OK, it felt good to quit and knowing there is a light at the end of the spa scented tunnel will make the next two weeks a happy place in my mind. Even if the spoiled class still continues to pamper itself to heal the pain of a cramped yacht or maybe even a bit to much sun on the skin (causing irreparable oxidizing damage which can be cured by our REJUVENATING line of skin care products), I will leave this spa scene with my head held high knowing I have helped out on some fundamental level. Like when I used to be in the ER assisting on a cardiac code that turned out well, I have helped out on some deep meaningful level with spa emergencies I never knew existed until now. It seems I'm destined to be surrounded by emergencies. In the ER we had "trauma codes". When a horrible traumatic injury occurs speed is of the essence and we would prepare the ER before the patient arrived. Here at the spa we have Drama Codes. Nails seem to be a more common but not less traumatic SE (spa emergency) than eyebrows and for that I am thankful. But still, I am getting tired of women coming in NEEDING her nails to be repaired ASAP. Nails are something I think about when I need to trim them. I never knew they could be obsessed about...incessantly for people who don't have real things to worry about. Chipping is a real issue for sure, but let's not forget the angst of scratching or smudging either. And when I have to deliver the bad news that we don't 'do' acrylics (not that I know what that really means) it is never received well. So while these are true emergencies and something I don't want to discount, they are like level one emergencies compared to the level two emergencies of eyebrows. But neither of these comes close to the level of a bridal party crisis. I suppose if my folks were spending $100,000 on my wedding I could be more empathetic but it's really hard when bridezilla and her minions come in knowing that her wedding will be just the best wedding ever but could be totally ruined if her toenails aren't absolutely perfect. When they all come in stressed and on edge, I somehow care just that much less. That attitude makes me want to pull a Nancy Reagan and "just say no". "Oh I'm sorry, did you NEED a 2:00 pedicure?" "Hmmm, and pictures are at 3:00?" "We could squeeze it in at 3:00..can you ask the photographer to wait an hour or so?" The ensuing look of hatred/panic I get is so much more valuable than the tip I just lost. Priceless.
OK, so I'm a passive aggressive little spa bitch. I know that.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Saturday, July 21, 2007
Product
You'd think that learning the in's and out's of working in a spa would pretty much be easy. You'd be right actually. So it was surprising that before we opened, 2 reps from the line of product we would be selling came up and gave us a week-long training. Product. Not a product or the product, but product. It sounds more important, more weighty, almost substantial when there isn't an article preceding it. But it's not substantial, or important, so a ONE WEEK LONG training about gels and shampoo seemed excessive. I mean how could 2 women talk non-stop about face creams, cleansers, toners, moisturizers, rejuvenators and anti-aging anti-oxidants for a whole week? For those men married to women who use these things I'm sure you understand...but I was shocked. It's not that my girlfriend Sheryl is make-up phobic (she's no stranger to eye liner or and occasional lip gloss) but she tends to discuss "product" as much as the average person talks about colo-rectal cancer (which happens to be one of my favorite dining table discussions by the way). But the shock is wearing off now as I am surrounded by people (OK , I'll say it...women) who 'talk product' all the time with customers who want to know what cream or topical treatment will make them look the youngest. Here's a secret from spa boy...NONE OF THEM DO!!! People go into a facial treatment looking old and lets just be honest, they come out looking refreshed and relaxed...and OLD. It's like when someone asks you, "does this dress make me look fat?" No it doesn't...the fact that they're fat makes them look fat! But back to the training week (i.e. product brainwash session). If you take a small truth and surround it with lies and package it right, it all looks to be true. Like this...
