Cold Stone, "Massage" Chairs, & Prepared Childbirth
May 24, 2011
With my current job at Unemployment Inc., I have ample time to hang out anytime anyone wants (seriously…anytime). I also have time to help out friends when they need me. Last week I got to watch 66.6% of my friend Megan’s kids while her husband took the other 33.3% to the doctor. She just had twins, so I got to play with one of the 11-week old twins and her 18ish month old son. Her husband brought back some tulips and a Cold Stone Creamery gift card to say “thanks”. Very thoughtful, right?!
If you ever wonder how long it takes Taylor and I to spend a gift card, I can answer: less than 24 hours. So, the next day, we head to get ice cream with our card. We’re not too worried about what we order because surely $15 covers two ice creams. He orders some frou-frou concoction while I order the uge (short for usual) – Rocky Road mix. We also order one brownie, a whopping $1.99.
Mr. Ice Cream rings up our order and tells us that the total is $20. Twenty American dollars for 2 people’s ice cream and one brownie. We’re shocked that we’ll have to pay more than the gift card, but we hand it to him anyway. He runs the card then looks at us and says, “Um…this is for Cold Stone.” We look back and him like, “Uh huh…and…?” He then informs us that we have just ordered $20 worth of ice cream at Marble Slab, not Cold Stone.
We ended up forking over the money to pay for our waffle cones that must have been made of angel wings and flown in from Italy. That’s the only solution as to why our treats were so expensive.
A few months ago, my mom, dad, and two fabulous friends came to visit from Kansas. Sharon, Sandy, my mom, and I went to get pedicures at a nail salon in the mall here. It was a fun, girly experience that I hope becomes a tradition any time we are together.
I need to share my experience with you, however, to act as a) a warning for your personal modesty and b) a hearty laugh if you’ve ever had the pleasure of sitting in one of these “massage” chairs.
Sharon and I were sitting next to each other on one side of the salon. As soon as we sat down and put our feet in the water, the little ladies turned on our massage chairs to the normal setting. After shopping at Canton (among other Fort Worth stores) for hours on end, it felt awesome to relax and enjoy the massage that feels nothing like a real massage…
…that is until the chair harassed us.
These particular chairs come equipped with a butt-massage function that catches the user completely off-guard. Here we are, enjoying peaceful vibrations and mild massaging, when this fist-like apparatus comes up from the seat of the chair and begins to prod our butts. Literally, it feels as though a baseball bat is violently and rhythmically harassing our bums. Almost simultaneously, Sharon and I experience this and look at each other in pure shock. Of course we laugh our heads off like little girls before turning off the unpleasantness. It’s not remotely comfortable, and I have no idea what exactly it’s supposed to be massaging.
I wish I could be in the meeting with the designers of this chair. I want to know two things: who thought, “You know what would be awesome? A chair with a fist that punches people right in the butt. I think this chair will fit perfectly in our new line of sexual-harassment products.” I also want to know who agreed with our aforementioned designer.
Maybe we were on Punk’d and didn’t realize it.
My mom and Sandy were apparently oblivious to this function, but luckily mom and I went back to the same place a few weeks ago and she had the pleasure of experiencing the “massage” firsthand. She just said a lot of, “OH! There is something… What in the…. Now I know what y’all were…Oh!…talking about.” Hilarious.
Have you ever been in such a massage chair?! You should have to sign some sort of release form before being subjected to it.
Even though I haven’t given birth before, Taylor and I are pros. We took a 14 hour “Prepared Childbirth” class over a couple Saturdays, so we know everything there is to know. We’ve got this under control.
I wish we would have waited until a little later to take the class, because it made us excited for Beckett boy to get here. Either way, it was fabulous.
One of our favorite things learned was about the “fundus”. Supposedly it’s just the top of the uterus and they massage this thing after you give birth.
You know those times in life when you can’t help but laugh uncontrollably at inopportune times? These are the times when you shouldn’t really be laughing at all, but something has turned your giggle box on and you absolutely positively cannot get it under control?
I felt this way every time the nurse said “and then we’ll massage your fundus”.
I mean, really? Do I want my “fundus” massaged? It sounds a lot like the above pedicure chair.
She managed to say “massage the fundus” at least a dozen times during the course of our classes, and I could not help but giggle like an 8 year old every time. We are in a room full of people trying to pay attention to the medical details surrounding their firstborn’s birth and we cannot stop cracking up about a stupid fundus massage. Grow up, Brooks.
My other favorite part of the class was when the coaches (read: husband and/or boyfriend) had to guess what the women’s answers were to certain questions. One question was, “What feature or trait do you want your husband to pass on to your baby?” A lot of people answered “his smile” or “his intelligence” or something. This poor Asian man was dead-set on the fact that he knew his wife’s answer so, in front of the whole group, he confidently said, “She most likely said ‘my personality’.” She just looked at him and goes, “No. Your eyes.” Haha! I’m sure he’s a sweetie. (A sweetie who thinks he has a super stellar personality.)
Hopefully we won’t have to put our new learnings to the test in the next few weeks, but we are getting closer! I will be 28 weeks on Thursday.
Here is a progression overview. Try to focus on the belly, not the arms or the other body parts also rapidly growing:
I would show you my actual belly and maybe even do a progression of my belly button, but it creeps people out. Taylor told me a few months ago that he “didn’t want to touch my belly button anymore so stop asking him.” I guess I’m the only one intrigued by its abnormal shapes.
And for funzies, a picture of the bridesmaid dress Beckett and I nearly did not fit into. We ended up fitting, but my lungs and subsequent oxygen did not. Also pictured is Christie and “Blob”, Beckett’s soon-to-be best friend.