I wrote this entry Saturday on my first day of work. It’s Wednesday, my third day of work. I’m reclining on a leopard chez lounger in front of a large stone fountain. A giant lion head anchored to the wall, is spitting water into a two tier bowl. The fountain is pouring out and recycling mountains of soap suds put in there on purpose by the owner. This is her solution so that the water doesn’t splash on the ground. Next to the fountain, and scattered throughout the spa are fake palm trees, with the occasional fake red parrot wired to a branch. Jimmy, the owner of the pizza place next door, is sleeping in one of the therapy rooms. Jimmy is an asshole.

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My first day at my job. It’s 4:00. I got here at 3:00. For the last hour I’ve been sitting at a table with a green plastic table cloth imprinted with a design of grape leaves. There is a red glass, mosaic candle holder in the middle. The other therapist and the owner were here, but they both left. The owner, Joanna, decided to go home and take a nap. The other therapist got a call from the Bellagio for a massage.

Fifteen minutes ago, in a sudden burst of activity, Joanna packed up her car with the tables and left over food from the party they had here last night for her Jehovah’s Witness sisters and drove away. The other therapist left shortly afterwards. A third therapist that was in the back taking a nap came out with her pet rat in a cage that was staying here for a few days while she moved into a new apartment. We met in the hall as she was leaving. She said, “Hey, great hair.” I replied, “I like your pants”. With that, a superficial bond based on fashion was borne.

As the owner was walking out of the door, she said, “you’re going to need a key.” She pulled one out of the desk drawer of her tiny, paper strewn office and put it on the table in front of me. She starts to walk out again, and as an afterthought, she comes back and shows me how to use the credit card machine, and transfer the phones to her house. She runs through it like a telemarketer explaining the benefits of a newspaper subscription. She asks me if I understand. I say yes, even though I don’t, because, I can see, she’s not a very patient woman and I think she has a hangover. On her way out, she says, “If you get a client, just put this sign on the door that says all therapists in session, and lock it behind you.” And then she is gone.

I’m praying to god that no customers come until the other therapist gets back.

Fifteen minutes later…..a customer walks in.

I don’t know where the client intake forms are. I can’t get the phones to transfer. I lock the door before I put the sign outside. As the lock turns over, I think, I’m alone in this building with a strange man, and I’m locking the door behind me. The thought was only for a second. I’m a pretty good judge of character, and I judged this person as a harmless client in search of a therapeutic massage. And, since the self defense class….I’m just waiting for a chance to kick someone’s ass. So either way, it was going to be fine.

During the session I notice he has lower back pain and I ask him about it. He says he went to a chiropractor and the chiropractor told him that his was the only back he could never adjust. I said, “sounds like and excuse from a bad chiropractor.” I then mentally kick myself for ripping on this guys chiropractor that is probably his brother-in-law or best friend. But, I can’t stop. I launch into a diatribe about his flat feet and protruding tibias…all ending up with low back pain. I tell him all about the importance of good shoes as a beginning foundation. When I am done, he doesn’t say anything. I feel like in my nervous panic, I have barraged this client with tons of annoying information he isn’t the least interested in. After a minute of silence, he says, “That’s funny that you mention it, I have noticed that my back hurts more or less depending on what shoes I wear.” In my head, I let out a sigh of relief. When he left, (thankfully paying cash, so I didn’t have to deal with the credit card machine) he asked for my schedule and said he would be back next week.

Now, It’s almost six and I’m back at the green plastic tablecloth, a fully initiated professional massage therapist.

-Please note that I wrote this a few days ago. I’m much better. I think this entry is very long and boring. I’m posting it anyway because spent some time writing it, and, why the hell not. But really, I’m warning you I’m not at my best.

I’m still here. I think I’m a little depressed. I said a little….not too much….just a little. Las Vegas is still good. Good being used as a bland, innocuous descriptive word to soften the tirade of hate that will surely pour forth. Just kidding, a tirade of hate will not be forth coming, that sentence may have been spawned by my lack of breakfast. A tirade of confusion, weirdness and disconnection maybe, but hate is a little strong.

Yesterday as we walked out the door, X said, “hey, it’s only 100 degrees today”. There was not a hint of sarcasm in his voice. I agreed, it was much cooler than the standard 110. In defense of Sin City 110 in Vegas is not the same as 110 in Michigan.

I got a job. I start Saturday. Actually, to be more accurate, I got two jobs. I called around and got an interview at a spa, and then went to the wrong one. Through a weird set of circumstances, similar directions, owner being out of town, managers first day on the job, I did the interview at the wrong place.