When we got to the training area I knew who the reps were right away. Remember the Sesame Street song that was designed to help us differentiate objects from one another? "One of these things is not like the other, one of these things just doesn't belong..." It went through my head as I saw these women fresh in from California. Surrounded by fleece, jeans and Birkenstocks their high heels and professional casual business attire made them stand out. That wasn't the only thing standing out as breast implants are apparently also de rigueur for the female sales rep/product trainer. Their bright personalities and perfectly bleached teeth shone like the southern California sun against the contrasting drizzly Northwest day. Settling into the morning lecture with a cappuccino in hand I was thinking how this was my first day at work in about 8 months...since swinging through the trees over in Kauai running zip-line tours. This was going to be cake and I smiled as the dazzling rep started the power point presentation. It seems I was woefully mistaken and mentally unprepared. I knew I should have made that cappuccino a double as these spa pros started using words like superoxide dismutase (a powerful anti-oxidant...duh!) and Pelargonium Graveolens (or geranium for you non-spa plebes). I was starting to worry about some final exam because my unfocused mind kept wandering from thoughts of breast implants and $150 bottles of face creams to cycling Southern Thailand and meeting people in the middle of Nowhere, Cambodia. People who couldn't care less about the pH of their skin and how to tone it but could sure use that $150. Not for the first time (nor the last believe me) did I begin to wonder about me and a spa environment being a good fit. The Southern California reps were working the crowd by the third day or so and even the most die hard granola's of us were dying to moisturize and were questioning how we had made it this far in life without using daily skin balancing creams. We were all given goodie bags of sample product and every time I went to the bathroom I would secretly apply some moisturizer around my eyes and wait for the crows feet to disappear. The disappointment was visceral by the end of the week as I still looked almost 45. I wanted results, not the shiny, greasy skin with a few zits that I was seeing in the mirror. I was supposed to be excited about selling this snake oil to women and play on their fears of not being desirable anymore. Instead I was getting anxious that I was in some kind of cult as all the heads in the room were bobbing up and down with every new declaration of how this line of product could rejuvenate the skin...while that line of product could restore the skin...and this cream balances while that one restores. Meaningless adjectives sounding real. Making claims that can never be proven nor disproven as they were all subjective. My internal bullshit meter was red-lining as the unsubstantiated claims kept coming. Things like, "We all know our bones are made of minerals so we came up with a line of mineral salts that when taken in a bath have beneficial results for the entire body. But remember these are not to be used on children under 6 years old or pregnant women." WHAT?! These smelly salt baths sounded more dangerous than a years prescription of oxycontin and the room full of massage therapists were yellow-highlighting the words pregnant and 6 years old. I was imagining hypercalcemia and thumb sized kidney stones from one bath too many and cracked up. We could have used those salts to rim our margarita glasses and given it to a 6 year old with no deleterious results yet these gals are telling us not to take a bath in it??? At that point (actually it was a lot earlier... somewhere on the first morning of training) I tuned out and tried to relive the glory days of sitting in a urine soaked latrine on a boat in the Mekong River.
SPA...Salus Per Aqua (health by water). How did going to natural hot springs for relaxation and health benefits get hijacked by people who sell fake relaxation via laboratory created scents (cut grass/ white pepper) and who play fake music (liquid mind VII) that could have been generated by (and has the soul of) a computer program? And who are these people who come in so afraid of the natural progression of aging or of death that they spend $400, without batting a fake eyelash, on 'product' designed to keep them younger looking? But the real question is why am I working in an environment I have no interest in, assisting people for whom I have no respect? That's it. I'm quitting. As of today. You are the first to hear of it. I just made up my mind that life is too short and I'm done. TAKE THIS JOB AND SPRITZ IT!! Well off to work to tell my boss...wish me luck.
