2.08.2009
"Poor Buffy. Your life resists all things average."
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2.01.2009
Cleanse Wars Part II: Attack of the Colon
Boston is one of my favorite places on earth. I absolutely love this city and need to go and spend more time there, since I’ve only ever been on business and your free time is limited. Maybe I love it because when I’m there on the company tab I get to go to all the best places, but so what? Like you wouldn’t?
It’s an old city, but amazingly clean. My first time there I actually saw someone vacuuming the sidewalk on Boylston Street. No kidding. I gave a bum some change outside of Starbucks, and he called me back because I accidentally threw in a ring that was in my pocket, and he gave it back to me. It’s the kind of city Philly wishes it could be. That being said, it’s too fucking cold there and it snows too much for me to consider making it my permanent home. But I still love ya, Boston!
While I was last there I got to go to a great restaurant, Stephanie’s on Newbury Street. If you are ever in Boston, you have to go and order the macaroni and cheese. Get it with the prosciutto and the truffle oil. You will thank me, but I warn you: you will be ruined for any other macaroni and cheese for all time. I can never be satisfied by the blue box again (I mean Kraft, not the Tardis). Oh, get the onion rings, too. Bring an appetite. Listen to the fat girl when she points you towards the food – I’ve eaten plenty, so I know when something's really good.
So I know you all want me to shut up and tell you if I pooped my pants; well, I didn’t even have the urge to relieve myself while I was there. Probably because I put a mojito on it. It’s amazing how much shit can be fixed with a liberal application of alcohol (you thought I was done with the puns, didn’t you?). I even managed to get through the worst customer visit of all time the next day without incident. I think it's safe to say that colon cleansing has done nothing more than make shit easy on me (AND I'm done. *rimshot* Okay, I had one left.)
Moving on... so I discovered the most incredible place, and it's only forty minutes from here. There's a town in WV called Berkeley Springs, the site of a natural hot springs that was once frequented by George Washington and other historical figures of note (but now is only visited by hysterical figures like myself, ha ha ha). Mame came in for the weekend and we took a day trip there. The area has four different spas that use the springs, one of which is state run and therefore cheap as hell. If you can live without a lot of ambience, you can get a relaxing soak in the spring water followed by a half hour massage for the bargain price of $45.
Now, when you think spa you probably think: scented candles, fluffy pink bathrobes, soothing tantric music softly playing in the background... ahhhhh. Soothing. Well, I'm too cheap for that crap. That kind of mood lighting costs money. The state spa at the springs has this kind of atmosphere: you walk into the locker area, where they direct you to a little stall with a curtain and direct you to strip, wrap yourself in the sheet provided, place your belongings in the battered locker, and then take the key on the handy rubber cord and place it around your wrist. By the way, if you're in the end stall and happen to be visiting on the COLDEST EFFING DAY OF ALL TIME, it might be wise not to lean your naked ass against the stone wall. It will be extraordinarily cold and clammy. Just a tip.
Now that you are toga'd out in a giant sheet a little old lady will march all of you to your next destination. Mame got the roman bath; I turned down their offer to put us in the same one and chose the relaxing bath. I mean, I'll sleep next to Mame when she visits, but I'm not getting naked with her in a steaming bath.
This is where it helps to not be bashful. Once you get to the bath, your "attendant" will hold the sheet while you step bare-assed into the tub. Let's face it, this sheet is the thickness of tissue paper. They put me into this GINORMOUS bathtub filled with steaming spring water. It was so huge that I could completely submerge myself. I'm a big girl, so in a normal bathtub the top half of me will be completely dry while my back and ass are submerged. I have to flip over and let my butt dry to soak the front of me. Plus, there's always the possibility that I might drown in this position. Well, you get the picture. So huge bathtub with a little inflatable pillow for my head = niiiice. For the sake of propriety the attendant covers the front of me with a little towel that's just big enough to hide your boobs and bush. My boobs, however, are so large that they just flop to either side of the towel anyway, so that part was pretty useless.
After an undetermined amount of time (hey, I'm naked, it's not like I brought my watch), the attendant comes back to take me to my massage. Seriously, she could have left me in the tub for hours. But I stand up while she "hides" me behind the sheet, wrap it around my wet ass (now you DEFINITELY are going to see through this sucker) and pad after her to the massage area.
If you're the type of person who doesn't like to be touched, this is not for you. Despite the decorous way your masseuse tucks the sheet around you and only exposes the part she is massaging, let's face it: you are buck naked under there, and a total stranger is rubbing your exposed flesh. For me however, it was GLORIOUS. Touch-a touch-a touch-a tooooouch me... ahem, sorry, where was I before I burst into song? Oh yeah. Touched By A Stranger. I especially love when they work on my hands. I don't know why, but that relaxes me SO much.
So now that you've been soaked and rubbed like a prize turkey, you can go get dressed and spend your day walking around this adorable little town with its antique shops and galleries. All I can tell you is that I did my part for the American Economy that day. I bought paintings from a local artist. Mame and I ate in this adorable cafe that's also a gallery. I found something for my brother in an antique store, and then Mame and I both fell in love with these abstract prints with phrases on them by another local artist. I bought one mounted under glass that just spoke to me. The abstract is blue and purple, and it says "she built her cathedral from the splinters of her shattering."
