Several years ago, my wonderful brother-in-law gifted my mother, sister and I a day of pampering at a local salon on the north side of Houston.  It included a facial, massage and pedicure.  Sadly, I’d never experienced two of the three.  Pedicures were a staple in my life.  I’d come to know and love them while living in New York City, as it was one of the few inexpensive perks afforded a poor Advertising employee…that and pizza by the slice.  But facials and massages, never.  They were (I thought) well out of my price range, seemingly too self-indulgent, and, because I was (and admittedly still am) a bit of an odd bird, the thought of lying on a table half naked caused me great stress and the possibility of a major panic attack versus the intended total relaxation.

So, as you might suspect, the morning before the big day at the salon, I was a mess.  It was Saturday, but I woke before the alarm.  I needed preparation time.  Just as others clean house prior to the maid’s arrival, I scrubbed my body from stem to stern.  Outside of the head, arms and face, every last inch of my person was clean shaven.  Tags were pulled from a beautiful, matching set of bra and panties, and I carefully applied a “natural” coat of makeup in an effort to appear as if “yes, this is how I look when I roll out of bed”.  A thousand scenarios ran through my brain as we entered the salon’s parking lot…worst case scenarios, of course.  Would they examine my skin and gasp in horror?  While massaging me, fully exposed and wearing only my birthday suit, would I be scolded for the little pot belly or my blurred “yin and yang” tattoo (ironic, I know).

As if in another dimension, I could faintly hear my mother and sister giddily conversating about how excited they were to finally enjoy some “me time”.  I considered leaping from the car and racing home.  But the thought of ruining their moment stressed me out further.  I unsuccessfully practiced some breathing techniques I’d seen earlier on the weekend edition of the Today show, opened the car door, and walked, in a terrified haze into the bustling salon.

“Hello, ladies!” a slight woman behind a massive oak desk exclaimed.  “Do you have an appointment with us today?”

I tried to respond, but had lost the ability to speak.

My sister took over.  “Yes, we have ten-o-clock appointments.  We each have certificates for a spa day.”

“Well, lucky you!” the young girl responded.  “You must be Carolyn, Kim and Nikki!”

I nodded, relieved that at least my body was still functioning.

“Follow me,” she said.  “We’ll get you started.”  She turned my way.  “Are you Nikki?”

I once again nodded.

“Great!  You’ll go in for your facial first with our Aesthetician, Nancy!  You’re just going to love it!”

I had a pool of saliva in my mouth, but was unable to swallow.

“Just head to the bathroom over there,” she pointed.  “Strip down - you can leave on your undies - and wrap yourself up in one of the provided towels!  Nancy is in Room 1.  Enjoy!”

Oh, sweet Jesus.

I attempted to smile at my family and pleaded with my body to successfully walk me to the electric chair…I mean, bathroom.  I opened the door, turned on the light (so bright…why so bright) and proceeded to strip down to my lacy, never before worn underwear.  I draped my clothing on the provided hangers, wrapped what seemed like a dish towel around my shivering (but very smooth) torso, unlocked the door, and made a bee-line to Room 1.

I knocked.

“C’mon in!”

It was a friendly enough voice.

I slowly opened the door and entered a dimly lit room with flickering candlelight and soft music.

“Hi, Nikki.”  She was so calm.  “I’m just finishing setting up.  Would you like something to drink?”

Is this woman hitting on me?

“No, thanks,” I squeaked.  She appeared not to notice the fear in my voice.

I sat in a low, comfortable chair as Nancy placed what looked to be a large water bubble at the top of the massage table.

Oh, God.

“Ok, all ready,” she said.  “Just lay here…you can keep on your towel.”

Thank you, Jesus.

“Just make sure you lay your shoulders and upper back on the warm water pillow.”

I fumbled about for a bit, sloshing the water from side to side, before finally positioning myself, stiff as a board on the surprisingly comfortable table.  It was adorned, much like a 5-star resort-style bed (i.e. Shutters in SoCal), in piles of white linens.  Nancy placed a pillow under my knees and covered me with more linens.  She brushed my hair back, much like my Momma used to do, and placed her hands on my face.

