Bird Crap On My Shoulders Makes Me Happy

So I’m starting to think about my upcoming vacation—next weekend all the kool kids are going to New Mexico for a sexuality conference. Basically, the foundation that granted my postdoc fellowship is closing down and throwing one big bash...they’re flying us all out for one last conference, complete with open bar for the reception. Hoo-hah!

I was mainly thinking about the social parts of the weekend; I’ll be there with my gal D, and my gal T, whom I haven’t seen in forever (since she got hitched? Could it be?). Then D’s B and my bud J are flying out too, and we are a complete mess when we all get together, so this oughta be good. After the conference, we will be going out to Ten Thousand Waves, my all-time-favorite spa, where we will spend FIVE HOURS getting our asses rubbed by trained professionals. Okay technically, I’m also getting a birdcrap facial, and a massage, and a hottub soak and a sauna session, and I’ll probably get my shop on in the gift shop, but the most important thing is that I Will Be SaltScrubbed. And I’ll be there for 5 hours. (Is it possible to get bored at a spa?)

Wait…what’s that? “Birdcrap?” says you, my loyal imaginary reader… “Was that a typo?”

No, actually, it’s not—you can check it out here. Ten Thousands Waves is a Japanese-style spa that features a special facial traditionally used by geisha. It uses pulverized (and sterilized!) nightingale droppings, which is supposed to do God knows what, but I do know it works. Last time we were planning to go there, we were all on a conference call reviewing the spa offerings, and ohmygod we got a good laugh out of the birdcrap facial. I mean, honestly. But then, damn if D didn’t pick that as what she wanted! I mean, we all knew she was a Product Whore, but we had no idea she’d go so far to satisfy her jaded appetites… Our other friend B heard about this and told her she really didn’t have to spend $90 on such a thing—for $75 he gladly crap on her himself! But D had fabulous skin when it was all over with. Like a baby’s butt. We all took turns stroking her cheeks, in this really obsessive-compulsive way (sorry D). So I’m gonna give it a try. I need a lot of help, so just keep that bird crap comin’, buster. And yes, you may obsessively stroke my cheeks afterwards if you like—apparently people at work feel free to do so, so what the hell.


BTW, I’m experimenting with using initials for names—partially because I’m lazy as hell, but also because it reminds me of a Bronte novel or something. You know, where Mr. B--- declares his undying love for Miss C--- while they are at a party in G---- Manor. We are all so fabulous that we need to be a little incognito.