Adventures in butt dialing

[Insert photo of maternal grandfather channeling Tarzan]

Crickets.

Naked and afraid (Part III)

My time was up: A tiny Korean woman was calling my locker number. Her costume, disheveled hair, navel-high black underwear briefs, black sports bra and multi-colored striped socks peeking from plastic shower shoes, lent her a Hausfrau-meets-Dominatrix-meets-Rainbow Brite sort of persona.

“Good luck,” Cat purred from the Jacuzzi.

Oh boy.

I secured my towel and followed my host into an adjacent hallway To the left and right were semi-partitioned treatment stations, each featuring a knee-high massage table encased in the kind of thick, durable plastic my friend’s grandparents use to protect their couch from radioactive meltdowns.  Hoses snaked from the tiled walls into overflowing industrial-sized garbage cans positioned halfway between every two stations. Shallow buckets floated on top.

“Here,” the woman said, indicating the first table on the right.

“Do I take my towel off?” I asked. But I already knew the answer. Droplets of water, I noticed, beaded on the table; this was going to be a fairly wet experience.

I surrendered my towel to a peg and settled down on the table much in the way you’d expect a self-conscious, naked Nearly Never Nude to settle down upon wet plastic.

“First time,” I said, craning my neck to track the therapist’s movements at the foot of the table. She laughed – and then flung a bucket of warm water over me that traveled like a wave from my toes to shoulders. My butt cheeks clenched. If someone lodged a pencil between them, I reckoned I now possessed enough grip to write with it.

My “Pure Bliss” treatment involved multiple bucket dousings before the therapist donned a Brillo pad disguised as an exfoliating mitt. She grabbed my right leg. She grabbed my left leg. She slid my quivering limbs apart across the wet plastic. More butt clenching. And then she descended.

Aside from the too-close attention paid to my inner thighs and the entire passage of time I spent face-up on that table, the overall experience wasn’t unpleasant; after scrubbing me raw, the therapist progressed to the Full Body Moisturizing Massage component. Then the High Quality Lavender/Mint Aroma Oil. I pondered the color of the Refreshing Vitamin C Face Masque (I guessed pea green). I confess to relishing the Scalp Massage.

Once Cat settled onto her own Slip and Slide three stations down, the partitions separating us concealed all but her disembodied head. I attempted to catch her eye, to flash her a smile that said, “I’m OK. This isn’t half bad,” but her eyes were closed as she succumbed to the scrubbing phase of “Pure Bliss.” I watched her head bob up and down with each thrust of the Brillo pad.

The 90-minute treatment concluded with the therapist tying my hair in a knot, a hand towel burritoed around my ponytail and twisted into submission. Kelsey and Cat sported similar styles when they emerged from their treatments. Jackie’s headgear resembled an Indian rumal, and she seemed slightly envious of our knots.

My girlfriends and I re-congregated within the Himalayan Salt Room to share our experiences. Snuggled between two patrons mounting each other’s backs to administer post-massage massages and the uptight, twiggy patron whose swaddled lower half, visible ribs and outstretched hands bore an uncanny likeness to a certain religious figure, we giggled and laughed. We slipped back into our clothes and resumed regarding one another beyond locked eyes. Jackie French braided our hair. We carpooled to downtown Palo Alto and dined ravenously on Indian food – followed by gelato.

So this is the end of this bloviated account, a tale one of my five readers aptly described as “a tease.” At this point, I’m expected to sum up the Korean Spa Episode by attesting to the joys of parading naked in front of one’s friends and undergoing butt-clenching scrub downs administered by strangers in rainbow socks. I’m now liberated and more comfortable in my own skin and considering a side career as a pole dancer and---. False. The truth is, my back has since developed a rash, and I’m still frightened by my pale, knobby, flat-chested body. Lest my girlfriends think me an ungrateful bitch, however, I will quickly add that I am thankful for the adventure and the opportunity to bond with them. I might even do it all again – but not alone.

So, in summary, I’d like to embrace Cat, Jackie and Kelsey and thank them for putting up with all my bellyaching. I just need to throw on some clothes first before I do so.

Naked and afraid (Part II)

Jackie was already wrapped in a shorty robe by the time Cat, Kelsey and I arrived at the Naked Spa. She sat upon a sofa in an alcove just beyond the reception desk. She seemed serene. I, apparently, did not.

