I’m more than a little disappointed in myself, having not posted since.. when, now?  A long time ago, or the day before that.  A long time.  It’s just.. well..

Let’s talk about the good stuff.

This last week, I turned a year older.  Not the big 3-0 YET, but it’s right around the corner.  Everyone teases me and says, “Oh, it’s your first 29th birthday!”  I’m just not going to be that person.  For two reasons, really: 1) I know too many amazing women who have done amazing things post-30 and me hiding my age would be a detriment to them and 2) I can’t do math so I have to keep counting consecutively.  If I start holding at 29 and I really need to give my age quickly, I’m screwed.  Unless there’s an iPhone app for that.  And there probably is.

We celebrated with family on Wednesday night, with a huge dinner at our local wings joint followed by ice cream at our favorite Bruster’s.  Tony was INSANELY high from all the sugar, literally twitching on the drive home.  It was awesome.

I had a birthday lunch with Ronda at Surin, where she surprised me with a gorgeous bouquet of flowers containing my favorite flower in the whole wide world: fuscia gerber daisies.  Gerber daisies and coconut soup?  AWESOME.

Thursday night, it was a quiet evening at home with just me and Tony so we had Easy Mac and watched Blue’s Clues.  We tried to watch the Fresh Beat Band, but.. y’all.. was Kids Incorporated THAT bad?  If so, I owe my parents a profound apology for making them suffer.  Even Tony was done with them.  After Tony went to bed, my parents dropped off a quart of my favorite ice cream (Bruster’s Birthday Cake, appropriately enough), as well as a gorgeous bouquet of orange roses. 

Friday night, Jenni came over and made me dinner.  The dinner was fine and dandy like sour candy, but when we started making the dessert, she made a mistake so incredibly awesome that it ALMOST trumped the time I made Snickerdoodles with mealworms in them.  I only win The Worst Cook Ever award because people actually ATE my cookies and we didn’t get far enough in to her dessert to cook it.

Saturday night, after I got off of work, The Coven took me to my birthday dinner.. at the Melting Pot!  I’d never been before and they were SO gracious to spoil me rotten.  We had several bottles of wine, LOTS of laughs, got the server’s digits, and took many drunk photos.  BEHOLD.

L to R: Steph, Ronda, Gena, moi. (We’re still sober at this point.)(Because they hadn’t yet filled our glassses.)

Three bottles of wine later: SARAH’S TONGUE SPILLETH OVER.

Sadly, it doesn’t end there.

More tongue.

Surprise!  Going to tongue Ronda’s ear.  I’m classy that way.  And a giver.  ON MY BIRTHDAY, EVEN!

No tongue, but.. really, Sarah?  Note: YOU CANNOT LAND A 747 ON THAT ASS, BABY.

So this was me, trying to do the hard-core metal rock-out Metallica-type horns.  Our resident ASL expert kindly reminded me that wasn’t so much honoring Satan as it was just saying “I love you.”  Oh.

Her interpretation of Sarah at a Metallica concert:

Seriously, I laughed to the point that it hurt most of the evening, and everytime I spend a couple of hours with these women I leave thinking, WHY DON’T WE DO THIS MORE OFTEN?!  The best way I can think of to sum up my birthday was with this picture:

Even though the critical side of me HATES this picture for many reasons.. double chin, teeth that I NEVER show in pictures, my boob making a special guest appearance without any paid endorsement.. this picture makes me so incredibly happy every time I see it.  Because the love and happiness and laughter is so geniuine and so amazingly encompassing that it speaks volumes for my Coven.  It was just a 29th birthday dinner, but it will easily be in my top 3 Moments of the Year.

And today, a week later, a present from a coworker:

It’s a shame everyone is out of the office today.  I’ll have to eat it all myself.

I have a post to write about the Year of Being 29, but that’s for a later date.  I’m still giggling over these pictures, and counting my blessings to be so loved by so many.

I KNOW, RIGHT?  THREE POSTS THIS WEEK!  I feel like I’ve earned something.

A Masseuse Should Not Massage Your Breasts.  For Free, Anyway.

Gena has waited so patiently for this story, God love her.  She has a special interest since she’s actually graduating with her massage therapy certification in a month!  I’m so proud of her!  And I totally plan on utilizing her mad skillz.

When I was pregnant, I had not one but TWO gift certificates for massages come my way.  I had never ever had a massage before, and so I promised myself that I would splurge at 36 weeks and have my first one.  I also hoped that the crazy massaging action would spurn labor. (HAHAHAHA. OH, THE IRONY OF THE WEEK-LATE BABY!)

When I made the appointment at the uber-fancy botanical spa, they asked if I preferred a man or a woman.  Assuming that a woman would be more judgemental of my body, I suggested a man massage my bloated, swollen carcass. (That was brimming with life, blahblahblah.) I was set up for an appointment and advised to get there early for paperwork and water.

Yes, they said that.  Cause, you know, I don’t have water AT HOME.

But anyway, so I got there, and they had me change into a plush spa robe (I want one of those thingies, seriously), and I waited.  Finally, a gentleman whose name I cannot recall but we’ll call Chesty McTitty appeared and brought me back to the room.

