So, this is going to be my next big endeavor.
Assuming I can get my G.E.D.-earning, flunking-out-of-community-college, deranged-massage-therapist ass into Boston University after slamming through a few prereq courses at one of the community colleges.
I sent off for admissions info today, and I find it amusing that I'm already wibbling about "oh em gee, what if they laugh in my face, what will I DOOOOO?" Let's just say that I am very good at talking myself out of taking risks once I take steps towards actually taking them...did that sentence make sense? Yeah. Anyway.
All the woo and wackadoo behavior I keep seeing within the massage industry has me pretty much soured on staying in it for the long haul, which is kind of depressing when you consider that I only graduated from massage school last December. Don't get me wrong. I love my job. I love helping people feel more comfortable in their own bodies, both mentally and physically. I do not, however, love all the nonsense about reflexology, acupuncture, and whatnot that people seem so much more prone to buying into when they're involved with massage in some way. I do not love the ridiculous assertions that poking someone in a particular spot on their foot will cure their thyroid issues, or that jabbing a needle into a supposed "chi point" will "correct" the "imbalances" causing a person's health issues.
Really, I'm working in the wrong field, and I'm fully cognizant of that. I'm not going to try to paint myself as some kind of uber-skeptic or some such...I do my best to think rationally and carefully research new topics in healthcare, and I do my best to consider things from a fair and balanced standpoint. I'm only human, however; I know that there are things I buy into that are complete stuff-and-nonsense. On the other hand, when I'm in a field packed with people who think that all this alt-med bullshit is actually worthwhile, I start to feel like the lone thinker in a sea of crazy.
Bluh. I can't maintain a coherent train of thought right now.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
days like this...
...I'm glad I work in a low-pressure field.
See, ol' Platypus has some kind of wonky thing going on with her brainmeats in which she is prone to random sudden mood swings and copious amounts of causeless anxiety. Panic attacks are fun!
Today is going to be another very rough day, mood-wise. I can feel "the crazy" lurking just under the surface of my mind, much like river water under black ice. I get this feeling like if I can just keep moving fast enough, I can stay ahead of the breaking "ice" just enough to keep from drowning.
It isn't much fun, and I really dislike it.
So, here I am whining about it, because that is clearly the most effective solution to the problem! Bluh. Time for me to slug back a teaspoon of concrete with my whine and harden the fuck up already.
Anyway, O Innarwebz Of Bliss, how fare you this lovely partly-cloudy day?
See, ol' Platypus has some kind of wonky thing going on with her brainmeats in which she is prone to random sudden mood swings and copious amounts of causeless anxiety. Panic attacks are fun!
Today is going to be another very rough day, mood-wise. I can feel "the crazy" lurking just under the surface of my mind, much like river water under black ice. I get this feeling like if I can just keep moving fast enough, I can stay ahead of the breaking "ice" just enough to keep from drowning.
It isn't much fun, and I really dislike it.
So, here I am whining about it, because that is clearly the most effective solution to the problem! Bluh. Time for me to slug back a teaspoon of concrete with my whine and harden the fuck up already.
Anyway, O Innarwebz Of Bliss, how fare you this lovely partly-cloudy day?
Monday, October 12, 2009
What the hell?
So, Gentle Reader whom I adore and worship (oh, but honey, please re-think the plaid pants; you look so much better in the khaki corduroys), I believe that I promised you the Wonderful Tale of Pervy Pervyson, did I not?
Never let it be said that the Platypus does not keep her promises.
Unless it involves promising not to drink everything in the liquor cabinet, because seriously? You should know me better than that. I see booze, I drink it. That's how it works.
Anyway, so onward to the interesting part (unless you're absolutely dying to know what my favorite drink is at the moment).
(The answer is yes.)
Way back not so far in the not so misty reaches of time, I had this client who was a Weird Guy. Yes, I know, I get a lot of Weird Guys (and Gals, because honestly, people are just weird). This guy was...how shall I put this? Special. Yeah.
He comes in for his massage, and I'm pleased to see that he's very polite...shows up on time, answers my questions with a minimum of fuss, so on and so forth. I'm thinkin', "whee, this'll be easy". You'd think I'd know better than to assume such things, but that is not the point. Anyway, so things progress pretty much as expected when I'm working on his arms, neck, and shoulders. He's pretty quiet and laid-back; I'm assuming that he's napping as I do my thing and proceed onward to his ankles.
