Some of us are not classy enough for a spa...

Last year my husband got me a spa certificate for my 40th birthday. Our local Spa is, according to their website, one of the top 10 spa destinations in the country. It sits on a natural mineral spring that was first discovered by Spanish explorer Hernando de Soto who thought he had found the Fountain of Youth. The Spa pumps the mineral springs from 3 pump stations into their resort to be used for the pools, the spa treatments, and for drinking.

I was intrigued as I have never entered the doors of a spa, much less a world-renowned one, but I was reluctant to go by myself. I waited a year before I was able to secure some company (read: people who could afford to go). My visiting family members, my aunt, my cousin, and my mother agreed to accompany me to the famous Spa. We picked out a package, and I made the reservations.

We arrived at the Spa half an hour before our first scheduled appointment. We paid and were directed through a door, to a woman behind a desk. She was tiny, dressed in designer clothes, and she had a sweater casually thrown over her shoulders. She looked at us as if we had wandered in by mistake. 

Her: "May I help you?" 

We refrained from bringing to her attention the fact we'd just entered from the payment station. Instead, we smiled and informed her we had appointments. She issued us locker keys and then pulled her sweater tighter on her shoulders. 

Her: "We don't have any more robes."

We just looked at her. From the moment we'd entered this resort, we'd had been the minority when it came clothes. Meaning we had them on while everyone else was dressed in white floor-length spa robes. From the people walking the halls to the people enjoying a meal in the restaurant, everyone wore robes. 

How was it possible that they'd run out of robes? Had they unintentionally gone over their max occupancy? We continued to stare at her. She continued to pull at her sweater.

My mother caved first in the standoff. 

Connie: "So, are we supposed to walk around naked? My sister and I don't mind going nude, but why aren't there any robes?"

The woman pulled harder at her sweater, hoping, I think, that it would stretch over her head. 

Her: "We have one robe." 

It suddenly materialized, and my cousin took the robe. We took down the pamphlets about our treatments to read. There down the page was a warning about people with high blood pressure. My mother and I looked at each other.

Connie: "What does this mean? I have high blood pressure. Am I not suppose to do the herbal wrap?"

Her: "Oh, no, you shouldn't have picked that treatment. I'll have to get someone." 

She sighed and looked at us as if wondering what hole we had crawled out of, and she disappeared and then reappeared with the woman who had signed us in. 

That woman began to lecture us on picking the wrong treatment, but my cousin cut her off and suggested we trade time slots. She and her mother were scheduled for the aromatherapy bath, and my mother and I were scheduled for the dangerous fat girls with high blood pressure herbal wrap. 

The sign-in lady agreed to this temporary solution while she searched for a manager. 

Sign-in Lady: "In the meantime, go ahead into the locker room and get into your robes."

Us: "We don't have robes."

The sign-in lady looked at the other lady who pulled on her sweater and admitted they were out of robes. Sign-in lady sighed heavily, rolled her eyes, and disappeared. We stood and look at one another.

Her: "I do have two old robes." 

She pulled out two robes that seem a bit frayed on the collars. We snatched them out of her hand.

Her: "Why don't you go on into the locker room, and someone will bring you the last robe." 

She waved her hand at the door to our right.

We went into the locker room, where we met another attendant who immediately produced a robe. Interesting how robes were suddenly appearing. We changed, and she showed us around as she led us into the woman's waiting area. We sat on couches and snickered at each other.

Our names were finally called, and off we went to our designated treatments. 

My mother and I went with our attendant, Judy, who was actually the best thing in the place. She led us into a room with a swimming pool in the middle. Around the room were six to seven bathtubs.  

Judy assigned us to tubs, turned on the water, and let us sniff several aromas to chose. Then, she dumped them into our baths, creating millions of bubbles. We slid out of our robes and into our private baths. 

My bath was tepid, so Judy added hot water. She put towels behind our heads and cold washcloths on our eyes. We were to relax, and if we chose, we could hop out and jump into the pool (76 degrees) to cool off.

I lay back in the tub and tried to relax. Judy turned off the hot water, but I could feel cold water pouring in. I thought this a strange treatment. Hot then cold. It got cold. I sat up, and the washcloth fell into the bubbles. 

