WHAT A MONTH.I would give an explanation for our absence, but we’ve been in the process of moving to England. Surely your blog might take a hit on Ye Olde Prioritie List if you were in the same shoes, said shoes traversing two oceans and a continent. I’m writing this from our temporary flat in Harrogate, which is a rather comfortable two-bedroom multi-level dwelling in a VERY nice neighborhood, a mere ten minutes walk from one of the best playgrounds I’ve ever seen. Inexplicably, “Friends” is on quite a bit so a decade-old sitcom has become the soundrack to our evenings.
What I WILL promise is that I’ll update rather frequently this week with a tale from each leg of our journey, and I’ll start with our last day in Hawaii.
I suggested to Tom that after the enormous stress of getting out of our apartment and getting our stuff shipped to England, he may wish to avail himself of the hotel’s spa and get a massage. He agreed and being the nice guy he is booked me an appointment as well. He scheduled a basic massage for himself and a skin treatment with massage for me, which was one of the most indulgent experiences I’ve ever had. I wish I had realized that the locker room with the steam/sauna/whirlpool was open all day long to spa users; probably for the best that I didn’t lest I take up permanent residence in the locker room. I was led to the private spa elevator, where a few other guests cut in front of me without realizing that was the spa-only elevator. I actually hadn’t noticed they did that, so absorbed was I in the waffle knit of the robe (light waffle knit AND fluffy? How do they DO that?) until my hostess started telling me a story about a guest who spoke to the hostess’s manager because she was so furious that someone had cut in front of her. That actually happens to me a lot. Maybe it’s the wrist tattoo or the perpetually unkempt hair but service professionals love to tell me their stories of the Posh ‘n Bitchy. I like that people see me as a friendly face, sad as I am that I’m not immediately recognizable as someone of the upper crust (which is because I absolutely am not).
Aside from that, I was spoiled rotten every second I was in the spa and ready to renounce my family and American citizenship in order to stay there forever as a resident of Spa-land. The service I booked was a body scrub with an ultra-moisturizing skin treatment and wrap. The tech started with a mixture of spices and lavender for the scrub and moved on to a coconut milk and fragiapani lotion, which was left on the skin for the wrap. I’m pretty sure they do something similar to the pig before the luau.
To get it all to soak in, the tech wrapped me in a Mylar blanket and covered me with a hot towel. Nestling in I thought to myself “This is how burritos feel before they get eaten!” Except burritos, tubes of magic though they are, don’t get massages that are so exquisite that I felt like my head was lifted straight off my spine and put back on correctly. It was like a full spinal transplant.
Alas, Tom’s appointment started fifteen minutes after mine ended, so I rushed out to the lobby to meet him and my mellow was UTTERLY harshed by the enthusiastic and happy howls of the toddler in the stroller. In order to maintain what was left of my mellow I immediately filled her yappy little face with ice cream, which turned out fantastically until I spilled chocolate ice cream down my shirt.
Like I said…upper crust, I am not.