Texting with Momma is a full time job

Have you heard of the twitter account Texts from last night?

These are texts that people send to their friends, usually while drunk, and then later realize how absurd they were in the clarity of the morning. 

The texts then get tweeted, starting with the area code of the text. 

These tweets are HILARIOUS you guys.

Observe:

 

 

 

 

 

 

See?  Hilarious. 

 

Well, tonight Hubby and I were shopping at Walmart when I got what I can only assume was a drunken "text from last night" from my mother. 

 

Only, it was tonight, not last night.  And she doesn't drink. 

 

Voila:

 



 

 

 

Yes, perhaps we should.   

 





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.