so done with this massage envy petition thing.
of course i originally signed it because that’s what sheep do.
then i briefly got a job managing a similar place. and i learned stuff.
and i need you all to shut the fuck up about this already.
because unless i have lost my sight completely, there are zero petitions about the horrific, unfair, borderline abusive ways we’ve been treated at all the other spas we’ve worked at.
because although we were paid well with benefits including high commissions, full health insurance, matching 401k and sick days, it didn’t make these places any better than massage envy.
not by anydamnone’s measure.
we’ve been summoned to work with no clean linens, no air-conditioning in 1000 degree weather in basements with cockroaches and verbal abuse. but we got paid well so i guess no petition warranted.
stop sending me those emails and work on something productive, like shutting your everlasting pieholes.
How is this the first time I realized both the irony and hilarity of what’s going on in my refrigerator?
That is absolutely Trader Joe’s apple-smoked bacon sitting besides tofu hot dogs.
I don’t know why. Don’t ask me.
did you ever just annoy the fuck out of yourself by doing the same dumb things, saying the same dumb things, writing the same dumb things…
yeah, me neither.
This is a shout out to all those moms who bring their kids into the store and ignore them while they knock shit off the shelves, drop their stupid cheerios and animal crackers all over the floor and spill their juice and scream.
So while you’re talking to me about shampoo or something of equal importance, Johnny has just been kidnapped and sold into a child pornography ring.
It’s not adorable. Your kids aren’t the salt of the earth.
We’re not getting paid enough to watch your offspring and clean up after them.
We’re not even getting paid enough to buy good drugs.
Manager was educating me on hair styling products.
She was explaining that it was concentrated so you only needed a nipple sized amount (while also gesturing the size with her pointer and thumb the way one would tune a radio).
I repeated curiously “A nipple sized”?
She responded exasperated “Nickel sized”.
Not embarrassed at all.
So, I just made a pot of coffee.
without the coffee.
and the water.
Good morning today…
Driving with ET down one of those single lane country roads when she points out ‘Oh look – ducks.’
Cutting off my ‘Awwww’ with a quick correction of ‘Ooops, they’re vultures eating a dead deer.’
Uncutest ducks ever…
I am beyond proud to admit that I had no idea who Star Jones was when it was announced she was getting services at the spa in Trump Tower. I mean I knew the name but it wasn’t attached to anything and in hindsight, I wish it weren’t.
I could start by telling you that she was an asshole shitpig but you may want to learn something new here today. So here it is.
After undressing in the room (and we being grateful for that small gift), the therapist entered to find all of her clothes strewn carelessly on the floor while there was a perfectly capable chair and wall hooks for such things.
However, compared to the highlight of this story, this is minor and you and your mom are gonna wish I ended here. As if…
She was getting a mani/pedi obviously overjoyed at the appreciation of finally being able to see her own feet. She had recently gotten gastric bypass surgery and had lost some weight. I know little about this procedure but here’s where common sense would kick in if any were owned.
If I had to guess, I would think you need to monitor how much food you eat after such a procedure.
Guess who didn’t share that theory?
The person who ate too much, threw up in her plate, and handed it to the spa attendant to take care of.
I put many people to sleep during their massages. It’s actually one of the biggest compliments to accomplish that.
This however was different.
I finished the massage, placed my hand on her shoulder and said “Ok, so and so, you’re all set.”
I gently shook her under the assumption that she’d fallen asleep.
I started to panic.
I ran into the next room and asked the other therapist what to do. She thought she would add to my panic by telling me the client could have gone into diabetic shock which can lead to coma or death.
Great – there goes my tip.
I remembered that she came in with a friend who I was really hoping wasn’t dead too because I needed some help here.
She was in the sauna and I calmly walked in and told her that I was having trouble waking her friend up.
She laughed and said “Oh it’s fine, she took a Xanax before the massage.”
I asked her if she could please go and get her jackass friend off my table (said the person who once took a sleeping pill before a meditation class and let the instructor believe she was that good.)
Idiots. The lot of us.
Of all of the current ridiculous nonsensical bullshit business models that our society has sheepishly decided to follow, the interview process has got to be one of, if not the most fuck backwards processes I have experienced in my lifetime.
So basically here’s how it goes once you finally make it to the top of the pile:
You send a completely fabricated and shiny view of yourself in written form after scouring the dashboard thesaurus to find words and terms that you would never ever use in real life to sound smarter than you actually are.
Because it is somehow more acceptable to say “My objective is to succeed in an environment of growth and excellence and earn a job which provides me job satisfaction and self development and help me achieve personal as well as organizational goals,” instead of the truth, which is I need cold hard cash to pay for my addiction to Netflix and the 12 bottles of wine I drink every week.
And hey, if you actually buy that load of crap and make it to the next level where you get to speak to me on the phone, I’m gonna make sure the dog is thrown in the backyard so he doesn’t bark and my kid is locked in an upstairs closet with
an Ipad tuned to Spongebob while I gesture to anyone who happens into the room to ‘Shut the fuck up,’ I’m pretending I live alone in a cave during this 45 minute time frame.
Cool, I get to meet you in person where I will be wearing stockings that I purchased last night at the drugstore because in reality I don’t own any and you will never ever see me wear a skirt and a pressed shirt after this day because no one intentionally dresses like that because it is uncomfortable and stupid. And I hope you like my hair brushed and this make-up application because chances are once I start working, there will definitely be days I don’t brush my teeth and/or change my underwear even while on my period.
Enjoy how friendly and happy I appear to be during this one hour of my life during our time together. You’re gonna see less and less of it until the real me forces its way to the surface and I begin sighing, rolling my eyes and throwing around my sarcasm and negative attitude all over this damn place until everyone is terrified to even make eye contact with me in fear of being verbally or physically crushed beyond recognition.
Let’s just be real.
Meet me for a coffee or even better, a drink and talk to me. Like a real fucking person in a comfortable atmosphere – have a conversation with me.
And if you ask me what my weaknesses are or ask me to give you an example of a time at my last job where I helped the company reach or surpass an expected goal or project, I’ll punch you in the throat.