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 Goopville.
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 job.