“Are you OK?” she asked.

“Sure.” I wondered what level of heightened anxiety my face betrayed.

“We don’t allow shoes inside and bathing suits or underwear in the spa,” said the attendant. “For the Jacuzzi and cold pool you need to be nude.”

Shit.

Himalayan Salt Room

“Perhaps I should put my bag in the car,” I said, backing toward the door. The sizeable duffel slung over my shoulder contained all those verboten items – plus two oversized beach towels, a change of clothes, a bathing cap and a pair of goggles. Combined, I had thought, perhaps they’d sufficiently conceal my translucent complexion and bony chest.

“No, it should fit within your locker,” the attendant said. “And you can leave your shoes here.”

I surrendered my sneakers and placed them upon the designated bookshelf beside Jackie’s Uggs.

This is how we all develop foot fungus, I thought.

Barefoot, we padded after our guide and into the inner sanctum of the women’s locker room. Boob. Belly. Butt. Blobs of bare flesh hovered in my periphery. I crossed my eyes until the figures around us morphed into a beige blur.

“Are you OK?” Jackie asked.

“Yes!” I hissed.

The attendant rattled off the 12-step program leading up to the afternoon’s main event, an extremely wet and vigorous 90-minute ordeal – er, “treatment” -- dubbed “Pure Bliss.”

“You’ll need to shower before your treatment,” she said. “There’s a sauna room and a spa room I recommend you soak in the Jacuzzi for at least 15 minutes prior to the treatment Then maybe the cold pool They’ll call you by the number printed on your locker key One of you has a 2:15 p.m. appointment You’ll need to take a shower right away to allow time for soaking Do not re-enter the pools after your treatment.”

My brain seemed to have suffered a major malfunction. I was first, I was the 2:15 p.m. appointment, (What time was it?!) and everything was happening so fast. Who would call me? Where was the shower? Jacuzzi before cold pool or cold pool before Jacuzzi? Where was Jackie? Suddenly Cat was naked and Kelsey was naked, and I was struggling to balance on one foot while wriggling out of my underwear under cover of a washcloth.

I followed my friends into the dual shower/Jacuzzi room. Though insubstantial, the Plexiglas partitions separating the shower stalls would have provided some modicum of privacy had not the shaving mirrors above the fixture reflected and magnified all the flesh in the room.

Hey, I thought. Maybe I don’t have the flattest chest in Silicon Valley. And that woman’s butt resembles cottage cheese too!

But a flabby fanny was the least of my worries. I had to prioritize for a mad dash toward the 6-person Jacuzzi across the room: left arm across the top and right hand shielding the nether regions. I spied sanctuary in the form of bubbles already affording Jackie censorship.

This isn’t so bad, I thought, sinking down until the water reached my eyelids. I settled butt cheeks atop a protective cradle of open palms.

Kelsey and Cat soon joined us, the former repeating my awkward shuffle across the room, the latter exhibiting an admirably confident swagger.

We chatted and laughed, and, remarkably, after awhile, I started to relax.

Ha! Being naked is a cinch when no one can see your bits and pieces!

And then the Jacuzzi motor stopped purring, the magic bubbles disappeared, and the once-turbulent water around me stilled. I imagined my expression mirrored Kelsey’s: wide eyes, raised eyebrows, mouth slightly agape.

“Bubbles!” I said, drawing my knees into my chest.

“I got it,” Jackie said. We watched our savior slink toward the magic button that would summon back those blessed bubbles. “I’m going to check out the salt room anyway.”

Kelsey trotted after her, leaving Cat and I to puzzle over the curious stools lining the room. Each squat plastic chair sat before its own shower handset and shampoo dispenser. Would we be expected to plant our bare booties there? And how often did they disinfect those things anyway?

“I think the reason all the nudity doesn’t bother me is that I was on the swim team growing up, and we had to shower in front of each other all the time,” Cat said. “Didn’t you play sports?”

“I did,” I said. “I was on the swim team too, but it was a club team, and I was young. I don’t remember having to get naked in front of each other.”

