A couple of times a year Spike pays a visit to the spa at a
local hoity-toity hotel. I won’t tell you the name of the hotel, of course, but
it’s a very famous and high-end chain. Oh OK, here’s a hint: think Cracker
Brand-Cigarette Brand. Ha! That should keep you busy for a while.
For some reason Spike likes to get facials. And it’s not
just at the Cracker-Cigarette either. Nearly every time we go on vacation, in
whatever part of the world we happen to be, Spike will find someone who is more
than happy to relieve her of one hundred, one-fifty, even two hundred dollars
and slap goop on her face. And apparently she’s not alone—women seem to love
this spa treatment. Someday I’ll explain it to you, right after I figure out
the other 75,784 nutty things that women like to do.
Last week Spike went to our local hotel for her semi-annual
facial. When she returned I asked her how her facial was, since pretending to
care about stuff like that is a big part of my job. She responded with a less
than enthusiastic, “It was O.K.” Just OK? Uh-oh, I knew there was trouble in
And there was. It seems that the
therapist/technician/goopologist or whatever the hell they want to be called
was a yakker. She talked non-stop through the entire process, making the facial
experience much less relaxing than Spike had hoped it to be.
When you’re a captive going through a treatment, either for
relaxation or repair, do you ever get a yakker who just won’t shut up? Oh sure,
you may be the type who wants to talk while you’re getting your massage or hair
cut or teeth cleaned but what do you do if you’re not? In most cases answering
questions with a terse yes or no will give the yakker a clue, but every now and
then you get one who just doesn’t get it.
I told Spike that I wanted to make an anonymous call to the
hotel, (Is an anonymous phone call still electronically possible?) tell Spike’s
story and politely suggest that they mention at the next Goopers Meeting that
they shouldn’t talk too much when their client is paying $180 to relax. I
wouldn’t mention my name or the name of the yakker. Nobody would get in
trouble—they’d just learn to shut the hell up. After all, this isn’t some
half-assed $20 treatment conducted in a moonlighting co-worker’s stinky
kitchen. This is the Cracker-Cigarette!
Spike, of course, wouldn’t hear of it. She politely told me
to MYOB, (Maybe it wasn’t so politely, now that I think of it) and I’ve
respected her wishes. Still, on the off chance that one of you facial babes
from down the road is reading this, (and believe me I know the odds are about
the same as Vladimir Putin leaving a complimentary note in the Comments) how about
cutting down a bit on the yapping? If you want to talk non-stop for an hour
perhaps you can take the two bills you make from the facial and go see a
shrink. He’ll be more than happy to listen to your endless blabbering—it’s his