“First time?” she asked.

“Can you tell?” I replied.  We both giggled.

“It’s a breeze,” she teased.  “Just sit back and let me do the work.  You can even sleep if you like.”

Yeah, right.

“Just so you know,” she said.  “I don’t speak once we get started.  It’s just a policy of mine.”

Relief poured from my body.  I could literally feel myself sinking further into the soft sheets.  No longer did I have to carry the stress of “what the hell do we talk about”.  I had, as you might imagine, a long list of topics in my head in case speaking was required - ranging from my love of animals, to my lack of love life, to the perils of greenhouse gases.

“Do you have any animals?” I couldn’t help myself.  The silence was, well, unexpected.

“Oh, yes…I love animals,” she said.

Good sign.

“Ok, time to get started.  Try to relax, Nikki.  And no talking,” she smiled.

I must admit, the first few minutes were a bit odd.  Most women are nurturing.  It can be tough to calm down and be nurtured.  And let’s face it, this was a new and foreign situation.  The unknown can be a bit scary, but I felt much better when I saw a trash receptacle nearby.  If I needed to hurl, I wouldn’t mess up these pretty sheets. 

“Ok, we’re just about finished.”

Huh?

“You fell asleep, sweetie.”

“I did?  I DID!!!  That’s amazing!”

And it was.  Nancy had achieved the unachievable.  I’m still convinced she’s not human.  I mean, I can’t sleep on a 15-hour flight, not even for a second.  But Nancy, with her strong, but gentle, hands had actually relaxed me to the point of slumber.  The thing is, this was no ordinary facial, I know that now.  It was a dream.  There were sweet (but not too strong-smelling) potions and lotions, hot towels, gentle exfoliants…in the end, my face felt like the quintessential baby’s butt…really.  But that was just the beginning.  Remember that warm water pillow I was so weary of?  It had become my best friend, it’s possible I fell in love with it.  Why?  Because it allowed Nancy, while I was still lying face-up, to massage my back - her hands sliding effortlessly between the pillow and my shoulders and backside.  She then massaged my arms, legs AND FEET!  Yes, you heard me right.  Somewhere in this process, I dozed off.  It was that good.  When I woke, I wondered….was this the facial AND massage?

I found out later that this was not the massage.  It was simply Nancy’s facial.  The massage, it turned out, was handled by a babbling teenager with little experience.  She was what I had feared.  But because my time with Nancy had been so incredibly relaxing, I didn’t care.

An hour later, as my mother and I received side-by-side pedicures, we cooed about our dream facial.  We kept glancing at Room 1, poorly hiding our jealously that Kim was, at that very moment, receiving the magic treatment.  When my sister later emerged, fresh-faced and sleepy-eyed, the three of us floated back to the car, relaxed and revived, and ready to conquer the world.

It would be three years before my next facial with Nancy.  Times had been tough, and, in my mind, facials were a luxury I could not afford.  Little did I know, it was exactly what I needed.  Had I visited Nancy from time to time, some of the obstacles sent my way might not have seemed so insurmountable.  Or, at the least, I might have handled them with a bit more patience.  And, ironically, Nancy was, and is, quite affordable.

For my mother’s birthday last October, my father bought her a year’s worth (of monthly) facials.  He later called Nancy to tell her that in all the gifts he’d bought his wife - from jewelry to clothing and beyond - he’d never seen her squeal quite as loudly as when he presented her with that year’s worth of pampering.  Nancy told me this story when I went to see her last week.  I was not surprised.  And, for a moment, I dreamed of receiving my own free year of facials.  Did you hear that, Daddy?  Daddy?

I decided to return to Nancy for many reasons.  One was my Mom’s constant pontificating about her monthly visits.  Another was the special she was extending through March.  A freaking hour-and-a-half slice of heaven for $75.  I could have chosen an hour for even less.  But it’d been three years, and my face was showing it.  Plus, it was $75!  I found a way to work it out.  And it was even better than I remembered.