When we got to the training area I knew who the reps were right away. Remember the Sesame Street song that was designed to help us differentiate objects from one another? "One of these things is not like the other, one of these things just doesn't belong..." It went through my head as I saw these women fresh in from California. Surrounded by fleece, jeans and Birkenstocks their high heels and professional casual business attire made them stand out. That wasn't the only thing standing out as breast implants are apparently also de rigueur for the female sales rep/product trainer. Their bright personalities and perfectly bleached teeth shone like the southern California sun against the contrasting drizzly Northwest day. Settling into the morning lecture with a cappuccino in hand I was thinking how this was my first day at work in about 8 months...since swinging through the trees over in Kauai running zip-line tours. This was going to be cake and I smiled as the dazzling rep started the power point presentation. It seems I was woefully mistaken and mentally unprepared. I knew I should have made that cappuccino a double as these spa pros started using words like superoxide dismutase (a powerful anti-oxidant...duh!) and Pelargonium Graveolens (or geranium for you non-spa plebes). I was starting to worry about some final exam because my unfocused mind kept wandering from thoughts of breast implants and $150 bottles of face creams to cycling Southern Thailand and meeting people in the middle of Nowhere, Cambodia. People who couldn't care less about the pH of their skin and how to tone it but could sure use that $150. Not for the first time (nor the last believe me) did I begin to wonder about me and a spa environment being a good fit. The Southern California reps were working the crowd by the third day or so and even the most die hard granola's of us were dying to moisturize and were questioning how we had made it this far in life without using daily skin balancing creams. We were all given goodie bags of sample product and every time I went to the bathroom I would secretly apply some moisturizer around my eyes and wait for the crows feet to disappear. The disappointment was visceral by the end of the week as I still looked almost 45. I wanted results, not the shiny, greasy skin with a few zits that I was seeing in the mirror. I was supposed to be excited about selling this snake oil to women and play on their fears of not being desirable anymore. Instead I was getting anxious that I was in some kind of cult as all the heads in the room were bobbing up and down with every new declaration of how this line of product could rejuvenate the skin...while that line of product could restore the skin...and this cream balances while that one restores. Meaningless adjectives sounding real. Making claims that can never be proven nor disproven as they were all subjective. My internal bullshit meter was red-lining as the unsubstantiated claims kept coming. Things like, "We all know our bones are made of minerals so we came up with a line of mineral salts that when taken in a bath have beneficial results for the entire body. But remember these are not to be used on children under 6 years old or pregnant women." WHAT?! These smelly salt baths sounded more dangerous than a years prescription of oxycontin and the room full of massage therapists were yellow-highlighting the words pregnant and 6 years old. I was imagining hypercalcemia and thumb sized kidney stones from one bath too many and cracked up. We could have used those salts to rim our margarita glasses and given it to a 6 year old with no deleterious results yet these gals are telling us not to take a bath in it??? At that point (actually it was a lot earlier... somewhere on the first morning of training) I tuned out and tried to relive the glory days of sitting in a urine soaked latrine on a boat in the Mekong River.
SPA...Salus Per Aqua (health by water). How did going to natural hot springs for relaxation and health benefits get hijacked by people who sell fake relaxation via laboratory created scents (cut grass/ white pepper) and who play fake music (liquid mind VII) that could have been generated by (and has the soul of) a computer program? And who are these people who come in so afraid of the natural progression of aging or of death that they spend $400, without batting a fake eyelash, on 'product' designed to keep them younger looking? But the real question is why am I working in an environment I have no interest in, assisting people for whom I have no respect? That's it. I'm quitting. As of today. You are the first to hear of it. I just made up my mind that life is too short and I'm done. TAKE THIS JOB AND SPRITZ IT!! Well off to work to tell my boss...wish me luck.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Spa Boy #1
Before I begin today's blog about the silliness of the rich and stupid, I need to tell you about the dangers of percocet. For the past 18 years I have told patients that any narcotic pain reliever can cause constipation. Never having needed one it was all just professional advice learned from my pharmacology text book. Of course, I've had to deal professionally with those side effects after people return to the ER 4 or 5 days after an injury...it's called digital disimpaction. Without getting too graphic, and oh...am I tempted to, digital refers to the fingers and disimpaction refers to the removal of stool (no not a stool) from someones ass. But the personal experience of a percocet constipated post op bowel movement was like trying to birth a calf out of my ass. I have empathy. So be warned. Drink lots of water if you are taking narcotics...and PUSH.