If I had had to strip down, perhaps I managed to block it from my mind. What I do recall is the Blue Wave Swim Team teammate who tortured me with taunts of “Hairy Scary” because I didn’t shave the blonde fuzz on my 8-year-old legs. In addition to bullies, locker rooms meant gnarly foot fungus, impressive feats of toilet bowl levitation provoked by threats of deadly disease and shielding my gangly limbs behind locked bathroom stalls for P.E. uniform changes (Yes, I know I’m disturbed).

Cat continued by relating her D.C. Korean spa experience: Asian ladies in lingerie administered the massages, and all-day, marathon nakedness was encouraged via features like an in-spa restaurant and a communal co-ed room where patrons napped in the middle of the floor.

“Naked naps?” I asked, eyebrows raised.

“No, they wear robes,” she said.

With about 10 minutes remaining until my treatment, I decided to seek out Jackie, Kelsey and the Himalayan Salt Room.

There’s a scene from Season 3, Episode 3, of “Sex and the City” in which Charlotte, the shows designated prude, becomes uneasy as her friends drop their towels and expose some boob in a spa steam room. That’s the kind of awkward I expected within this salt room: handsome teak benches occupied by terry cloth-swathed butts. Perhaps a stray nipple or two. But the door handle was hot and the stone floor was heated, and I yelped into the darkness that had swallowed by girlfriends. Both lay face-up and spread-eagled on the floor.

“Are you OK?” Jackie asked from her state of repose atop a towel.

“I think I’m just going to sit on my towel and cower in the corner,” I said.

To be continued...

Naked and afraid (Part I)

I’ve never gone commando. I layer shorts over yoga pants to hide my underwear lines. And before today, only four people had ever seen my birthday suit: my parents, my sister and my husband. But I just spent three whole hours in the very naked company of three girlfriends -- and a whole bunch of strangers -- and survived.

The last time anyone saw this Nearly Never Nude naked

It was Jackie who suggested we spend Sunday afternoon at the Korean Spa.

“BTW Kelsey – everyone will be naked!!!!!” she wrote in the email invite Monday. “AAAAAHHHHHHHH.”

Somehow Jackie overlooked my prudish tendencies, honed from half a lifetime of anxiety-inducing spa and massage experiences.

In West Palm Beach, there’d been the $20-an-hour student massage studio that required customers to bring their own sheets. The treatment room was one long, co-ed rectangle with 10 or so tables separated by flimsy hospital curtains that failed to dampen any of the moaning and groaning on either side. 

For my 24^th birthday, Matt treated me to a mid-winter weekend getaway at Missouri’s equivalent to the “Shining” hotel. My spa treatment – in a dark and remarkably bare basement -- consisted of lying prostrate on a de facto embalming table while warm water drummed down on me from holes in the ceiling.

And, still vivid in my mind, was the overpriced, pre-Christmas holiday massage I received from “Santa Claus,” an unkept, white-bearded gentleman whose belly rested ever so gently on my back as he slid a greasy, hairy forearm up and down my spine.

(“Did he ask you if you’ve been naughty or nice?” Kelsey asked when I related the experience.)

This particular spa experience, I judged, might warrant a pre-treatment parking lot cocktail: We would shower in a communal shower naked, soak in a communal hot tub naked, lounge in a sauna naked and, for an added cost, lie face-up while tiny, lingerie-clad Asian women drenched our nakedness in oil and milk.

Bathing suits and underwear are strictly forbidden, the spa’s website warned. For the Nearly Never Nude, the prospect was frightening. I would pack a bikini just in case.

I spent all week concocting excuses for cancelling my appointment. Chatting with a co-worker didn’t ease the anticipation.

“Ooooh, I love Korean Spas,” Eliza said, hovering over our shared cubicle wall. “But they do require a lot of pre-grooming.”

Duly noted.

Kelsey’s comments en route to the Palo Alto facility today were equally discomforting.

“I heard those Korean women really beat you up,” she said.

“What, like a Thai massage?” I asked. I had been brutalized by Thai women before.

“No, they scrub your skin until it falls off and you’re all red.”

“And why are we paying for this?!”

The conversation grew progressively more terrifying once we picked up Cat in Mountain View.

“Do you think they massage your b-hole?” Kelsey asked. “They call that a 'margarita' because of the salt on the rim.”

