Sunday, August 31, 2014

Sunday Favorites: The Bad, Bad Massage

New to A Lady Reveals Nothing? You've missed SO MUCH. Not to worry. Every Sunday, I dig through the archives to repost an old favorite. Mostly because I'm too lazy to come up with new content every single day. Enjoy! This story originally appeared  when I was in India on December 28, 2012:


I decided to finally splurge and get a massage in Palolem, the beach town Summer and I stayed in for ten days in Goa, India. And by splurge I mean pay $24. A virtual fortune here, but a price I would be over-the-moon-excited to pay in the US.

Taking very seriously a warning for women to hire only a female therapist in India, I reminded the man who scheduled my appointment. Twice. And then he followed me into the room and told me to take off my clothes. Three times. While he stood there, staring at me. 'Are you my therapist?' I asked him. He said 'Yes!' and I said again, 'No. I want a woman.'

Dejected, he left and a woman came in. She stood there watching while I stripped down to just my underwear. Oh well. Then she had me sit in a chair. This was uncomfortable for me, but I went with it: boobs hanging out, thighs looking squashed and fat sitting in a chair while she karate chopped my shoulders, neck and head for three minutes. Then she poured three handfuls of oil into my hair and rubbed it around. Not into my scalp, mind you. Just into my hair.

Poke! Poke! She jabbed my eyebrows. She made two small circles at my temples for an inordinate amount of time. Abruptly, I was instructed to lay on the table, face down.

And then she proceeded to give me the worst massage I have ever received. And I've had hundreds of massages. This woman karate chopped, pinched and applied oil to my entire body and especially my underwear for an hour in rapid, erratic sweeping motions. Foot-leg-underwear-back-shoulder-back-down-to-foot-never-missing-getting-hung-up-by-pesky-underwear-in-lightning-speed. Only once did she slow down to focus on any particular part of my body, and thankfully it was my calves, which were screaming from running barefoot on the beach all week.

I didn't miss the fact that she did not even rub my back when it was time for me to flip over to have oil applied speedily to my front side. And by front side I mean boobs. She rubbed my boobs for twenty minutes. And not in a good way. Swoosh-swoosh-quick-quick-make-an-awkward-circle-on-stomach-pour-oil-into-belly-button-more-more-more-oil-rubbed-into-underwear-boobs-boobs-boobs-and-don't-forget-snap!-every-finger-and-toe-twice-or-three-times-back-to-boobs-more-boobs.

The massage ended with her hands on my face and a whole new kind of oil applied, more of a cream actually. She did it this way: one hand on forehead and one hand on chin. Switch hands. Switch switch switch switch for ten minutes. With six pounds of cream in my mouth I couldn't breathe, much less ask her to please stop.

When it was all over, she handed me a towel that was not washed between customers and watched as I tried to swab the oil from my skin unsuccessfully. I put my clothes back on and paid without looking her in the eye or tipping. I went back to my hotel and showered for twenty minutes, soaping up multiple times and never seeing even the slightest bit of lather. The water sat on top of my skin and beaded up as I shampooed, rinsed and repeated over and over. Even after a second day shampoo, I'm still Grease McGoo carrying a backpack seven pounds too heavy from my poor underwear, sodden with oil.


Don't believe me? Here's the evidence: my laundry bag, with the underwear inside.


Wednesday, August 27, 2014

Paul Pilfer and the Pad

Back in 1989, in seventh grade and changing classes every hour and having lockers:

And having braces and discovering vintage Star Trek and finally getting that Esprit item...



I got my first period.

Even though I had three older sisters and a mom, I wasn't asking any questions, because as "they" so clearly explained to me, your period is a terrifying gushing blast of red blood that will attract dogs and bears and have you holed up inside your house with the curtains drawn for 5-7 days, sitting on a giant pad, beating yourself in lamentation. In other words, when you get it you'll know. 

And so when I had a week of what appeared in my underwear to be the remnants of a bunch of juicy farts because of their hint of a faint brownness I didn't think anything of it. But then eventually of course the brown turned into red. I was pretty humiliated, and then finally confessed to my older sister Kelly, explaining to her that "I thought it was just juicy farts!" At her behest, I put on this gigantic wingless maxi and got about the business of being a woman. 

At school the next day, I felt sure that everybody was going to "know". The pads in those days were so huge and I didn't have any pad-hiding pants. But I put on my longest shirt and didn't tuck it in and hoped for the best. I was especially worried about Paul Pilfer. That's not his real name, (I don't want the poor guy to Google himself and find this story out here on the Internet! He's a military dentist now for Gosh sakes!) but it's pretty close to his real name. Change the P in the last name to an H and you've got it! Anyway, he and I grew up with our lockers next to each other what with our last names being so close alphabetically. And this was at that age where he and I would friendly-but-flirtily goof on each other. For example, when I was on one knee getting my books or a backpack out of the bottom of my locker, and Paul was standing at his locker, I would elbow him in the butt, and vice versa. 

You can probably see where I'm going here.

My first day being a woman at school, I got to my locker and there was Paul Pilfer (except his last name begins with an 'H'), down on one knee. I prayed he wouldn't do it. I begged. 

Of course he did it. And got me right square in the pad. And to this very day, some 25 years later I can still hear in my mind the very audible *scwintch* sound it made.






Monday, August 25, 2014

Oh My Gynecologist, You Hardly Knew Me

Coming out of anesthesia after my appendectomy reminded me of another time that I had surgery about eleven years ago for a lady-issue. 