OK, spa boy story time. Working the front desk of a high end spa in a posh resort town is, um, let's just say it's not a career choice for anyone over 17. So to pass the time I try to figure out how all the clients have made their millions. Old money trustafarians are easy to spot...they treat me like I don't exist. As much as that pisses me off it doesn't bother me as much as those who I imagine are the CEO's of oil companies or managers of musical groups like Boyz-II-Men. Being ignored by them would be a blessing, but there seems to be a need for some of these people to let every one else around them know how important they are by acting rude. It's like the money is a self esteem band-aid and since it might be the only thing going for them it gets pushed in my face as a sign of superiority. I know this is might sound like sour grapes...but two things are true: 1) I'm a bit of a classist and don't really like the rich...and 2) I never generalize or stereotype people...and 3) my dark side is a bit jealous. But not really. Not when I think of the girl with the eyebrow emergency at the spa the other day. I realized then that tragedy can strike the rich just as hard as the rest of us and all that money can't protect us from true grief.
Manicures, pedicures, facials, hair 'blow-outs' (I'm still not clear on that one either), hair up-do's, make-overs, body wraps, mineral rubs, massages of all flavors, and regretfully, eye brow shaping. We do it all. Upscale with all the scents and candles and scented air infusers you'd expect in a posh spa. You know the smell I'm talking about. Candles burning with scintillating names like Mango-Tangerine or Citrus-Mellon. My favorite is Ginger-Pomegranate. The next time you are in the store go sniff a pomegranate...there is absolutely no aroma to a pomegranate. This annoying fruit might taste sweet/sour and vaguely like some kind of berry but there is no scent. But anyway, all these smells are designed to make you feel warm and luxurious and relaxed and ready for a wonderful spa day. Like a house full of the aroma of freshly baked cookies, you just feel good. All those feelings however were shattered the other day when we heard a scream and noticed a woman running for the bathroom. One of our esthiticians came out and said, "I only plucked out a few before I handed her the mirror." Then we all heard the sobs coming from the bathroom. Including the people in the sound proofed massage rooms. In any spa there are the multitude of "products". Some are for exfoliation, some for moisturizing...you know. We have a spray, like a spritz really, that is designed for relaxation. As soon as the sobs became audible there was a flurry of women running down the tastefully carpeted hallways and someone had thoughtfully grabbed the calming spritz. I wish I could have been in that bathroom to see the scene as they all tried to calm and soothe this woman's pain with their "spa voices" and spraying her in a cloud of calming mist. It didn't work. Ten minutes later a harried woman came in the front door, cell phone in hand, looking for her daughter. I just pointed to the back hall, "she's in the bathroom". I needn't have wasted my breath as the sobs were guiding her. Ten more minutes and a less harried dad came in also carrying a cell phone. The sobs continued...for 45 minutes. I entered the facial room where the damage had been done. And there on the table, like fresh evidence from a crime scene was the pair of tweezers and fewer than 10 eyebrow hairs. How much damage could have been done here I wondered. Forty five minutes and way too much sobbing later I found out. As she came sniffling to the front desk I gave her face a quick furtive glance...not wanting to draw attention to what I was sure was going to look like some disfiguring goiter. Her eyebrows looked absolutely normal. I mean NORMAL! Her mother told me, over the sniffling and nose blowing of the daughter, that "she is very sensitive about her eyebrows." "NO SHIT", I wanted to scream but gave her my sympathetic understanding nod reserved for those men who come into the ER with a foreign body stuck up their butt and say they have no idea how it got there.
OK, spa boy story time. Working the front desk of a high end spa in a posh resort town is, um, let's just say it's not a career choice for anyone over 17. So to pass the time I try to figure out how all the clients have made their millions. Old money trustafarians are easy to spot...they treat me like I don't exist. As much as that pisses me off it doesn't bother me as much as those who I imagine are the CEO's of oil companies or managers of musical groups like Boyz-II-Men. Being ignored by them would be a blessing, but there seems to be a need for some of these people to let every one else around them know how important they are by acting rude. It's like the money is a self esteem band-aid and since it might be the only thing going for them it gets pushed in my face as a sign of superiority. I know this is might sound like sour grapes...but two things are true: 1) I'm a bit of a classist and don't really like the rich...and 2) I never generalize or stereotype people...and 3) my dark side is a bit jealous. But not really. Not when I think of the girl with the eyebrow emergency at the spa the other day. I realized then that tragedy can strike the rich just as hard as the rest of us and all that money can't protect us from true grief.