Nancy is now on her own in a quaint little commercial condo community near Willowbrook Mall.  The atmosphere is calm and beautiful and, well, perfect.  I rarely, if ever, highlight a business, but this blog is about us.  What makes us the same.  What makes us laugh.  And what makes us happy.  Well, Nancy at Perfecting Skin Care makes me happy.  And so it’s only fair that you know of her, too.

Last weekend, I was planning on attending a friend’s shindig (a “Passion Party”, aka - a party with a Mary Kay-like sales pitch of sex toys).  Nancy had offered up a door prize to be handed out at the party, but at the last minute, I had to cancel.  So now I have this Perfecting Skin Care certificate burning a hole in my purse.  It is…drumroll…a certificate for a NINETY MINUTE FACIAL/MASSAGE!  In other words, it is a certificate to heaven.

This is what I was thinking.  Times are a little tough.  People are stressed out.  Some more than others.  And they need a break.  So, I am giving this certificate away to one lucky reader.  For a chance to receive it, all you have to do is this…send me in the reason why you or a dear friend or loved one deserves some “me time”.  Unfortunately, I only have one, so I will only be able to choose one reader.  If I had more, I would give them all away…but I don’t.  Think about who would most benefit from this and tell me why.  And for my guy readers, remember Valentine’s Day is just around the corner…I’m just sayin’…

***Sidenote, for those who do not receive the certificate, Nancy’s special runs through March.  She even had a special on microdermabrasion when I was there - TEN FREAKIN’ DOLLARS - so you might check into that as well.  Her name is Nancy Hetzel (Perfecting Skin Care) and her numbers are:  (W) 281-586-8838 and (C) 713-557-5059.

Okay, folks - the comment section is open!  Send me the reason why you, your husband, wife, sister, mother, brother, aunt, teacher, butcher, favorite Passion Party salesperson, etc. should receive this well-deserved gift.  I’m listening…

Why is it the expensive stuff always runs out first?  That “no sulfate” shampoo and conditioner…the kind I use to prevent “damaged ends” and provide “deep conditioning”, while avoiding harsh chemicals.  Or the several items in my chosen skincare line that seem to cost the most.  Let’s focus on this.  Skincare.  I do my best to use products that not only prove to achieve what they claim (anti-aging qualities, hydration, etc.), but also products that use mostly natural ingredients.  About 6-8 months ago, I investigated some of these natural skincare lines at Whole Foods.  My previous skincare line (available only at Sephora) had produced less than desirable results at a much-too-expensive price, so the move to something new was a no-brainer.  Okay, so, Whole Foods.  After trying out some tester kits for a couple of weeks, I decided on the slightly-less-expensive-than-Sephora line called MyChelle.  Or so I thought it was less expensive.  It is a good product, don’t get me wrong, but the few items in the skincare routine which cost the most - namely the serum and day and night moisturizers - do not last the purported 8-10 weeks (or whatever the hell it was).  I’m no face cream hog, but this stuff lasts 4 weeks…tops.  And the day moisturizer alone (a.k.a. Supreme Polypeptide Cream) is close to $70…uh uh…no more. 

If you read my last post, you know my dwindling bank account can’t handle this kind of excess.  Odds are, yours can’t either.  So, I’m counting on you, my fabulous readers, to help a girl out.  Can I get quality skincare products without considering food stamps?  Do I have to throw out the idea of “all natural” in an effort to keep the rights to my first-born child?  Are these overpriced products mainly a marketing ploy that this marketing professional has bought into?

Please…pass on your economical beauty secrets.  And I beg that you pass them on in detail.  Skincare lines are complex and loaded with dozens of products.  Which online or drugstore brands are just as effective as the pricey concoctions?  And what are the essential products to use in a daily (and nightly) regimen?  I’m currently using a gentle cleanser (I’m sensitive ladies :)), a toner, some sort of serum, sometimes an eye cream and a moisturizer.  I’d like to stick with a similar (or easier) regimen….but I’m open to any and all suggestions.  I did pose this question on Facebook (a.k.a. “Crackbook”) as well, and got some good suggestions. Oil of Olay and Neutrogena were some…but I didn’t get details on exact products in these lines.