Judy was immediately at my side with a new one. I told her I was cold. She thought this strange, but then she noticed that cold water was pouring into my tub. She turned it off, but to put in hot, she had to pull my plug to drain the cold water. 

Eventually, she got the tub water warm, and I settled back against the head towels. I couldn't relax. I tried, but the water was hot, and I started picturing my blood pressure (which was such a hot topic at this Spa) rising on the thermometer. 

Just when I thought I was going to have to join my mother in the freezing swimming pool, the jets shut off. We left the bath area and joined our party back on the couches, where we compared notes.

My cousin had thought her treatment was fine. My aunt said hers had been lousy. She got cold within 10 minutes, and she wasn't sure there was any type of herbs in her wrap.

Marilyn: "It smelled like moldy dishrags," she said.

After munching on oranges and apples, we were led into the massage area. My masseuse was Sandy. Sandy's arms were as big as my pinky finger, and I wondered how she would massage with those things. The answer: with her thumbs. 

Sandy loved using her thumbs and enjoyed working on feet. Sandy dug her thumbs into my back three times, circled her palms three times on my arm, massaged my hands, circled three times on my leg, and then sat down to do my foot. 

She began rubbing her thumb up my big toe. She stroked and rubbed and rubbed. I wanted to scream, "For god sakes move to another toe!"

She did after about three minutes. She spent another three minutes rubbing that toe and worked her way down the digits, rubbing as if erasing something. Then she started all over again with the big toe. Eventually, she moved to the other foot, where she continued her torture. 

After 20 minutes, she moved to my leg, three circles. She moved to my hand, then my arm and then she asked me to turn over on to my stomach. Finally! 

I rolled over and prepared for a massage. Sandy dug her thumbs into my back. Circle, circle, circle. She slid her hand down my arm and then....then....then she WENT BACK TO MY FEET! 

The same torture was applied once again to my feet. The woman spent 40 minutes of my 50-minute massage working on my feet. When she finished, she moved up to my head and passed gas. So help me, god, the woman farted at my head. 

There was no apology or an "excuse me." She dug her thumbs into my spine several times, ended with a head rub that burned my scalp, patted me, and left the room.

I rejoined the gang back at the couches. Everyone else had enjoyed their massage. I smiled and said we would talk about mine later. 

At some point in our treatments, a manager had apologized for the herbal wrap mistake, handed us all free gifts, and told us we could bathe twice if we wanted. Coming out of that massage, I was freezing and looking forward to jumping back into a hot tub. Our names were called.

Judy was gone, but we had Pit and Pat who did not dump enough aromas into our baths, and so we had few bubbles to cover our nakedness. 

I was in the same tub as before, and once again, the water would not shut off. Pit, or Pat, worked on it and got it just right. For the first time that day, something was perfect. I settled back and relaxed. It lasted about 10 minutes before my cousin was poking me on the shoulder. 

Maya: "I'm bored."

Connie: "Jump into the pool."

Marilyn: "Is this all we do?" 

She climbed out of her tub and proceeded to investigate closets and drawers, a towel clutched to her breasts, her backside open to all of us. Pit and Pat were nowhere to be found. 

We decided we'd had enough, dressed, and hightailed it out of there. The best thing about the whole excursion? The mineral spring water that we consumed in vast quantities throughout the day. 

We discovered later that it certainly cleans out your system! 

Perhaps that had been Sandy's problem.

A class act

My children started out their education in a Montessori school. For five of those years, they were in the Pre-Primary/Kindergarten class under an excellent teacher by the name of Sharon Root. This year Mrs. Root is retiring after 26 years at the Montessori school.

One of the hardest things that I have ever done in my life is to turn my children over into someone else's care. I was nervous that first day when we met Mrs. Root, but within two minutes, she had won me over with her gentleness and soft voice. She took Madison into her room and into her heart, and for three years, she helped my shy, little toddler grow into an independent young lady. My youngest daughter was already independent by the time she began Mrs. Root's class, but after three years, Darcy too thrived and blossomed with Mrs. Root's guidance.

They say that in every student's life there will be a teacher she never forgets. I now know that in every parents' life, there will be a teacher that her children will have they will always remember. Sharon Root has nurtured my children with love and kindness. She provided a safe environment for them to learn. She helped them with self-assurance, independence, and she taught them the learning skills they will need for the future. She started them both out in the world of education. We could not have released our children into a better pair of loving arms.

