregnancy preoccupation.

It’s the day after my wedding. We are driving from frigid Salt Lake to sunny LA so we can catch an early morning flight to Hawaii. Shortly into the trip, I start vomiting and shaking like a rabid horse. Hello, where did this come from? Was I carsick? Did I have the flu? Was I PREGNANT? The day after my wedding… is that even possible??? After a long pit stop in Vegas, we came close to missing our flight. I sat doubled over the entire drive and was a complete mess on the way to Maui. A day of resting on the Hawaiian beach brought me back to normal, but I still worried... would we be honeymoon parents? That was definitely not part of the plan. But how could I be sure? What was morning sickness like, anyway? My question was soon answered when I checked my voicemail and learned that much of my family was suffering much like I was. Whether it was bad eats or a sick nephew we may never be sure, but the news was bittersweet. I was sad everyone got sick at my reception, but happy at the same time. I was so, so relieved not to be a honeymoon statistic.

I had another intimate moment with the toilet this morning. More like 6 intimate moments. The last time I threw up was almost 2 years ago to the day. (Our anniversary is Jan 2^nd, feel free to congratulate us in blog form.) I was in perfect health yesterday as we flew back from Wisconsin. I never flinched as I ate my Quarter Pounder, fries and most of Marc’s salad. (Writing about it now, however, reminds me of my renewed vow never to eat McDonald’s again). So bowing at the throne today I thought to myself, this isn’t what morning sickness is like, is it? This feeling came completely out of left field. Again, not part of the plan, but could I actually be in the family way? It’s a little much to think about when it’s not on the agenda.

But again, my mom soon called to tell me the extensive list of family members that were also sick. **Stay away from the salami**

And yet again, I was a little glad everyone else was sick, too.

Today in Primary

I co-teach 6 year olds in primary. Today we learned about baptism.

Teacher: "When we are baptized, we go completely under the water. So we say we are 'baptized by' what?"

Kid #1: "Inversion!"

Kid #2: "By a virgin?!"

Kid #3: "I'M A VIRGIN!"

Trust me, the live version was classic. Can I please see that on TiVo after I die?
My thoughts? Good for you, Kid. We must be teaching you something right after all.

Top Ten Things I Love

Top Ten Things I Love

(or at least that I can think of right now)

1. Jäger Sleeping

I love him awake, too, but life is a lot easier when he’s sleeping. No standing in the cold waiting for him to pee. No chasing him around the house while pulling wads of Kleenex out of his mouth. No feeding, switching out toys, bribing with treats or cleaning out cages. Just a few bursts of spastic twitching and a loving, cuddly little critter. And peace. Glorious peace.

2. Redheads

I have this theory that with redheads, only the strong survive. And I love them for it. I’ve fallen in love with Jäger, our sweet little redheaded stepchild. I’ve dated more redheads then you’d probably like to know about. My best friend has red hair. I hope my kids have red hair like my sister’s kids do. But that won't happen if my husband has any control. Which, technically, he doesn’t. Ha!

3. Being carried to bed

When I was little I used to pretend to fall asleep on the couch so my dad would carry me upstairs. It still works well with the hubbers…

4. Sleeping in Sunday mornings and cuddling with Marc

We don’t have church until 1pm, so we have all of Sunday morning together. It’s our on morning a week to chill, read, have breakfast, or do whatever we want. Heaven!!

5. Sundays in general

I’ve had to work almost every Sunday for over 2 years. I finally got it off, and it has turned into the most marvelous day of the week. I can relax, go to church, take walks, read, etc. I feel sane and centered when I get my Sundays.

6. Massages

Massage is a beautiful thing. It’s become a staple in my life. So much so that I have to trade with another therapist every other week or it gets ugly. Sometimes I’ll spend the entire 50 min looking down at my clients in envy.

7. Stinky Face Man

Come use our bathroom sometime. My favorite piece of artwork adorns the wall.

8. Lindt truffles (chilled in the fridge)

That says it all.

9. Cheesy pick up lines

I tend to think of myself as a natural flirt, at least I was in my single days. Back in the day I had all kinds of tricks I’d use to get a guy’s attention. I would win his heart with gems like: “Hey, are you from Jamaica? Cuz JaMakin’ me crazy!” Laugh if you must, but the pick up lines became a way for a reserved girl like me to feign (and eventually gain) confidence in social situations. With men or women, cheesy pickup lines are always fun to laugh about. I still throw them around in moments of lightheartedness.

10. Crying at the beginning, middle and end of a good book

If you haven’t read Les Miserables yet, read it. It’s beautiful.

A Billboard for the Human Soul

Sometimes you don't know what you'll see when you lift the sheet. Aside from the various random skin explosions and other maladies most of us occasionally suffer from, I get up close and personal with various works of art plastered all over the human body.

The human back has become a billboard for the soul. I've seen countless latin/celtic/asian phrases, mythical creatures such as fairies and dragons, and naked women lying atop crescent moons or swinging in the jungle. Every time I see one, I spend much of the massage wondering what experience, dare, or now hazy evening in Cancun inspired this particular tattoo. Here is one such experience.

The other day I massaged a kid, mid-twenties, tan bod/bleached tips... typical Palm Beach surfer-type. His tattoo, tracing the length of his spine, in large samurai-esque letters read:

N
O
R
E
G
R
E
T
S

Maybe there was a good reason for it. I can understand why someone would choose "no regrets" as a slogan to live by. I myself make a sincere effort to learn from my mistakes, move on and put the past behind me. But how ironic to get a personal mantra tattooed on your back? Couldn’t serve as much of a reminder...

And then what happens when he turns 40, the love handles are in full swing, and due to gravity, those carefully etched letters are looking more and more like an Exxon Valdez oil slick? If that surfer body gets beached, not only can he never regret getting the tattoo, but he's not allowed to regret it. To laser it off would even assume some level of shame. But at least he won't have to look at it!

Now don't get me wrong, I'm not against tattoos, if they don’t suck. I've even tried a couple times to talk Marc into getting a matching one with me. Definitely nothing lame, it would have to be totally sweet. Like Jon Stewart. Or a Liger.

Trust Issues

Recent conversation with my husband:

"Marc, were those girls from Orem High?"

"Why do you want to know?"

Whoa! A little paranoid?!

"I'm was just wondering, did they go to Orem High?"

"No, you'll put it on your blog."

"I'm not telling anybody, it was brought up and now I'm curious. How did you even know those girls? Did you go to school with them or what?"

"I read your blog and saw that question, so you can understand why I assume you're going to post it."

What's this?! Now, I'm offended. So suddenly I have no discretion?? Why the secrets? What other information does he keep from me while I'm at a keyboard?

My retort:
"It's not your place to withhold information from me because you assume I'll do something with it. Just tell me," I said. It was a knee jerk defense. I said it boldly enough, but will it actually work?

Slack-jaw. Dumbfounded expression. He's not sure how to respond. And the woman in me is loving every beautiful second of it.

"Damn, woman! I forgot I was your bitch!," he mustered in his best goofball voice.

It made me smile. Hey, he didn't say I was wrong, did he?