Well, may the Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch explode in my face if I lie, but the minute I touched his ankles, it was like he'd shoved a damn colony of gerbils into a tube sock and then stuffed it into his Jockey shorts. There was all KINDS of happy-peenor-twitching going on! Of course, this necessitated a raised eyebrow and a mental "what the fucking fucker fuck?" from me, but ol' Pervy Pervyson remained a gentleman...y'know, aside from the Dancing Penis of Weirdness. I continued doing the massage as per standard operating procedure, figuring that if he said or did anything even the least bit inappropriate, I would be outta there in a flash (after seriously considering punching him in the nadgers). Pervy kept his hands by his sides and said nary a word as I completed work on the fronts of his legs (with extra-deep tissue work on his quads and IT bands, since extra pressure in sensitive areas like that tends to take the mickey right out of an...unruly male client, most of the time). When he was face-down, there was no heavy breathing or other shenanigans. I figured it was a fluke and chalked it up to the vagaries of the human nervous system.
So, I finish the massage, run through my usual list of recommendations, and tell Pervy that I'll be out in the hall with a bottle of water for him when he's ready to head out the door. He took about ten minutes to get up off the table, get dressed, and show his face...I thought, "whatever, he's probably fallen asleep, no worries".
Yes, Gentle Reader, I can hear you face-palming from here.
Anyway, Pervy comes bouncing out of the massage room all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed (as well he might), hands me a $30 tip (which is about double the norm), and raves about how wonderful the massage was and how he's definitely going to re-book with me. I'm feeling all pleased with myself as I trundle into the linens room to grab a fresh set of sheets for the massage table. I took a few minutes to scribble down some notes on ol' Pervy, as I do with every client, then proceeded into the massage room to do a quick sheet change.
You know that smell, don't you, Gentle Reader? The post-coital smell that, if you've just gotten done with one of those rousing sack sessions where you swear that you had an out of body experience, is not really all that objectionable? (Assuming, that is, that said sack session was the sort involving a male of the species and that equal amounts of fun were had by all concerned.) It's pretty unmistakable.
Yeah. That smell was what slapped me in the face like a ton of dirty, diseased bricks when I opened the door.
So of course I had to run up to the desk and grabmy usual partner in crime our hapless receptionist, Jane, and get her to confirm what I already knew. The joy just wouldn't be complete if I didn't share it, right?
"Oh. My. Gawd. He did not flog the dolphin in there, did he? Ew. Ew. What the hell? I'll go get the bleach. Ewwww. Who the hell whacks off after a massage? Ew ew ew ew EW."
Yeah, we had about the same reaction. Pervy had, shall we say, opted for some manual release of tension of his own. He at least had the decency to clean up after himself and chuck the used towels in the laundry bin, but still. Who the hell does such a thing? The doors to the massage rooms do not lock! It wouldn't have bothered me if he'd done that in the bathroom, but in the massage room, where I could have walked in on him at any time? Yuck.
Of course, I did make a note of this in his file on the computer at work. Because, y'know, it's important for the other therapists to be aware of his...predilections.
Sigh. All of our clients are special people. Some of them are more special than others. At least he tipped well!
Never let it be said that the Platypus does not keep her promises.
Unless it involves promising not to drink everything in the liquor cabinet, because seriously? You should know me better than that. I see booze, I drink it. That's how it works.
Anyway, so onward to the interesting part (unless you're absolutely dying to know what my favorite drink is at the moment).
(The answer is yes.)
Way back not so far in the not so misty reaches of time, I had this client who was a Weird Guy. Yes, I know, I get a lot of Weird Guys (and Gals, because honestly, people are just weird). This guy was...how shall I put this? Special. Yeah.
He comes in for his massage, and I'm pleased to see that he's very polite...shows up on time, answers my questions with a minimum of fuss, so on and so forth. I'm thinkin', "whee, this'll be easy". You'd think I'd know better than to assume such things, but that is not the point. Anyway, so things progress pretty much as expected when I'm working on his arms, neck, and shoulders. He's pretty quiet and laid-back; I'm assuming that he's napping as I do my thing and proceed onward to his ankles.
Well, may the Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch explode in my face if I lie, but the minute I touched his ankles, it was like he'd shoved a damn colony of gerbils into a tube sock and then stuffed it into his Jockey shorts. There was all KINDS of happy-peenor-twitching going on! Of course, this necessitated a raised eyebrow and a mental "what the fucking fucker fuck?" from me, but ol' Pervy Pervyson remained a gentleman...y'know, aside from the Dancing Penis of Weirdness. I continued doing the massage as per standard operating procedure, figuring that if he said or did anything even the least bit inappropriate, I would be outta there in a flash (after seriously considering punching him in the nadgers). Pervy kept his hands by his sides and said nary a word as I completed work on the fronts of his legs (with extra-deep tissue work on his quads and IT bands, since extra pressure in sensitive areas like that tends to take the mickey right out of an...unruly male client, most of the time). When he was face-down, there was no heavy breathing or other shenanigans. I figured it was a fluke and chalked it up to the vagaries of the human nervous system.