“Anyone who calls it a ‘b-hole’ has never had it massaged before,” Cat said, matter-of-factly.

And, later: “Don’t be surprised if you cry during the massage part,” Cat said. “That happens sometimes because of all the tension it releases.”

“If I cry during this experience, it’s not going to be from the massage,” I replied.

To be continued....

Out on the tiles

I call my mom almost every weekday morning, but we generally take weekends off because we’re both very busy, important people. So her call, on Sunday, came as a surprise.

“I have something very important to tell you,” she said.

My stomach flipped. I immediately thought of my sister, filming a Steve Irwin-type adventure show in Australia, the deadliest continent on the planet.

This is it, I thought. Hailey’s been eaten by a crocodile. I knew this day would come.

“What?”

Matt, who had watched me halt mid-stride and heard the quaver in my voice, looked up from his laptop, his eyebrows a full inch higher than usual.

Those lovable nutjobs

“Did you know that when your father goes to the bathroom, he counts the tiles on the walls and floors? He can tell you exactly how many tiles there are in the bathrooms of every home we’ve ever owned.”

“What?!”

I let out a long breath of air. For Matt’s benefit, I shook my head and rolled my eyes ceiling-ward. He resumed typing.

I pictured my parents sitting side-by-side at a honky-tonk Austin bar, an icy pitcher of Miller Light between them. I wondered how much of that sweet nectar remained.

“I just thought you should know since we’re related to him,” Mom continued, laughing. “Wait – you’re related to him. I’m not. So you should know.”

I repeated this news to Matt. After all, our offspring would feature genes from both nutjobs on the other end of the call.

“But does he count them all or count across and down and then multiply?” Matt asked.

I repeated the question for Mom.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Here, you ask him.”

“Your mother thinks I’m Rainman,” Dad said.

“You count tiles in the bathroom?” I asked. “Do you count them all or count across and down and then multiply?”

“Both,” he said.

“Both?! And it never occurred to you to mention any of this when I was getting tested for O.C.D. as a child?!”

He didn’t seem to hear this last question.

“You know those holes in shower drains?” Dad asked. “I count those too.”

He returned Mom’s cellphone.

“How on earth did this topic of conversation come up?” I asked.

“You know that Kendle you got me?”

Mom never can remember the name of Amazon’s eReader.

“Kindle,” I said.

“Yes, Kindle,” she said. “Well, you put a book on it about a guy--”

“'The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime,'” I said.

“Yes! And we were talking about it with the bartender and Dad said, ‘Well, you know, I count tiles in the bathroom,’” she said. “And I always thought Sheldon Cooper from ‘The Big Bang Theory’ was a little strange, but he’s not strange; his brain is messed up --like your father’s. He’s not normal. And all this time you had O.C.D.C. and Dad was the source.”

I detected a hint of triumph in her voice.

“So go write a blog about it,” she said.

So I did.

Just listed

I’m a wannabe first-time homeowner shelling out a ridiculous amount in monthly rent to live within a commutable distance of my husband’s Cupertino job. This means reviewing Silicon Valley real estate listings makes me sad. And that’s why I want to extend a hearty shout-out to Russell Ciotta of “Classic Properties” for making me laugh out loud; his listing for 6625 Clifford Drive made last night’s perusal of “The Ugly Yet Unattainable” unexpectedly enjoyable.

Ciotta knows he has nothing to lose; clinching several hundred thousand over his $1.3 million asking price is a given in this wacko market. So he lays out all his cards on the table: cracked façade, mold, mildew and moss, rust stains, unsecured crawl space rat portals. The online photo gallery doesn’t contain a single flattering image of Ciotta’s teardown special. Accessories include a broken squatty chair, a Christmas tree stand and a pool ladder -- but no pool. The primary image shows the front door ajar, and if you squint through the shadows, you can just make out ceiling-high towers of newspaper and the silhouettes of a dozen or so cats.

I can’t decide if this listing is a joke, a social experiment or over-the-top honest advertising. Perhaps Ciotta simply decided to phone this one in. In any event, he deserves some props. Bravo, Mr. Ciotta. Bravo.

Resurrecting Bianca

Warning: This blog post contains spoilers about "Be Right Back," Season 2, Episode 1 of "Black Mirror," the British anthology television series that explores the dark side of technology. If you haven't seen this 2013 episode yet, well, what the heck are you waiting for?!


