Mouthful of Diamonds.

mmmm.

There was this one time (Friday) when I was too cheap/poor to go to a proper spa to get a massage, but I had worked a long week and I just got promoted and I wanted the tension in my shoulders to GO AWAY, dammit.
Then I remembered about the shady-looking spa just off the Square and, like a sign from God, it was boasting a deal of a manicure, pedicure and 60-minute massage for $65 on their front door.

I went inside and said, “One spa package, please!” and the mani/pedi was magnificent. A guy with a ponytail of long grey hair and a shirt that said, “You Can Never Have Too Many Guitars” gave me a form to fill out for my massage. It had a body diagram that asked to put Os on body parts that needed special attention and Xs where he should avoid. I put Os on my shoulders and then the guy led me to a tiny room – a closet, if you will, and he introduced himself as Mai’T'so (but it’s okay to call him by his real name, Bob.)

After I undressed and got on the table he came back in and opened with, “My purpose in life right now, darlin’, is to make you feel good” (Amy, if you’re reading this, it made me think of your OkCupid experiences.)

He started with two pieces of advice that can be followed anytime for stress relief: 1. breathe. 2. meditate and try to quiet yourself to having only one thought.

Then he proceeded to rub me down and worked hard on relieving what I guess was a lot of stress in my ass.
He had me turn over and I started to think I should have been more thoughtful with the Xs on the body diagram, but he did not do anything too alarming other than test my flexibility with some leg stretches and compliment my running habits for making me “one of the fittest people he’s massaged of all time.”
Super!

After his liberal 60-turned-90 minute massage, I had finally settled on one thought.

Please don’t rape me.

Ah. A lesson learned at 24: You get what you pay for.

I’m thinking April wedding, August divorce.

San Gabriel Park

What a wonderful beginning to a weekend full of sunshine and open windows, self-congratulatory daisies, sharing happy thoughts and birthday baking.

(begin rant)
I am so tired of boys. Not males, but boys.
Perhaps I am doomed to crush on guys who act the same age as their petite stature, but it still disappoints me to see how immature guys my age can be. To the 25-year-old children who think our shared past gives them the right to muddle my future, to the wimps who can’t just say how they feel, and to the losers who try to go home with me at night but won’t call me the next day: GROW UP. Bad form, guys.
I’m not saying I don’t enjoy spending afternoons playing make believe, fantasizing about what could be and imagining the possibilities. But there’s a time and a place for that. There are still other people’s emotions to consider, real everyday life to conquer, difficult issues to handle with reason.
(end rant)

Needless to say, I won’t be spending Valentine’s Day in Never Never Land.

In other news, I am thankful for a new relationship that has developed over the past six months: my work relationship with freelance photographer Andy Sharp. Andy is a semi-retired photographer with an impressive portfolio who has recently slowed down to enjoy life in small town Texas. He currently freelances for the Austin American-Statesman and the Williamson County Sun, and I am lucky to have his talent accompany my stories every week. His amazing photos make me want my stories to do them justice.

Until my newspaper finally goes online, you can get an idea of some of the stories I’ve written so far this year through his photo blog:

Junior Cotillion
Whooping Cranes at Granger Lake
Girl Scout cookies
Oil Wrestling!
Master Naturalist
Tea Parties

Maybe one day a man will whisk me off my feet, and Andy can take my wedding photos. Maybe one day.

But still, I really want to make this:

I woke up from a nightmare last night (people still have those, right?) and weirdly the first thing that popped into my head is “I could bake!” But as impressive as my baking stock may be, I don’t carry buttermilk, or milk for that matter, unless I’m planning for a recipe. So I went back to bed and thought about cinnamon rolls. I doubt I’ll have time to make them anytime soon unless I find myself restless at 3:30 am again.

Speaking of no time, I had my six month review at work last week and it sounds like I will soon be society editor! Which, as I’ve concisely summarized, means “B section’s my bitch.” I’ll even have a budget for freelancers. Cute boys, step right up!
But even more exciting news at work than that is this:

Me: I’m going to be a farmhand on Friday for my next Discomfort Zone!
Editor: ….you have fun sometimes, don’t you?
Me: Yesh.
Editor: So who’s taking you in?
Me: Fresh Pastures Farm
Editor: The turkey farm?
Me: Yesh!
Editor: …watch out for those turkeys.
Me: …. : /

I still can’t wait.

And speaking of time! (You have to pay me if you want smooth transitions, bebe) I can’t believe the half-marathon is in less than two weeks. I’m already slowing down my training, having ran another 15k last weekend after my longest run, 11.5 miles, the weekend before. I still don’t feel prepared for the big day, but I guess we’ll see how it goes.

After the half is done, I plan on spending my Saturday afternoons either volunteering with Zilker Botanical Gardens or Meals on Wheels. I’m excited.

I wonder if I’d enjoy spending all my time making high school art collages and hummus.