A Day of Bliss, well sort of . . .

So . . . I went to Mario Tricoci's for my Spa day.

The last time I went there was about 5 years ago, and I went to a spa in a different town than the one I went to yesterday.

The first thing I have to say is that the massage and facial I got there were awesome.

My massage therapist was a small, young, Russian woman. She couldn't have weighed more than 95 pounds. I thought, yeah, you're going to give me a deep tissue massage. I could wrestle you to the ground so fast. But she did a really great job. I was not kidding when I said that I could not tip my head before I went in. She loosened my neck and got rid of the band of pain that wrapped itself around my left shoulder blade. Her advice, after working diligently on my back for 50 minutes, was to make appointments every two weeks until we get rid of the knots. She's right, but there is this little thing called money that stands between me and that sort of pain free existence.

I was also given a facial, just a basic one, but the woman who gave it to me was really good. She was very gentle.

I don't tend to enjoy facials too much. It flashes me back to my ill spent, ugly duckling, pre-adolescent days.

Now that I've met a few of them, I believe my mother should have been an aesthetician because she could not stand my eleven year old clogging pores. I would be sitting somewhere, reading a book, or writing in my diary and she would look at me and say, "Hey, Sweetie. Why don't you come over here and sit by mommy?" Obedient daughter that I was, I would do what she asked and the next thing I knew she would have me in a head lock and be squeezing my blackheads and clogged pores as I flailed and screamed. Therefore, when placed in the chair for my facial, I most often instantly become eleven at the moment that the aesthetician turns on the steam, gets out the magnifying lense, and slowly works the yuck out of my pores. (You would think that, since I am always looking for avenues back to my youth, this would thrill me. . . But . . . no.)

Yet this particular woman made me feel good and cleansed, not like a struggling animal caught in my mother's grip. I have no idea what she put on my face, but I came out of the facial with all the features I don't like about my skin not bothering me so much. I told my Honey that all the places that I am sagging and bagging didn't sag or bag anymore. He expressed astonishment that anyplace sagged or bagged. I said that was good. I was supposed to see them first and worry long before they ever came to his attention. He looked at me like I was crazy. Maybe I am. (I should never have mentioned that I sag or bag at all.)

I also had my nails done. This procedure is usually left for last for many reasons. But the women who do this have to remember that they are the last memory we "spa package" ladies have of our experience.

This particular one came for me. Took me out to the nail area. Didn't even look at me. Gestured to the colors and said, "Pick one." I did.

She began working on my nails and spent all her time looking past my right shoulder toward the reservations counter, not saying a word to me. I was almost to the point of saying, "Is there something wrong with you? What is over there?" when she stands up and says "You need to go to the sink. Its at the end of the make-up counter over there."

I asked her to lead me and she says, "No. It is right over there." Then she made me wash my own hands. ("Poor Baby!") Hands me a nail brush and says, "Scrub your nails top and bottom. Be sure to get all the product off because it doesn't always wash off that easily. I'll meet you back at my station." (I am by no means a prima donna, but if my Honey and I wanted me to scrub my own nails, I could have saved him a butt load of money and done it at home.)

When I come to sit down again, she won't look me in the eye and starts talking to the nail tech seated behind me. When that girl wandered off, she starts talking to me about how stressed out she is because her family is moving, and she thinks she has a fever and her sinuses are running. To which I (ever the sympathetic woman) reply, "Oh. I thought there was something wrong with you."

I know. I suck. I go to these places and expect to be treated by everybody as if they are conscious that the cost of these packages is dear. Okay! So I want to be treated like some celebrity . . . Gwen Stephani . . . or somebody. I know the folks that slave over my nails (and believe me, my toes need work) do this all day, every day without a break (even when they are sick as dogs) and get no thanks. (They just get blogged about by some snarky, anonymous blogger, with some sort of diva complex.)

And I don't want my Honey to get the idea that I did not appreciate his gift. I just wanted him to get his money's worth. That's all. But overall, I really enjoyed my time.

I go back in two weeks to complete my package and get my make-up redone. Won't that be fun?