Mickey Mouse massages are not for me

Yesterday I veered away from my normal massage therapist to a new place that was offering a discount.  And so I have a tip for you. 

NEVER VEER AWAY FROM YOUR NORMAL MASSAGE THERAPIST TO A NEW PLACE THAT IS OFFERING A DISCOUNT. 

This whole operation was the most Mickey Mouse performance I could've ever contemplated.  If it had been any worse, I would've just turned around and walked out.  But it was clean, and the girls were nice, and it was quiet - which is more than I can say for my own house. 

So I gave them the benefit of the doubt and just kept waiting for the situation to improve.  Needless to say, it never did. 

First of all, I left work precisely at 5:00 to be sure I would arrive on time for my 5:45 appointment.  And then I sat there - until 6:05 - reading an old Canadian Living magazine and drinking luke warm water out of a plastic cup. 

Also, I assumed that at some point, as a new client, I would fill out one of those forms.  You know those forms?  The forms with the list of your injuries and problem areas and medications.  (Mine is less of a "form", and more of a "novel" - or a link to this blog.)  But no.  There was no form. 

So then I assumed the massage therapist would just ask me those questions.  I should have known better, of course.  The extent of her conversation with me was telling me where to put my clothes. 

When I crawled onto the massage table I was disappointed at the lack of amenities.  No strategically placed cushions, no fluffy duvet, no fancy bedding, no heated blankets.  This table was just a table - with 2 blue flannel flat sheets and a heating pad placed under my boobs. 

Ummmm...

But it was too late.  I was naked, and cold, and clinging to any hint of hope that at least the massage would be worth it. 

Well, as you probably know, a massage is almost always worth it.  But this massage?  This massage was weak.  I like a massage therapist to know every single one of my joints and muscles and beat the shit out of them until they feel better.  Not the case last night. 

By the time the whole thing was done, I was not only naked and cold, I was also covered in oil. 

So do I want to book my next appointment?  I should think not.

Lesson learned. 

I just want the pony treasure

GOBBLE GOBBLE. 

It's Thanksgiving here in Canada, so Hubby and I ventured down to visit the fam.  We first went to my Aunt and Uncle's house in small-town Ontario on Saturday night, and then yesterday we visited with Hubby's family in Hometown. 

Yesterday afternoon we went out walking at my happy place with Ma and Pa in law, Cousin J and her adorable dog, and Uncle D and Aunt K and their two girls.  (I call them "girls" because in my head they're still 2 and 5 years old.  Never mind the fact that it's been 11 years since I met them.)



My Happy Place.

Only, this wasn't just any ol' nature walk.  This was "geocaching." 

Have you heard of this, this geocaching? 

Here's what I understand:

People all over the world log onto GeoCaching.com and then they go on a treasure hunt.  The "treasures" are hidden in public places by other people and then marked by map coordinates.  Then hunters use their smartphones and GPS devices to locate the treasures (also known as "caches" to people who actually know what they're talking about).  When you find a cache, you sign your name, take a picture, and then log it on the website. 

It's all very exciting.

So we started off on the treasure hunt that Uncle D had planned out for us.  I was totally on board.  I love walking, I love nature, and I love doing fun things with our family. 

I also love treasure. 

So when Uncle D announced that we'd arrived at the GPS coordinates for the first cache, we went eagerly searching through the woods.  This went on for at least 5 minutes before we gave up.  Sorry, folks, but there was no damn treasure there.  Geocachers are LIARS. 

Despite our initial failure, we carried onward and upward.  We found the second, third, fourth, AND fifth caches.  SUCCESS! 

Although, it's possible that by the time we got to the fourth cache, I was losing interest.  I was far more fascinated by Hubby's poking stick. 



This is Hubby's poking stick. Notice its length, making surprise distance poking possible.




This is Hubby's poking face.  He needs to concentrate very carefully. 



This is Pa in Law, after having been mysteriously poked. 

I might have also been distracted by tiny hungry birds.   

That's a tiny hungry bird on Hubby's hand.  Eating birdseed that Hubby stole found.   

 

When Uncle D asked me to dig out the fourth little treasure box, I was mostly just annoyed that it wasn't the My Little Pony theme I had been promised, and that the congratulations letter was way too long. 

So it turns out that I'm not a good geocacher.   In any case, I've learned that geocaching is more about the experience of the hunting, rather than the finding of the treasure.  Just like life. 

(Although I may or may not have subsequently downloaded the geocaching app and learned that there are half a dozen treasures caches RIGHT NEAR MY HOUSE.  Maybe.)