So, I finish the massage, run through my usual list of recommendations, and tell Pervy that I'll be out in the hall with a bottle of water for him when he's ready to head out the door. He took about ten minutes to get up off the table, get dressed, and show his face...I thought, "whatever, he's probably fallen asleep, no worries".
Yes, Gentle Reader, I can hear you face-palming from here.
Anyway, Pervy comes bouncing out of the massage room all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed (as well he might), hands me a $30 tip (which is about double the norm), and raves about how wonderful the massage was and how he's definitely going to re-book with me. I'm feeling all pleased with myself as I trundle into the linens room to grab a fresh set of sheets for the massage table. I took a few minutes to scribble down some notes on ol' Pervy, as I do with every client, then proceeded into the massage room to do a quick sheet change.
You know that smell, don't you, Gentle Reader? The post-coital smell that, if you've just gotten done with one of those rousing sack sessions where you swear that you had an out of body experience, is not really all that objectionable? (Assuming, that is, that said sack session was the sort involving a male of the species and that equal amounts of fun were had by all concerned.) It's pretty unmistakable.
Yeah. That smell was what slapped me in the face like a ton of dirty, diseased bricks when I opened the door.
So of course I had to run up to the desk and grab
"Oh. My. Gawd. He did not flog the dolphin in there, did he? Ew. Ew. What the hell? I'll go get the bleach. Ewwww. Who the hell whacks off after a massage? Ew ew ew ew EW."
Yeah, we had about the same reaction. Pervy had, shall we say, opted for some manual release of tension of his own. He at least had the decency to clean up after himself and chuck the used towels in the laundry bin, but still. Who the hell does such a thing? The doors to the massage rooms do not lock! It wouldn't have bothered me if he'd done that in the bathroom, but in the massage room, where I could have walked in on him at any time? Yuck.
Of course, I did make a note of this in his file on the computer at work. Because, y'know, it's important for the other therapists to be aware of his...predilections.
Sigh. All of our clients are special people. Some of them are more special than others. At least he tipped well!
Don't lie to me. Seriously.
So I had this one client today...new client, seemed like a decent individual, wanted a light-pressure massage geared towards relaxation. Easy peasy, right?
After the massage, she raved about how relaxed she felt and how wonderful it was, and made a big production over how she was going to leave my tip at the front desk. I smiled and thanked her, then went on about my business.
Worked on my next client (and had this sudden bizarre unexplained fit of rage at everything in the history of ever during said massage), went out to grab me some diet Pepsi (mmm, diet Pepsi), and then checked with the front desk about whether Client A had left a cash tip or had put it on her credit card.
Yeah. She left me nothing.
Not even so much as a "never pet a burning dog".
Hell, if you don't wanna tip, that's your prerogative...but don't effing lie to me about it!
After the massage, she raved about how relaxed she felt and how wonderful it was, and made a big production over how she was going to leave my tip at the front desk. I smiled and thanked her, then went on about my business.
Worked on my next client (and had this sudden bizarre unexplained fit of rage at everything in the history of ever during said massage), went out to grab me some diet Pepsi (mmm, diet Pepsi), and then checked with the front desk about whether Client A had left a cash tip or had put it on her credit card.
Yeah. She left me nothing.
Not even so much as a "never pet a burning dog".
Hell, if you don't wanna tip, that's your prerogative...but don't effing lie to me about it!
Sunday, October 11, 2009
weeda weeda woooo!
Okay, so it's been nearly a month since I posted, which maybe kinda makes me the worstest person ever? Yeah, probably not so much. I haven't had anything of interest to say (or at least nothing that I've considered interesting enough to post).
Also, I've been working my way through a lot of mental yuckiness, and that tends to be rather draining. Feelings suck. I'm not looking forward to talking to a shrink-type person once I get my health insurance situation sorted out, but it's either that or continue to go crazier. And I doubt that I'd be crazier in a fun way, so there goes that idea right out the window.
I kind of think that maybe, if I had some sort of theme or unifying subject to this blog, it would be easier to come up with regular posts. Of course, I then realize that I would thereby be depriving the Innarwebz of my pointless ramblings, which would just suck. Really, how is anyone going to survive without hearing my six-minute dissertation on why tube socks are stupid?
Since having a blog seems to be about telling stories, I shall dig through the ol' mental filing cabinet whilst at work and see what I can scare up to use as subject matter for a longer post. Perhaps I shall tell you about Pervy Pervyson, the guy who enjoyed his massage a little too much. I know how much y'all love stories about idiot massage clients...right?
And if you want to hear a different story, there are scads of other blogs out there deserving of a read or six.
Off to work!
Also, I've been working my way through a lot of mental yuckiness, and that tends to be rather draining. Feelings suck. I'm not looking forward to talking to a shrink-type person once I get my health insurance situation sorted out, but it's either that or continue to go crazier. And I doubt that I'd be crazier in a fun way, so there goes that idea right out the window.