Mrs. Root, we love you and adore you, and Tom and I can not thank you enough for all you have done for our children and our family. We wish you well in your new endeavors. You are the teacher we will never forget.

Everything is Rosie

I first saw Rosie O'Donnell in a movie. I'm not sure which one, but she was funny. The one movie that I do remember is A League of Its Own because some of it was filmed in the Indiana city that I grew up in. My mother's best friend was actually one of the softball players that the movie was written about, and she is in the Baseball Hall of Fame. So we went to the cinema and saw it several times. I thought Rosie was funny. I liked her.

I didn't really get to know her (as much as anyone can get to know a celeb) until she did her show. When she talked, I heard my voice. When she gushed over her guests, I felt like she knew it was how I would act. Except for the fact that she grew up with no mother, was a fabulous student, had a great sense of comedic timing, and actually did something with her life, I felt just like her. Most of the time, I saw myself in her. I was sorry when the show ended.

I read an article on her blog about a month and a half ago, checking in. It was like rediscovering an old lost friend. I'm glad she is back.

See My Food?

Last night my husband and I joined a good friend who was celebrating her 40th birthday. As it was also our 11th wedding anniversary, it was a planned night of partying and good times. One of her friends chose a Japanese restaurant for all of us for dinner. I had a picture in my head of all of us seated around a grill with an Asian chef twirling and juggling knives as he deftly sliced and diced my chosen meal of either beef, chicken, or shrimp or a combination of all three.

The emphasis I would place on this image in my head is COOKED food.

Unfortunately, that image was quickly squashed when I realized that I was in a house of sushi. While we did gather around a table, a chef did not come out to thrill us with his knife dexterity or his cooking knowledge. Instead, a fisherman who'd reeled in his catch earlier plopped it down in the middle of our table. Where I am sad to say, my fellow tablemates sucked down these poor creatures like they were in an episode of Survivor, or worse, Fear Factor.

As much as I pride myself as one willing to try things, I draw the line at a meal that might up and walk off of my plate.

There was yellow-tail, tuna, salmon, and gasp, eel. Oh, and the octopus was on the menu as well, but no one signed up for that tasty dish. It was all wrapped in a beautiful bed of rice tied tightly with a rope of seaweed! Most of my tablemates opted to ignore the rice as some were on low carb diets. Instead, they slurped on the raw seafood in the middle and left the rice shell to sit forlornly on the plate.

To start things out, they served a soy-based soup with pieces of floating tofu and ended with a complimentary dish of birthday green wasabi ice cream. The smell alone was enough to kill me. When I want the scent of raw sea creatures, I prefer to be sitting in the sand on a private beach somewhere watching seagulls eat the sushi. It is a miracle that I was able to hold down my diet coke.

Thankfully, I was able to wash away the scent and the taste of my tempura (a sushi bar isn't exactly great at cooked food either) with a coconut creme pie martini from the bar we ended up at later in the evening. I went to bed, hungry. But what an exciting experience for my anniversary.

Happy 40th Birthday, Veronica! May you never meet a mermaid in the next 40 years of your life!

Stirring the cauldron

I have decided in the last month or so that I need to study religion. My husband, one day, was bemoaning the fact that I'm always griping about the fanatical religious zealots out there who do not believe that women have rights to their bodies, their country, etc. He felt that I was missing out on the right things a church has to offer, like potluck dinners and other social activities.

Now mind you, he did not feel that we needed to start attending church, which I offered to do each and every Sunday, he just felt like I wasn't embracing the pleasant side of religion. This got me thinking. I grew up in a household where religion was left up to us. I have attended churches of all faiths, including Baptist, Methodist, Pentecostal, Catholic, Presbyterian, and non-denominational. After all, was said and done, I chose to sleep in on Sundays.

I have come to a point in my life where I want to study the whole religion art form and know more about the history of religion so that I can enlighten my children when the questions begin. After spending the day in Salem, Massachusetts, on vacation this past month, I have decided that I shall start with Wicca from the Pagan religion. (NOTE to anyone in my shoes: It probably isn't a good time to announce this to your Catholic in-laws and non-religious parent on Easter).