Manicures, pedicures, facials, hair 'blow-outs' (I'm still not clear on that one either), hair up-do's, make-overs, body wraps, mineral rubs, massages of all flavors, and regretfully, eye brow shaping. We do it all. Upscale with all the scents and candles and scented air infusers you'd expect in a posh spa. You know the smell I'm talking about. Candles burning with scintillating names like Mango-Tangerine or Citrus-Mellon. My favorite is Ginger-Pomegranate. The next time you are in the store go sniff a pomegranate...there is absolutely no aroma to a pomegranate. This annoying fruit might taste sweet/sour and vaguely like some kind of berry but there is no scent. But anyway, all these smells are designed to make you feel warm and luxurious and relaxed and ready for a wonderful spa day. Like a house full of the aroma of freshly baked cookies, you just feel good. All those feelings however were shattered the other day when we heard a scream and noticed a woman running for the bathroom. One of our esthiticians came out and said, "I only plucked out a few before I handed her the mirror." Then we all heard the sobs coming from the bathroom. Including the people in the sound proofed massage rooms. In any spa there are the multitude of "products". Some are for exfoliation, some for moisturizing...you know. We have a spray, like a spritz really, that is designed for relaxation. As soon as the sobs became audible there was a flurry of women running down the tastefully carpeted hallways and someone had thoughtfully grabbed the calming spritz. I wish I could have been in that bathroom to see the scene as they all tried to calm and soothe this woman's pain with their "spa voices" and spraying her in a cloud of calming mist. It didn't work. Ten minutes later a harried woman came in the front door, cell phone in hand, looking for her daughter. I just pointed to the back hall, "she's in the bathroom". I needn't have wasted my breath as the sobs were guiding her. Ten more minutes and a less harried dad came in also carrying a cell phone. The sobs continued...for 45 minutes. I entered the facial room where the damage had been done. And there on the table, like fresh evidence from a crime scene was the pair of tweezers and fewer than 10 eyebrow hairs. How much damage could have been done here I wondered. Forty five minutes and way too much sobbing later I found out. As she came sniffling to the front desk I gave her face a quick furtive glance...not wanting to draw attention to what I was sure was going to look like some disfiguring goiter. Her eyebrows looked absolutely normal. I mean NORMAL! Her mother told me, over the sniffling and nose blowing of the daughter, that "she is very sensitive about her eyebrows." "NO SHIT", I wanted to scream but gave her my sympathetic understanding nod reserved for those men who come into the ER with a foreign body stuck up their butt and say they have no idea how it got there.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
The Fall
The universe acts in weird ways. I think I've finally figured out something or have turned a new page in my life and BAM things just go in the direction they want to whether I'm ready or not. Or as my friend Robert Lester says, "The grandfathers turn up the heat when we don't listen to what they have to say". Well the heat has been turned up and I've been burned. After a good 4000 miles or so riding in SE Asia without a scratch I crashed off my bike last month and fractured my left wrist. All those crazy highways and insane Bangkok streets and killer mountain passes and I'm fine. Here on the back roads of a quiet little island I get cocky and try some steering tricks and come slamming down onto the pavement. This happens on the way to training for my first job as a massage therapist...ONE DAY AFTER I GET MY MASSAGE LICENSE IN THE MAIL!! When I hit the ground my4th and 5th fingers went instantly numb which I guess is a blessing because the rest of my twisted wrist and hand hurt like I'd never felt before (since I have never actually broken a bone before) and I hope to never feel again.