If bloody curtains and a skeletal clown don’t say, “Come hither, children; we have candy,” I certainly don’t know what does.

Bianca in costume

Within minutes of arriving home Monday, I hung my handmade curtains in the living room windows and clothed the mannequin in a mask and clown costume. I lined the front walkway with tiki torches borrowed from the backyard. I dumped a bag of mixed chocolate bars in a bowl and stirred in plastic cockroaches and Ping-Pong balls painted like eyeballs. I draped the front door with crime scene tape, the red-colored kind that sternly warns, “Danger.” I launched iTunes and cued up “Thriller.”

I have never lived on a street conducive to soliciting or distributing Halloween candy.  Throughout my childhood, my parents drove my sister and I to trick-or-treat in neighborhoods with sidewalks and cul-de-sacs. And thus far, the addresses of my adult years can be characterized in one of two ways: sleepy retirement community or two-lane thoroughfare to more inviting, tranquil pockets of suburbia.

This year, I told Matt, would be different; on this, our first Cupertino Halloween, we resided a mere block from an elementary school, and a steady stream of young families passed by our front door en route to class or work or home each day. I would become the Cool Lady on the block who answered the door in costume and dished out king-sized Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. I’d compliment the creative kids on their homemade costumes and cast a reproachful eye at the pillowcase-toting teenagers too lazy to dress up at all. 

My first visitor of the evening arrived as I maneuvered the clown-attired Bianca through the front door and onto the stoop. Bianca, like many third-hand mannequins, tends to shed her appendages at the most inopportune times. And this proved one such time, as she dropped her left hand for the benefit of a middle-aged woman passing by.

“Nice mannequin,” the woman said. “Are you registered to vote?” She thrust a flyer into my hand. The ensuing conversation set me back 10 minutes of decorating.

Follow the torches, children.

I retreated to the safety of the couch, where I could maintain a clear line of sight of the front walkway. I peered through the red paint-splattered polyester curtains and waited. And waited.

Eventually, Matt fired up an episode of “Black Mirror” – the one with the rehydrated dead boyfriend – and my attention drifted from the street to the T.V. Right about the point where Martha begins to suspect Ash has been gone far too long, Wolfie uttered a low growl.

“Trick-or-treaters!” I said, leaping from the couch. Matt paused the television as I ran to the door. I would surprise the little goblins by yanking it open before they had a chance to knock. My excitement became so great that when I finally did throw open the door, the action seemed to lack an “A-ha!” exclamation.

The stoop was empty. Across the street, however, five silhouettes crowned by multi-colored glow sticks approached the darkest, most un-deserving house on the block. 

“Black Mirror” resumed, and Martha struck up an online romance with a computer.

I ventured out onto the sidewalk the second time Wolfie sounded a false alarm. No pedestrians in sight. I resisted the urge to yank a tiki torch from the ground and wave it in the air, a candy beacon in the night.

Back inside, Martha was adding electrolytes to a bathtub of Ash. By the time she began bedding her Frankenstein, I had abandoned my post to shower and change into pajamas. But I kept my bra on – just in case.

“Did anyone come?” I asked Matt, rejoining him on the couch. Part of me wanted assurance I hadn’t missed anything, but the other part desired affirmation someone – anyone – had seen my ridiculous decorations.

Bianca waits

No, no one had come, but Martha’s Frankenstein was becoming a bore. 

The doorbell, when it finally sounded, was jarring. I sprinted to the door.

“Trick or treat!” said the 12-year-old on the stoop. She wore her hair in pigtails – a homage to some character I couldn’t place. I offered her my decoy treat bowl, the one with the Styrofoam skull in it.

“Oops! Wrong bowl!” I laughed at my joke. Pigtails did too, albeit nervously.

She selected a Twix bar from the second bowl I presented. Behind her, beyond the flaming tiki torches, I heard chatter emanating from the driveway.

“Do your friends want any candy?” I asked, hopeful.

“Um, they’re afraid of the clown,” Pigtails said.

We laughed. Carrying the bowl, I followed Pigtails past Bianca, past the plastic severed arm and past the steely-eyed plastic rat to deliver my treats.