I could be wrong, but I’m guessing the $70 moisturizer and some of those that are much less expensive, have very similar results.  Hydration and sleep generally make the biggest difference for me, but a good skincare line is important for prevention purposes.  I just don’t want to take out a second mortgage on my (nonexistent) home to pay for it.

Okay…so offer it up, gals!  Let me know whatcha got…and let’s kick this bastard economy in its sensitive area.  And, hey…if you have other simple tips for saving money - from groceries to clothing to printer ink cartridges and coupons - pass ‘em on!  Let’s help each other out…we can’t forego keeping ourselves fabulous…but we can do it for less!

About a week-and-a-half ago, I reluctantly decided to check my bank account balance (from my boyfriend’s laptop) in the backseat of a cluttered van somewhere on the outskirts of Raleigh, NC.  Let me preface…although I have thankfully retained my clients in this ulcer-inducing economic climate…I have not escaped unscathed.  Why?  Cutbacks, my friends.  Where once I was churning out quarterly newsletters, I am now asked to produce two (i.e. half the money earned)…and another has slashed our workload from moderate to, well, miniscule.  Guilt forces us to cut back on the monthly retainer (damn those morals…damn you Mom & Dad).  Result?  When I choose to visit my hot little man - who has been on tour for far too long - I humbly and gratefully accept his brother’s greatly reduced Southwest buddy pass.  And I choose to not bring up my financial woes, because, um…he’s sleeping in roach motels in a room with four other men (when they aren’t sleeping in a van), and fine dining for the troopers?  Well that’s a little joint I lovingly refer to as Taco Hell…where they most often order off the “discount menu”. 

So, I flew into Raleigh - which is lovely, by the way - and secretly watched my discretionary spending.  Until the pitfalls of buddy pass (standby) flying set in (it was Spring Break), and I was forced to extend my planned three-day trip by three more days.  Now, mind you, I had two checks sitting patiently in my mailbox at home…waiting to be deposited.  But of course, I had no way of retrieving them.  So I carried on eating my chicken soft tacos and $4.99 diner breakfasts, until I could no longer ignore that forboding feeling in my gut that kept whispering “check your account, you foolish coward…check your account”.  I ignored the bastard voice for a bit longer as Stephen and I trudged across a four lane highway in the cold and rain…headed back to the supreme comfort of our friend, Motel 6.  But we were intercepted by two of his bandmates pulling out of the parking lot in their recently purchased Galveston Shiner Children’s Hospital van.  I, of course, wanted to go back to the motel to stew, but Stephen had other plans.  He hopped in the van.  I did the same for fear of being side-swiped by one of the 800 passing vehicles, and we were off to drop the boys at a local taco joint (go figure).  I stayed in the van…Stephen decided it might be a good idea for him to do the same.  It must’ve been the not-so-expertly-hidden look of intense stress on my face.  In hindsight, he should have joined the boys and risked a stern look.  Because after I pulled out the laptop and finally mustered up the courage to view my account, it’s possible he suffered the unfortunate afteraffects of the sad dollar amount that reared its ugly head.  Was I in the red, you might me asking?  No.  But let’s just say I wouldn’t have had much luck had I attempted to extract $20 from an ATM.  After pushing down the bile that entered my throat, and attempting to cool down my red hot face, I focused my dagger eyes on an innocent man.

“Babe, it’s okay,”  he said, voice slightly shaking.

Probably not the best response at that tender moment.  But he is a man…a man who hasn’t been in a serious relationship in quite some time…a benefit of the doubt I did not allow him at that particular time.

“I have $18 dollars in my account,” I spat.  “And I am not a college student!  I am a grown woman!  An independent grown woman!”