And so I have. Welcome to my church.
It’s an old city, but amazingly clean. My first time there I actually saw someone vacuuming the sidewalk on Boylston Street. No kidding. I gave a bum some change outside of Starbucks, and he called me back because I accidentally threw in a ring that was in my pocket, and he gave it back to me. It’s the kind of city Philly wishes it could be. That being said, it’s too fucking cold there and it snows too much for me to consider making it my permanent home. But I still love ya, Boston!
While I was last there I got to go to a great restaurant, Stephanie’s on Newbury Street. If you are ever in Boston, you have to go and order the macaroni and cheese. Get it with the prosciutto and the truffle oil. You will thank me, but I warn you: you will be ruined for any other macaroni and cheese for all time. I can never be satisfied by the blue box again (I mean Kraft, not the Tardis). Oh, get the onion rings, too. Bring an appetite. Listen to the fat girl when she points you towards the food – I’ve eaten plenty, so I know when something's really good.
So I know you all want me to shut up and tell you if I pooped my pants; well, I didn’t even have the urge to relieve myself while I was there. Probably because I put a mojito on it. It’s amazing how much shit can be fixed with a liberal application of alcohol (you thought I was done with the puns, didn’t you?). I even managed to get through the worst customer visit of all time the next day without incident. I think it's safe to say that colon cleansing has done nothing more than make shit easy on me (AND I'm done. *rimshot* Okay, I had one left.)
Moving on... so I discovered the most incredible place, and it's only forty minutes from here. There's a town in WV called Berkeley Springs, the site of a natural hot springs that was once frequented by George Washington and other historical figures of note (but now is only visited by hysterical figures like myself, ha ha ha). Mame came in for the weekend and we took a day trip there. The area has four different spas that use the springs, one of which is state run and therefore cheap as hell. If you can live without a lot of ambience, you can get a relaxing soak in the spring water followed by a half hour massage for the bargain price of $45.
Now, when you think spa you probably think: scented candles, fluffy pink bathrobes, soothing tantric music softly playing in the background... ahhhhh. Soothing. Well, I'm too cheap for that crap. That kind of mood lighting costs money. The state spa at the springs has this kind of atmosphere: you walk into the locker area, where they direct you to a little stall with a curtain and direct you to strip, wrap yourself in the sheet provided, place your belongings in the battered locker, and then take the key on the handy rubber cord and place it around your wrist. By the way, if you're in the end stall and happen to be visiting on the COLDEST EFFING DAY OF ALL TIME, it might be wise not to lean your naked ass against the stone wall. It will be extraordinarily cold and clammy. Just a tip.
Now that you are toga'd out in a giant sheet a little old lady will march all of you to your next destination. Mame got the roman bath; I turned down their offer to put us in the same one and chose the relaxing bath. I mean, I'll sleep next to Mame when she visits, but I'm not getting naked with her in a steaming bath.
This is where it helps to not be bashful. Once you get to the bath, your "attendant" will hold the sheet while you step bare-assed into the tub. Let's face it, this sheet is the thickness of tissue paper. They put me into this GINORMOUS bathtub filled with steaming spring water. It was so huge that I could completely submerge myself. I'm a big girl, so in a normal bathtub the top half of me will be completely dry while my back and ass are submerged. I have to flip over and let my butt dry to soak the front of me. Plus, there's always the possibility that I might drown in this position. Well, you get the picture. So huge bathtub with a little inflatable pillow for my head = niiiice. For the sake of propriety the attendant covers the front of me with a little towel that's just big enough to hide your boobs and bush. My boobs, however, are so large that they just flop to either side of the towel anyway, so that part was pretty useless.
After an undetermined amount of time (hey, I'm naked, it's not like I brought my watch), the attendant comes back to take me to my massage. Seriously, she could have left me in the tub for hours. But I stand up while she "hides" me behind the sheet, wrap it around my wet ass (now you DEFINITELY are going to see through this sucker) and pad after her to the massage area.
If you're the type of person who doesn't like to be touched, this is not for you. Despite the decorous way your masseuse tucks the sheet around you and only exposes the part she is massaging, let's face it: you are buck naked under there, and a total stranger is rubbing your exposed flesh. For me however, it was GLORIOUS. Touch-a touch-a touch-a tooooouch me... ahem, sorry, where was I before I burst into song? Oh yeah. Touched By A Stranger. I especially love when they work on my hands. I don't know why, but that relaxes me SO much.
So now that you've been soaked and rubbed like a prize turkey, you can go get dressed and spend your day walking around this adorable little town with its antique shops and galleries. All I can tell you is that I did my part for the American Economy that day. I bought paintings from a local artist. Mame and I ate in this adorable cafe that's also a gallery. I found something for my brother in an antique store, and then Mame and I both fell in love with these abstract prints with phrases on them by another local artist. I bought one mounted under glass that just spoke to me. The abstract is blue and purple, and it says "she built her cathedral from the splinters of her shattering."
And so I have. Welcome to my church.
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