The surgery was a last-ditch effort to try and fix something my Gynecologist and I had been working on for several years. We tried a lot of things and as a result I felt like I was in his office every four months. He was 163 years old but I liked him because he saw my tennis shoes in an early visit and we ended up bonding because he was a long-time runner and we used to chat about training and stuff. You know I think I even referred to him in casual conversation as "My Gynecologist", indicating our close relationship like somebody might refer to someone as their "Attorney" while going through a divorce.

When he realized that none of the medications or treatments were working ("you're an anomaly", he said) he suggested surgery and I guess I was willing to try anything. So I went and I had it and it wasn't any big deal, it was outpatient but they did have to put me under a little bit of anesthesia. As I was waking up and being moved from surgery to recovery, a nurse noticed that my paper underwear had slipped down, revealing my butt-crack. She tried to pull them up and I slapped her hand away. "No! That's my J.Lo look!" I said groggily, in a typical bid to make hospital employees laugh. I said some other hilarious things, obviously, and then went to recovery, which was a big room with curtains separating a bunch of beds.

I was awake enough to hear the conversation going on in the bed next to me, where my best friend the Gynecologist, a man with whom I had been INTIMATELY acquainted for a very long time, was saying, "I heard you were quite the comedian after surgery."


I don't know, maybe he didn't recognize me by my face?







Sunday, August 24, 2014

Sunday Favorites: Going Out With a Pffffffffft

New to A Lady Reveals Nothing? You've missed SO MUCH. Not to worry. Every Sunday, I dig through the archives to repost an old favorite. Mostly because I'm too lazy to come up with new content every single day. Enjoy! This story originally appeared on June 10, 2013:



Last year about this time, I participated in the MS150: a 150-mile bicycle trip from Duluth to Minneapolis, Minnesota.

As part of the gig, my team (Clockwork Active Media Systems) had to ride north to Duluth on a bus. One of the owners of Clockwork asked me to "emcee" the bus ride. I was incredibly flattered, until I realized that basically meant "read the rules of the ride to the people on the bus" because "nobody else wants to do it".

Give them what they want, I say. If you're going to do something do it well, I also say. I went to the front of the bus and took the mic (a CB piped throughout the bus speakers). The bus driver ruined all of the fun and told me I couldn't stand while he was driving. So I sat down.

Obeying Bus Drivers, Since 1977


The ride rules were stodgy and boring, but I "livened them up" by ad-libbing here and there. I had the bus in stitches if I do say so myself. I killed it, and they loved me! The more they laughed, the more I joked. I was just a little bit offensive, but not overly so. I used my typical schtick:
  • old
  • lonely
  • would anybody be interested in spooning?
  • dead grandmas
  • etcetera
I was in my element. The problem was, I had not planned out the conclusion to my set. (I didn't even know there would be a "set".) On the fly, I decided the best way to end would be to "tell a joke". Everyone was already laughing...So I set up the following:


"What did the cannibal do after he dumped his girlfriend?"

Silence. (Perfect!)

"He wiped."



Crickets.

Nothing.

I silently returned to my seat.

And sat down.





That Kady. She always goes out with a...pffffffft.

Friday, August 22, 2014

Seriously, Hal?

I've shared with all of you the events surrounding my birth, including how my mom went and bought 50 pounds of Purina dog food on the day that I was born...and how my dad was hired by the US GOVERNMENT and probably more excited about that than about having another baby?

Well I just came across this DOOZY.

Readers, when I was ONE DAY OLD, fragile and tiny, deserving of undivided attention by both of my parents, my dad went and bought a 3 1/2 x 13 Taylor Made Hull-Gard Boat Fender at Marks Marine. He must have been excited about his new job and decided to treat himself. Also, we had a boat? That would have been fun. 




What the heck is a Taylor Made Hull-Gard Boat Fender, you ask?


I don't know. It's this. And it hurts my feelings.




Wednesday, August 20, 2014

Fanny

A good friend of mine was recently photographed and subsequently mocked for his choice in hands-free gear-carrying:

According to my source:
The Oscar winner, 44, laughed off his style choice with a big grin during an interview with CSN Houston's Julia Morales. He attended the game with his 6-year-old son Levi, and topped off his retro bag with a white T-shirt, khaki pants, a baseball cap and sunglasses.

"I'm not afraid of the fanny pack. You gotta kinda put it on the side to make it look a little not as nerdy, but still, practicality wins out," the Dallas Buyers Club actor said. "I got so much gear in here that I don't want in my pockets."

You know what, how many times have you been around someone and they're like, 'Aw, man, I forgot so and so and I gotta go back to my car.'" Pretending to take something out of his hip pouch, he added: "I got mine right here."








I couldn't agree more, Pal. That is SO TRUE.

And I do want to go on record and state that it was me who very probably single-free-handedly started this trend:


As snapped by the paparazzi in Hawaii on 1/30/14

Tuesday, August 19, 2014

Shash-age Links

I can't wait for this new discount foods app to release on iPhone in Mid-September!

Hilarious. Pained faces of guitar solos so much funnier like this.

You may have thought the Super Moon was me everytime a boat passed the dock at our last Girls' Weekend, but apparently there's another lesser-known-and-not-quite-as-awe-inspiring kind.

I wonder if anybody will ever love me like this.

We are doing amazing, unfathomably intelligent and groundbreaking things here in Minnesota!! FOUR YEARS AGO!!!

As a childless person, I have all kinds of strong parenting opinions. Here's some cool tricks that everybody else is doing around the world.

Do you live in Minneapolis? Got some old crap lying around? Trade it for tacos! Delivered by bicycle!

Who knew Russell Brand is a brilliant writer? Apparently he regularly contributes to The Guardian. I wonder if he would date me?





Super Moon, Russell. SUPER MOON.


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