“I know that, babe,” he carefully replied.  “But it’ll be okay.  If it comes down to it, I can give you some cash, or maybe you can call your Dad.”

Strike two.

“I! DON’T! DO! THAT!” I hissed as he cowered in the front bucket seat.  Tears welled in my eyes as the devil himself slithered into my bloodstream.  “I HAVE TAKEN CARE OF MYSELF FOR TWENTY YEARS, AND I DON’T PLAN ON ASKING FOR HANDOUTS…NOT NOW…NOT EVER!”

He didn’t go for the strike out.  He quickly realized…it’s time to stay quiet and allow the snarling beast to extract itself from my soul. He’s a pretty quick study.  A quick study who was finally introduced to the Scorpio in me.  To his credit, he later (much later) laughed it off and made a sort of scorpion striking noise at me.  Although still slightly annoyed, I giggled as well, which also annoyed me.

The next morning I was able to hop on an early flight for an easy trip home.  I think the Lord knew I wouldn’t have easily handled a standby nightmare day. Within twenty-four hours, I had two checks deposited, a refilled bank account and a boyfriend who had his sane (sort of) girlfriend back.  The stress did diminish, but has not left completely.  It’s likely you’re all feeling the same.  It’s likely I’m in a much better position than many others…and I am grateful for that.  But I am damn ready for this “downturn” to head back north.  I hope our newly crowned President can set that collective wish in motion.  Republican…Democrat…I don’t give a crap.  Just GET. IT. DONE.

There is some good news, however.  My van-sleeping pumpkin and his posse have not paid their dues for nuthin.  It looks like the pendulum is finally swinging their way.  Not a shock to me, but still a tough feat in a sometimes brutal business.  They have been courted and signed by a well-respected manager who may or may not (i.e. - she did) have represented one of the biggest artists of all time.  And she is workin’ it for them…she believes in them as much as those of us who love and support them do…and it’s possible all of our lives are about to get very interesting.  Stay tuned…

I’m an independent gal.  A chickadee that can take care of herself.  I can change the light bulb in that high ceiling fan, open that stubborn jar of jelly and put three square meals on the table (or pay for those three square to-go meals).  But sometimes…if my feminist ass is completely honest…I wouldn’t mind tossing a good portion of those responsibilities in a strong, masculine lap.

It’s time to take my car in.  I’m due for an oil change (or maybe a taaaaaad overdue).  The tread on the tires…well, let’s just say a bowling ball has more traction.  And, I’m not sure it’s even worth mentioning, but there is this one other tiny little issue. Nothing major…just a slight grinding noise when I switch into third gear.  I’m sure it’s nothing.  But, it’s possible that…Dad?  (Excuse me for a sec)  Dad?  Everything alright over there, Pops?  Hmmm…it appears I’ve just given my father a coronary.

Look, it’s not totally my fault.  I mean really, have you SEEN the price of gas?  Or my energy bill…the one that’s tripled since April?  Or how about that ever-increasing grocery bill (healthy eating don’t come cheap).  I’m gonna go out on a limb here and assume that the remaining $13 in my bank account won’t quite cover an automobile overhaul.  Just a hunch.

So, I have three choices.  Bite the bullet and take the car in (the credit card company will thank me for that); risk engine failure or a blowout on the deathtrap that is 59 South; or…you guessed it…find me a man.  I’ve dodged marriage for 37 years now, but it’s starting to sound mighty appealing.

“Nikki…this is Gilbert.”

“Hi, Gilbert. Nice to meet you.”

“I prefer ‘Hoover’.”

“I…I’m sorry?  Did you say ‘Hoover’?

“Uh huh.”

“Does that have anything to do with the missing teeth…those two gone in the front and, whoa, look at that, it appears you’re clean out of ‘em on the bottom?”

“Uh huh.”

“Alright…good, good.  Great.  So, ‘Hoover’, you know anything about cars?”

“I work the counter at Jiffy Lube.”

“Hoover?”

“Yeah?”

“Will you marry me?”