Obviously, because I couldn’t lay on my stomach for the typical massage, he had me “drape” myself with sheets while laying on my side with several pillows supporting my fat haunches beautiful pregnant form.  At first, all seemed well; he chatted on about his wife having her five kids or whatever, and how they were all eleventy pounds or some other crap, and I just tried to focus on the feeling good of the massage.  But he talked so much, and about such personal things.. about his wife’s labor, the noises, etc.. that I felt.. um.. odd.  Then he placed his hands on my hips (over the drape.. FOR NOW, OH YES) and announced that, BASED ON MY SIZE, he guesstimated I’d deliver on November 26th with a nine pound baby.

Nice.

He finished with one side and asked me to flip over to my other side, and when I did, my “drape sheet” fell precariously off my boob.  Like, full on boobage happening there.  And while I normally wouldn’t care (cause I’ve shown those babies before, FOR CASH), the preceeding convo had me skeeved.  So I tenderly tugged it back up, hoping he hadn’t noticed.

“Oh, I didn’t ask.. are you planning on breastfeeding?” he asked.  Ah.  He HAD noticed.

“Yep,” I said, trying to keep my answers as terse as possible in the hopes of shutting him up.

“I should work that area a bit then,” he offered.  AND HE PROCEEDED TO MASSAGE MY BREASTS.

I left and felt very odd about the whole thing.  I mean, sure, it was a massage, so I couldn’t complain there, but um, prenatal massages are sure WEIRD with the whole breast massage thing, right?

Almost a year later, some ladies and I were getting ready in a dressing room and I retold this story when Nina, one of my good friends even if her husband doesn’t agree that we are good friends, mentioned that she had just gotten a massage and she LOVED them.  I told my story and all of the eyes in the room went WIDE.

“Sarah,” she said.  “I think you got molested.”

AND I TIPPED HIM FOR IT.  Bastard.

So How Much Do You Tip for a Happy Ending?
Alternate Title: HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BRYAN!

I went on Tuesday for a post-race massage, and when I made my appointment, they asked if I would prefer a male or female masseuse.  Guess what I said?  “It doesn’t matter.”  I SAID IT DOESN’T MATTER WHY WOULD I SAY THAT?!  I felt like I would be judged as sexist or something if I said I only wanted a woman’s hands on me.  I know.  I know.

So, of course, they put me with a dude.

I fretted about it all day, and as luck would have it, my dude called in sick and I got a chick instead.  I got pretty worried because I saw a very slovenly, obese brunette walk through several times in the spa’s uniform, and I thought, Eww, please no, not her not so much because she was obese but because I thought I knew her and wouldn’t THAT be weird?  But a slight little thing with great hair and a fabulous piercing came and got me and took me back.

I opted for a hydrotherapy session before the massage, complete with coconut milk and lavender salts, and the bath had been drawn and waiting for me.  I naturally just assumed that I would be bathing alone in the room, but she informed me that, no, she was going to hang out.  “But I didn’t bring a top to wear,” I blushed.

“Honey, I have ‘em too,” she said, smiling.  “Seen it all before.”

And it was awesome that she stayed in the room, because she WASN’T chatty, and instead just applied a cold washcloth to my head and popped a straw of ice water in my mouth without me even having to ask.  It was AWESOME.  And, literally, the first bath I’ve taken in a year.

During the massage, I was laying face down on the table as she was working my calves (God LOVE that woman’s hands), and she worked my thighs HARD.  Her hands were slippery and I started thinking, “Oh God, what if she misses and suddenly she loses a hand in my nu-nu?”, and then I was wondering, “What do I tip for a happy ending?”, and then I was thinking, “Bryan would FLIP OUT if he knew this was happening,” and I started giggling through the little face hole.

She wasn’t deaf, obvsly, so she asked, “Does this tickle?”

All I could do was whisper, “.. that’s what she said..”

Today’s lesbianesque story is brought to you courtesy of Bryan’s birthday.  I hope this works instead of a gift.

There are many reasons I love my friends.  Most of them are defined in email exchanges.

Ra: Why aren’t you coming to book club tonight?

Me: Tuesday nights, Bryan goes to build at Butler High (it’s why Amy isn’t coming tonight).  So I have no child care.  It’s not a big deal.. if Tony’s up to it and in a good mood, we may go for a little while, but he’s been hitting the sack (his choice, not mine) by 6:30 lately.

Ra: Well crap!  Ummm are you going to start wearing skinny black jeans and putting odd stripes of color in your black hair?

Me: I can’t talk now.  I’m brooding.

Ra: Muwahahah!  Should I drop off some red and black striped knee high socks at your house this evening?

Me: Perhaps.  I have some knee high socks, but they’re bright pink and orange, and I feel that it suffocates my soul to be so perky all the way up to my knees.  I probably should stock up on black eyeliner as well.

Ra: I don’t know if I could be friends with you if you had perky thighs.

Me: Perky thighs.  That’s going to be the name of my next poem.  I’ve decided to channel my inner struggle through poetry.

Ra: SNORT!!!!!!  I can take the pictures.

And now.. I give you:

perky thighs

Perky Thighs

by SarEmo

 

!!!!

why must you bounce like that?

happy, rippled, pale

your love knows no bounds

kfc, krispie kreme, beauregard’s

 

((((((spanx))))))

 

i love the whistle

of your cordouroy

as you walk the hallway

 

perky thighs

jaws of life

 

erkypae ighsthae

courtesy of bryan comEMO