An interview for a massage therapist consists of filling out a standard application, chatting with the manager and then giving an hour massage. The manager said she would call me back Wednesday to let me know. On Thursday, I called the number I had originally made the appointment with asking if the job was still available. She didn’t know what I was talking about, since I had never shown up for the interview. We put two and two together and scheduled another interview. I did the second interview and was hired at the original spa.

It was nice (nice being a euphemism for annoying) when I called my mom and told her I got a job, she said, “Doing What?”. I said, “remember that massage school thing I did for a year, and all those times I talked about getting a job as a massage therapist when I got to Vegas?” She said, “Yeah, I guess. But you’re called a massage therapist?” At this point I just tried to be calm, because I thought she might be having a aneurism or something. “Yes, a massage therapist. What did you think my title was?” She thought for a second and said, “Oh I don’t know, maybe a massagist or something.”

Boring, boring, boring. I just feel boring. I haven’t written anything because I don’t feel clever, smart, witty, intellegent….and fat…..I feel really, really fat. I’m been trying to put my finger on what’s bugging me with much difficulty.

Enough bitching, here’s something a little more positive.

X and I signed up for dance lessons. We felt very weird and dumb doing it, but so far, it’s turned out to be fun. On the “intake” form under the reason for the lessons I wrote, “X wants to make Cindigo happy”. This is true, but I think he’s having fun too. Although, under the “competency” section, he checked that he wanted to be comfortable dancing in social situations, and I checked I want to dance to get attention…….I bet you didn’t see that one coming.

Maybe, once we start going to the group lessons and parties, we can meet some people. I was sure that everyone there would be ancient, and that was the price to pay if you wanted to learn how to dance, but I was assured that there were just as many young people as old. It makes me feel better to see that oneofthem is taking swing lessons. We signed up for swing, salsa and tango.

PEEPS….I MISS YOU!

That is all to report from cindigodotcom.

Now marks the first use of wireless internet on the balcony. Judges say, wireless internet from the balcony, although hot, gets an A+ rating.

The cute, clean, non diseased, coo cooing pigeons are closing in on me in an Alfred Hitchcock sort of way. I was eating a salad a few minutes ago and one lone pigeon came down from a tiled rooftop fifteen feet away to check out what was happening on my balcony. He kept walking up and down the roof, going behind the overhang and then walking out trying to be all casual, “Oh, don’t mind me here (flap, flap) I’m just stretching my wings, walking up and down this here roof .” *insert pigeon whistling in a forced casual manner*

In the ten minutes that it took to eat my salad, at least five pigeons have flapped across the complex to perch in the surrounding trees to watch me eat. One particularly aggressive bird is about five feet away, clamped on to a branch with his little birdie feet, his eyes burning holes me.

I’m getting the idea that some people might feed the birds from their balconies. It’s kind of cool, but a little unnerving. I started talking to the pigeons in a New York accent, saying things to them like “step off, or I’m a gonna’ breaka you face”. I noticed my downstairs neighbor is outside on his patio smoking. Hi neighbor, I hope you’re not from Brooklyn. From this angle, I am looking straight down on his curly, grey, hairy back. *Note to self: balcony curtains number one on the list.*

Murphy the dog is out here too. She’s laying at my feet with her head resting on the cement in between the metal railings of the balcony. She seems not to be interested at all in pigeons. I am sorry to say, and I haven’t told her yet, but, there doesn’t seem to be any squirrels in Las Vegas. Murphy the dog loved to defend her territory against squirrels. “Murphy get the pigeon / pine cone / kitty / cockroach…errrr…..palmetto bug / super speed fire ants,” just don’t have the same appeal to her even when said in the same playful and baiting voice.

I was going to tell the story of the ant filled kitchen but I’m hot, and I want to go in now. Should I? I will. Here’s the short form. Ants, not normal ants, Las Vegas ants, small, fast, thousands. Pet food=ants. X from the kitchen”ANTS! OH GROSS! ANTS!” Me walking into the kitchen with bare feet, “Where, I don’t see any ants? *puts on glasses* OH GROSS, ANTS!” Conclusion of story: 2 am X cleaned up ants and caulked the drier vent shut. Funny and handy that one.

Today X and I drove around town and made fun of Dr. Laura’s snorting laugh, went to Wallgreens, got coffee at a much friendlier Starbucks and ate at Denny’s. But mostly we drove around at made fun of Dr. Laura and decided that the kids we will never have would be allowed to wear a Marilyn Manson shirt to school, but not an Insane Clown Posse shirt. If our never to be in existence child insisted on wearing the I.C.P shirt, I would throw it behind the dryer and pretend not to know where it went. I would even go so far as to help him/her look for the missing shirt. Not that I’ve ever done anything like that before.<—-sly, baiting, sarcasm intimating that cindigo *has* in deed done something like that before.

In conclusion, today, Vegas overall rating B+ verging on an A-.