A Wish to Build a Dream On...or Help Make Me the Sego Lilly Blogger!

Rarely in life does the perfect opportunity come along at the perfect time and offer the perfect reward for a job well done. One such gem was waiting for me this morning in my hotmail inbox: The Utah Search for the Sego Lilly Blogger. As I walk/run/drag my feet each day on my current path of gratitude and humility I never cease to be amazed by those who are looking out for me and sending not only encouragement my way but leads for cool ways for me to be my most authentic self--(no, not a highly functioning lush!) a writer.

Here's the skinny: Sego Lilly Mind Body Spa Sego Lilly Mind Body Spa is looking for a blogger. To choose said blogger, they are having a blogging contest. All the entries will be posted and then YOU, dear reader, will get to vote for the blogger that leaves you wanting more! My bid to be that blogger follows--a little vignette to whet your appetite. Enjoy!

Sounds of the rainforest, yummy smells, soft lighting, and reprieve from the hustle and bustle of day-to-day life: these are things I associate with a spa—but it was not always so. When I was a spa-virgin, instead of conjuring images of Solitude, Peace, and Ahhhh…I was filled with Silly Paranoid Anxiety. On some level I knew my apprehensions were ridiculous, but I just couldn’t shake them.

Not only did the world of spas seem like an exclusive club that would never accept me as a member; I was really worried about my panties. Should they stay or should they go? What was the protocol? I didn’t want to leave them on and further clue the Glamorous Spa Tribe in to the fact that they should never have let me cross the threshold—but I didn’t want to take them off for the very same reason. I couldn’t ask anyone because then it would look like I’d never been to a spa before (regardless of the fact that I HAD never been to a spa before!)

I decided to go for modesty (a shock, I know) and keep the panties on. I finished putting my clothes and belongings in my locker and cozied up in a plush, white robe. My therapist came and took me to the room where I’d be having my first treatment—an aromatherapy bath. As I looked at the tub I saw the crystal-clear answer to the panty enigma—worse than being caught with no undies on, is trying to covertly peel them off and stuff them into the pocket of a complementary robe.

My fears did not end with underwear protocol. I have a pair of boots that I love; however, these particular boots are olfactory-challenged. I don’t know if it’s the materials they are made from, but my feet tend to be a little bit funky after spending the day in these boots. Needless to say I found myself at a spa, ready to get a much-needed massage, when I looked down and realized which shoes I had on. Ugh. Why did I wear these boots today?

I was terrified of unleashing my feet and the unholy smell that would accompany them. No one would be willing to touch me now—you just can’t expect people to work under these kinds of conditions! Thank heavens for locker rooms and showers—but I still always wonder if I somehow offend when I’m receiving a service and they give my feet the hot towel treatment.

Now that I am a fairly seasoned spa-goer, I have less anxiety attacks and fewer embarrassing moments. I attribute my comfort level and confidence not to myself and my fabulous personal growth and maturity, but to the gifted members of the Glamorous Spa Tribe. A truly fantastic spa experience leaves you feeling like you are the most important person in the world and that no matter what you do with your underwear or aromatic feet, you are perfect—just as you are.

If you want to hear more spa adventures from this 21st Century WonderWoman, then be sure to stay tuned for how you can vote for my blog & help make me the Sego Lilly Blogger !! (If that link doesn't work, go to http://segolilyspa.com/blog/contest-entry/ to find out more!)

Calling in sick

It started with the chills and a pathetic, little cough. Four feverish days, sleepless nights, and unending hours of suffering later I was the sickest person in the doctor's office. I had it all: fever, body aches, chills, sweats, stiffness, headache, congestion, the most powerful death-rattle cough and, sadly, diarrhea.

There were moments when I truly wanted it all to end--not the least of them occurring during my visit to the doctor. I was medication-free (not that it helped anyway!) because I didn't want any of my suffering to be masked when the doctor looked at me. I wanted to be sure that she was fully aware of my torment and, subsequently, very willing to give me some killer meds that would give me the sweet release of slumber. My fever was over 101, my eyesight was blurry, my nose so congested I was convinced my whole head had turned into a solid, and that damn cough wouldn't give me a moment's peace.

It was the cough that led to the afore-mentioned deathwish. I was waiting for the doctor after having a deceptively sweet medical assistant try to prepare me for mummification. I know she wasn't just swabbing me to test for influenza--she was trying to scramble my brains and pull them out through my nose. As I sat there on the exam table, fully grasping why people used to die so often from illnesses such as mine and admiring my own bravery in the face of such a daunting plague, the coughing fit to end all coughing fits struck.