Today I spent some time at the computer researching Wicca. I found a Wicca guide named Pythia (you take a second name if you chose), who led me through various phases of the Pagan religion. As a Wiccan, you can choose to worship a God or Goddess or several deities of your choosing. You do this by meditating, and sometimes the deity comes to you through meditation. This then led me to the different myths regarding said deities. As I read about the various mythologies, I came upon the Greek and Roman myths. I love Greek mythology. I once took a class in college about the myths of Greek and Roman times. T

The book we used was written by our professor. I remember it as not only informative but quite humorous, as was this professor. Years ago, before my house at 8200 was cut out from under me sold, I tried to find this book in my collection of textbooks. It was not to be found. Today I tried to find the book online.

Without my professor's name, nor the title of the book, I was not daunted because hello, it's the age of the Internet. I started with the University's website. I ventured into the faculty and narrowed that down to the English department. Only one professor from my days at the good ole University is still teaching there. He looked WAY older than I remembered him.

I tried to find the faculty from the 1980s, but it was a no go. This then led me into my closet and into my keepsake box. There I found an envelope full of my report cards from college. In 1984 I took the Greek Mythology class and received an A. The professor's name is not on the report card. I searched for faculty from 1984. Then, suddenly, in the middle of googling, his last name popped into my head: Richardson. Dr. Something Richardson.

I could see the man in my head in the classroom teaching Greek Mythology. I typed in the University and the name Dr. Richardson, Richardson's Greek Mythology book, Dr. Richardson, English Professor Dr. Richardson, etc. To no avail.

I got almost every faculty list of every school that ever had a professor that ever attended the University. I got to know Anthony Richardson, who taught at the university, but not in the English department. I found a Richardson who writes about the Islam faith, but alas not the Richardson I was looking for, but I just kept on googling and reading article after article until WHAM, the name Don popped into my head. That was it!

Dr. Don Richardson. Even having that, finding him was still hard. I ended up at the University's library's online facility, where I discovered that Don Richardson had written a book titled, Great Zeus and All of His Children: A Mythology Book for Adults.

Amazon could get that book for me in about 1 to 2 months. I turned to eBay and half.com, where I found the book, ordered it, and will eagerly await its arrival. The whole process took me about two hours, and I did not have time to get back into my research of Wicca as I had to pick up the kids from school and transport them to their various after-school activities.

While transporting, I had time to think back over the information I had amassed so far regarding Wicca, and it came to me that perhaps my deity to worship is Dr. Don Richardson.

Seven years ago

Today is the anniversary of the death of my father. As I do every year at this time, I tell my daughters about my father.  I like to recall memories and recant some stories and just let them know that I did have a father. The month of March is a bit hard leading up to this day, but once the day has passed, I feel that it is okay to let go.

Today I am in Boston on vacation. Today I didn't really sit down at the dinner table and start talking about my father. I mentioned it earlier in the day while driving to downtown Boston, and my elder daughter giggled at the story of how much she used to follow my father around the house. That was about it. Instead, I kept the memories and the stories inside.

It isn't easy to talk about with others. My mother has a different view of my father, my brother isn't into having these types of discussions, and my husband really doesn't know what to say. It truly is a personal event and not one that can be explained to those who have never experienced it.

I miss you, Dad. I miss the funny remarks you would utter during a serious conversation that would break the tension and lead everyone down a different conversation path.

I miss your laugh that would end up in a cough.

I miss your big chest and your gigantic hugs.

I miss the way you could make others laugh....especially me.

I hate you never got to see Madison grow and that you never met Darcy, who is you in so many ways.

Life continues without you, but I still think of you in so many ways.

Today is one of them.

What Floridians do for spring break

I sit working on my new blog, comfy within the confines of the warm house in Arlington, MA. The computer desk faces two large windows that look out into the snow-covered backyard where my oldest daughter likes to spend quiet time. She was born in Florida, but there is Hoosier blood running through her veins.

She loves the snow. She is oblivious to the chill. She sits in the frozen snow on her knees as she carves out snow hearts and builds tiny snowmen she names "Snowie." Yesterday she went out at dusk dressed only in her clothes, her earmuffs, and gloves. She "forgot" her coat.

We never forgot our coats, mainly because our parents were determined to keep us outside in the snow for hours. We were shoved feet first into outfits that covered us from head to toe. We could hardly move in our snow outfits, and heaven forbid if we had to pee. When you went out in the snow in Pennsylvania or Indiana, you were out until you couldn't feel your feet, your fingers, or your nose. Then, and only then, were you allowed back inside the house.

