The Prince of Darkness

While working at the spa a couple weeks ago, I made a quick stop at the front desk. Suddenly one of my coworkers turned to me and spa-screamed “That’s Ozzy Osborne!” I quickly scanned the lobby but I only saw a large black man in street clothes and a lady with long black hair wearing a robe.

Assuming the girl didn’t know what she was talking about (seriously, not to stereotype, but do Hispanics even listen to heavy metal?), I told her that’s not Ozzy, that’s a big black guy! On second glance, however, I realized that standing next to him wasn’t just an ugly old lady, that was the Prince of Darkness himself! He looked just like himself, too, glasses and all. I think it was the robe that threw me off at first – the reason why I diverted my eyes so quickly. If I could choose which celebrity I would like to have standing 15 feet from me in a bathrobe, it probably wouldn’t be Ozzy, but heck, it’s still cool!

Apparently his highness performed at the Verizon Center that night with Rob Zombie, and was suffering from the flu. He was so sick, he was drinking tea onstage and spraying his throat after every song. That must have been his motivation to visit our little spa. We didn’t seem to help him out much, though. What a trooper!

What a Day.

Words you don't want to hear at the end of a LONG day at the spa:

"... 80 minute deep tissue massage... really big guy... plays for the Redskins... 6'-5".. 300lbs...
ALL MUSCLE..."

The word you say in your head after hearing those words:

Well... you can use your imagination. I guarantee I thought of them all. Nice guy, though.

The Deal Breaker

I see a lot of naked bodies every day. I’m pretty tolerant of bodily functions of all kinds, so few things make me shudder. However, there is one that always sends tremors down my spine, and that is my biggest and grossest pet peeve: to come upon clammy feet and hands. I’m sorry for any of you that suffer from the inability to control or absorb the massive amounts of sweat flowing from your icy, soggy hands and feet (hereafter referred to as Clammy Hand and Foot Syndrome or "CHAFS"). I don’t hate you, I just hate how it feels. The experience of sliding around in someone else’s sweat is something I won’t go into detail about, even though I'm tempted to. While massaging my latest CHAFS inflicted client today, I thought seriously about going into explicit detail about how much I suffer.

Now it could’ve been fate, her über-Italian last name, or my keen ability to find irony, but for some reason as I began massaging this woman's feet, my thoughts wandered to a blog I recently read. This post about Italian-American culture made me think: “Hey, Italian-Americans sound pretty cool. I like to eat, I love my family, I’m not against chasing my husband around with a broom (was that one of the qualities?), and I don’t actually have to be in the mafia and get people whacked?! What a deal!”

Then sweaty feet suddenly brought me back to reality. "Eww," I thought, "I better dry girlfriend's feet off with this sheet for the third time. I wonder if she knows..."

“Sorry!” she suddenly interrupted, “I’m Italian, so when I’m hot my feet get sweaty.”

Hey, hold it there for one second, signora! Did you just say that sweaty feet are the side effect of a totally sweet Italian-American lifestyle? If so man, this deal is OFF. There’s no way I’m getting slammed with CHAFS.