While I was suffocating from the fury of the fit, the worst thing imaginable happened: I leaked. Yes, you heard me. I leaked. I coughed so hard that my innocent bodily fluids were forced violently in every direction--some of that between my legs, through my underwear, my jeans, and onto the lovely white paper used to make sure patients are sitting on a sterile exam table. I jumped up in a panic to see if there was some way I was mistaken. I was not. This was it. The end. I was either going to be struck dead from this horrid illness or the mortification of just having entered the Depends era of my life.

I looked around like a lunatic searching for a corner in a round room. How could I dispose of the evidence? I grabbed some tissues and tried dabbing at and then covering up the evidence. Out damn spot! But to no avail--I needed to do something more drastic. Before I could rip off the paper and wad it up small enough so that no one would notice it hadn't been in the tiny wastepaper basket before, there was a knock on the door. I leaped back onto the table.

One negative influenza result and one positive diagnosis of pneumonia later, I was once again alone in the room. With my shame. I fiercely clutched my three blessed prescriptions and, head hanging low, shimmied down from the exam table. I looked at the defiant, little, wet spot. A strangely rational vice in my head told me that this was probably not the worst thing ever found on an exam table paper. With a deep breath, a gasping cough, and a defeated sense of resignation I threw a tissue onto the table and left the room.

Sweet Surprises

Life with my beautiful, headstrong, creative, and challenging 13-year-old has been more intense than usual for the past four weeks: she's been grounded. And any parent knows that what that really means is that WE are grounded. It is impossible to ground your child without simultaneously punishing yourself.

Gabi has been in the proverbial doghouse due to typical teenage crimes like lying, failing classes, throwing attitude, and lying some more just for good measure. This week is the last week of her original sentence...and she is itching for release. The youth group at church is participating in a community-wide lock-in Friday night and she wants to go SOOOOOOO badly.

Please, mom, PLEASE!!!

Being the merciful parental figure that I am, I struck a bargain with her. If she got all of her current and late assignments completed--and turned in (it's not an obvious follow up to doing homework, no matter how much it seems it should be)--and finishes a list of Cinderella-like chores, she can earn an early release date and be given freedom three days in advance to attend the lock-in.

Another of my parenting philosophies has been to ensure that my girls have a strong grasp on the value of effectively (not pathetically) kissing some ass when the occasion calls for it. This has led to many ridiculous and hilarious efforts on their parts--and, after last night, I know the lesson has been well-learned.

I was returning home for a long day hard at work (over 12 hours, due to the multiple directions of my employ these days) when I received this text from the indomitable teenager:

"let me know when you are 10 minutes away, I have a surprise for you"

My curiosity was definitely peaked. When I was almost home, I texted her of my impending arrival. I had a few ideas of what the surprise may be, but I was totally off-base.

When I got home, she greeted me and asked me to come up to my room. One of her slave tasks had been to clean my bathroom (parenting does have perks!) so I figured she wanted to show off a job well done.

I walked into my room and saw a candlelit glow emanating from my bathroom. The sunken garden tub was filled with hot, yummy-smelling water and was surrounded with candles. Where a huge pile of laundry had been collecting for the past 10 days or so, there was nothing. Where makeup and lotion had been scattered, there was order.

This sweet (albeit manipulative) girlie had transformed my favorite room in the house into a relaxing, spa getaway at the end of a hard day. There were tears in my eyes. Ass-kissing be damned!--she had done something that was thoughtfully committed to nothing but me and my enjoyment.

And she topped it off with the piece de resistance: an ice-cold beer brought to me as I luxuriated in the hot water and melted away not just the stress of the day, but the stress of the grounding, the stress of worrying that I'm doing everything wrong, and the stress that I don't know what my relationship is with this enigmatic, beguiling, little nymph. In one gesture she let me know that, at the end of the day, we're okay--and that was the best surprise of all!

The Hunchback of SLC

Today I am hunched over--literally, not figuratively. I awoke with the usual stiffness in my lower lumbar region and it has yet to dissipate from stretching, movement, time. I am in my not-quite-upright state, and that, combined with my severely pulled back hair (too lazy to wash, dry & straighten/curl this morning) and old-lady sweater, makes me imagine myself as a curmudgeonly witch looking for a prince to turn into a toad or a gluttonous child to shove into my oven. It's not a bad feeling--in fact, I kind of like it. If I could, I would jump on my broomstick and fly to a little cottage in the woods, build a fire, and cozy up with a strong potion and an ancient tome of original fairy tales!