I forget what it is like to enjoy the snow. Once you hit driving age, snow becomes something you dread. It's a chore to scrape it off your windshield and to start up your vehicle to warm-up enough to keep it moving down the ice-covered roads. Yesterday when I accompanied my daughter outside in the snow, I was putting up a good front for her, but as we stomped our way through the frozen backyard, I could feel myself loosing up.

I helped her build a snowman and told her stories of how my father helped us make faces on our snowmen using spray paint. We tried to create a snow fort, but the snow has been here for days and is no longer soft and fluffy. To build, you must first kick in the snow with your boots to loosen it. The time of rolling the snow over and over until you have a big ball has passed. Instead, our snowman was one piece with a flat hat, two sticks for arms, rocks for eyes and a nose, and a twig for a mouth. I forgot that my head was cold. I enjoyed myself. But not half as much as I enjoy watching my daughter make her own snow memories.

Everything will be just fine

Me: "Did you bring the digital camera?"

Tom: "Yes, I brought it."

Me (peering at his only piece of carry-on, his laptop): "Where is it?"

Tom: "In my luggage."

Me: "Your luggage? What luggage? Oh, my god, your luggage that you checked in? Are you stupid?"

Tom: "What are you talking about?"

Me: "You don't put important things in your check-in luggage. That camera will be gone. Gone! And it isn't even your camera. I can't believe this."

Tom: "Oh, stop. It will be fine."

We arrived in Boston yesterday to find our luggage missing from the carousel. We waited as it went round and round with everyone else's bags on it. Then it stopped. I thought it would be interesting if the crowd surrounding the carousel would suddenly start circling, but instead, we all groaned and waited for the block to be fixed.

It eventually started up again, but alas, the only piece of our 4 pieces of check-in luggage that arrived on that carousel was the car seat. At this point, we were hopeful, but after ten more minutes of watching the same luggage go round and round, we realized our luggage was not there. We turned around to enter the Delta office, and there, sitting against the wall, were two pieces of our luggage. That left one suitcase to track. Do I need to say it?

The suitcase with the digital camera.....missing.

Gone.

It did not arrive from Atlanta on this plane or the plane before it or the plane heading into Boston next. Within 24 hours was the word we received from Delta. They would deliver it once it arrived.

Me: "I knew it. It's the suitcase with the camera, isn't it? What were you thinking? I just watched a report on robberies that occur behind the scenes at airports. My god, I can't believe it."

Tom: "And all of those people were arrested too."

Me: "Right like there aren't more thieves to take their places. I never would have put my camera there in the first place. Never."

Tom: "It will be fine."

The suitcase arrived about 20 minutes before midnight after we had already retired for the night. It sat out on the front porch overnight. The camera was there, packed in the top, out in the open. I thought about removing it for just one minute, but I didn't.

Of course, had that been my suitcase, the camera would have been gone. Not that I would have even packed a camera in the case, to begin with, but it would have disappeared. It would have been gone, but for my husband, it was just fine.

Tom: "See, I told you. You worry too much."

It Just Goes So Fast

Well, it happened. My baby lost her first tooth. She kept at it, wiggling it when she woke up in the morning, shaking it when showering, wiggling it on the toilet, wiggling it in the car, wiggling it every minute of the day until she felt it was ready enough for pulling. She jumped on her father the minute he came home last night and conspired with him in the bathroom.

Darcy: "Pull my tooth, Daddy, pull it!"

She then proceeded to yank on the tooth herself until it bled. She just kept pushing the tooth forward.

Darcy: "Pull it!"

Her father wiggled it, and then he twisted it. She didn't move. He pulled and twisted, pulled, and twisted.

Him: "Does that hurt?" He was worried.

Darcy: "No." She glanced at him. "Yes. No. Well, just a little, but pull it. Just pull it."

He pulled it out, and she bled. She was full of joy. Stuffing a tissue into her mouth, she danced around the house, showing us all her missing gap and the pulled tooth. 

She ran into the room to show me. I looked into her smiling face at the empty gap, pulled her to me, and burst into tears. I sobbed and sobbed.

She stood there, letting me cry, and then quietly, she put her arm around me and patted my back.

Darcy: "I'm just growing up now, Mommy."