I kind of think that maybe, if I had some sort of theme or unifying subject to this blog, it would be easier to come up with regular posts. Of course, I then realize that I would thereby be depriving the Innarwebz of my pointless ramblings, which would just suck. Really, how is anyone going to survive without hearing my six-minute dissertation on why tube socks are stupid?
Since having a blog seems to be about telling stories, I shall dig through the ol' mental filing cabinet whilst at work and see what I can scare up to use as subject matter for a longer post. Perhaps I shall tell you about Pervy Pervyson, the guy who enjoyed his massage a little too much. I know how much y'all love stories about idiot massage clients...right?
And if you want to hear a different story, there are scads of other blogs out there deserving of a read or six.
Off to work!
Saturday, September 12, 2009
holy froombonglies
I am going to start off by apologizing for my shameful neglect of you, Gentle Reader, over the last few weeks days. Rest assured that you haven't missed out on any especially entertaining shenanigans, unless you really want to hear about horrible cramps of abdomen-shattering death.
You don't? Good.
So, anyway, the Flubbulous Platypus is down to 143 pounds! Hooray and rejoicing! Okay, last night the scale said 146, this morning it said 143 again...what is up with that nonsense? Water weight? Was I exercising in my sleep? Have I stumbled upon a brilliant way to lose weight while snoozing my happy little head off?! (insert hopeful face here)
Somehow, I think Mr. Platypus is correct when he says it has to do with water weight. (Although I hadn't gone to the bathroom in between weigh-ins, so who knows.) Whatever the explanation, the nice low number on the scale this morning kind of mitigates the silly drama of the past two days.
See, I turn into (more of) a complete and utter psycho when Mother Nature brings the monthlyhorrendous torture gift (oh, how I HATE those commercials!). This usually entails moodiness, crying jags, et cetera and so forth. Apparently, this time around came with the bonus prize of panic attacks. Whoopee! I am so thrilled that I can hardly stand it! I got the joy of spending most of the past two evenings/nights crying my head off and feeling like I was about to implode and explode all at once. Such wonderful fun we are having here, I tell you!
Le sigh. This too shall pass.
Anyway, you need to go to your local library and pick up a copy of Robert Heinlein's The Moon Is A Harsh Mistress right this very minute. For serious. I'll wait.
Are you back now? Good! Because this book? This book is made of 100% professional-grade awesome. Admittedly, I am a) halfway through it, and b) a diehard Heinlein fan. Still and all, it's a good read. Mike, the self-aware computer, is simultaneously hilariously funny and enormously thought-provoking. (Also, he totally makes me wish that my computer could talk and be my friend, because then we would have awesome adventures together. Oh, and we could totally annoy Mr. Platypus by having contests to see who could sing the most annoying song. That would be epic.) (Except that my computer would probably be a crotchety old jerk. Hee hee, I said "crotch". Ahem.) I don't ordinarily go for political novels, but Heinlein showed a very deft hand for making a point without belaboring it.
At any rate, that's going to about do it for my useless yammering until I get back from work. I require another cup of coffee. Vaya con quesadillas!
You don't? Good.
So, anyway, the Flubbulous Platypus is down to 143 pounds! Hooray and rejoicing! Okay, last night the scale said 146, this morning it said 143 again...what is up with that nonsense? Water weight? Was I exercising in my sleep? Have I stumbled upon a brilliant way to lose weight while snoozing my happy little head off?! (insert hopeful face here)
Somehow, I think Mr. Platypus is correct when he says it has to do with water weight. (Although I hadn't gone to the bathroom in between weigh-ins, so who knows.) Whatever the explanation, the nice low number on the scale this morning kind of mitigates the silly drama of the past two days.
See, I turn into (more of) a complete and utter psycho when Mother Nature brings the monthly
Le sigh. This too shall pass.
Anyway, you need to go to your local library and pick up a copy of Robert Heinlein's The Moon Is A Harsh Mistress right this very minute. For serious. I'll wait.
Are you back now? Good! Because this book? This book is made of 100% professional-grade awesome. Admittedly, I am a) halfway through it, and b) a diehard Heinlein fan. Still and all, it's a good read. Mike, the self-aware computer, is simultaneously hilariously funny and enormously thought-provoking. (Also, he totally makes me wish that my computer could talk and be my friend, because then we would have awesome adventures together. Oh, and we could totally annoy Mr. Platypus by having contests to see who could sing the most annoying song. That would be epic.) (Except that my computer would probably be a crotchety old jerk. Hee hee, I said "crotch". Ahem.) I don't ordinarily go for political novels, but Heinlein showed a very deft hand for making a point without belaboring it.
At any rate, that's going to about do it for my useless yammering until I get back from work. I require another cup of coffee. Vaya con quesadillas!
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
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