But now, a month later this is all old news. After a $20,000 surgery and a month of walking around with a gimpy left wrist I'm feeling weak, lazy and fat (not to mention the $20,000 debt thing). I want to feel strong and pain free again. And I just want to ride my bike dammit! OK, so I'm whining...I'm allowed, i earned it. I know intellectually it's too soon but I don't care. When I go to do something simple like open a door or wipe my butt I remember why I'm not yet on my bike...BECAUSE IT FREAKING HURTS!
So many lessons to learn here...patience, humility, pain control, and all the blessing in my life that I'm once again reminded to be appreciative of. Like the fact that I'm alive. Like the fact that I'm generally healthy. Like the fact that I have wonderful people in my life like my family and my friends. Sure I might whine but I know in the big picture all is good baby. Within 20 minutes after my crash, as I was in a car heading to the medical center here in Friday Harbor, I saw a young man with cerebral palsy or some other type of neurological disorder walking down the street. Maybe I was delirious or in shock but I was just so appreciative of all the gifts of health and strength I've been given during this lifetime. It's only my wrist, thank you god.
Thanking god for a fractured wrist may constitute insanity. But so is riding down the middle of Bangkok traffic with The Specials blaring from my iPod. So is sleeping out in a jungle in Thailand with no food or water. Come to think of it so are most of the things I have chosen to do lately so I guess that defines me as insane. Welcome to my world.
But the title to today's blog refers as much to my new found job situation as it does my cycling skills. I've fallen from the responsible place of ER nurse to almost being a massage therapist to...Spa Boy. Which would be a great name for a blog I think. Waiting for my wrist to heal my new boss, the spa director kept me on as a receptionist/spa attendant. I'm grateful for that as it keeps some money coming in while I recover. But making a little more than I did in high school at age 45 is humbling. The fall. Status, perfect health, financially responsible. It's been a long summer and it isn't even half over. But just as I can see the benefits in lessons needing to be learned from breaking my arm, there is one benefit of being the spa boy...lots of writing material. Coming soon...the eyebrow emergency.
But now, a month later this is all old news. After a $20,000 surgery and a month of walking around with a gimpy left wrist I'm feeling weak, lazy and fat (not to mention the $20,000 debt thing). I want to feel strong and pain free again. And I just want to ride my bike dammit! OK, so I'm whining...I'm allowed, i earned it. I know intellectually it's too soon but I don't care. When I go to do something simple like open a door or wipe my butt I remember why I'm not yet on my bike...BECAUSE IT FREAKING HURTS!
So many lessons to learn here...patience, humility, pain control, and all the blessing in my life that I'm once again reminded to be appreciative of. Like the fact that I'm alive. Like the fact that I'm generally healthy. Like the fact that I have wonderful people in my life like my family and my friends. Sure I might whine but I know in the big picture all is good baby. Within 20 minutes after my crash, as I was in a car heading to the medical center here in Friday Harbor, I saw a young man with cerebral palsy or some other type of neurological disorder walking down the street. Maybe I was delirious or in shock but I was just so appreciative of all the gifts of health and strength I've been given during this lifetime. It's only my wrist, thank you god.
Thanking god for a fractured wrist may constitute insanity. But so is riding down the middle of Bangkok traffic with The Specials blaring from my iPod. So is sleeping out in a jungle in Thailand with no food or water. Come to think of it so are most of the things I have chosen to do lately so I guess that defines me as insane. Welcome to my world.
But the title to today's blog refers as much to my new found job situation as it does my cycling skills. I've fallen from the responsible place of ER nurse to almost being a massage therapist to...Spa Boy. Which would be a great name for a blog I think. Waiting for my wrist to heal my new boss, the spa director kept me on as a receptionist/spa attendant. I'm grateful for that as it keeps some money coming in while I recover. But making a little more than I did in high school at age 45 is humbling. The fall. Status, perfect health, financially responsible. It's been a long summer and it isn't even half over. But just as I can see the benefits in lessons needing to be learned from breaking my arm, there is one benefit of being the spa boy...lots of writing material. Coming soon...the eyebrow emergency.
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