One woman's pleasure is another's worst job ever

I've been thinking a lot about jobs lately. I'm sure it has something to do with my friend Debbie's retirement, my bloggy friend Tammy's job search, and the quest of my former coworkers/current friends as they seek out freelance writing gigs to replace those drying up.

Or it could have everything to do with the fact that my savings account is coming perilously close to the empty mark.

Whatever the reasons, I'm thinking about jobs and how I really need one and how I don't want to settle on one until it's the best job I've ever had. Crazy, I know, especially in this insane economic climate we're all learning to live in. But the clock is ticking on my time here and I want to have the best job ever -- and plenty of years doing it and enjoying it -- before my time is up.

I recently had a pretty good job, but it was far from what I'd classify as the best job ever. I've also had mediocre gigs, plus a few horrid ones that I hated but they helped pay the bills.

I've also worked in a position that downright made me cringe, literally. It's the one I'll not hesitate to share when I become rich and famous and am asked by some reporter "What's the worst job you've ever had?"

Heck. I'll probably never get that rich and famous, so I'll just answer that question here.

When I was about 25, I worked in a beauty salon. I was a "nail tech," applying the biggest, longest, stupidest-looking fake nails on women with lots of money. In addition to doing nails, I occasionally did "wraps." The weight-loss kind of wraps (that really were a bunch of bunk!) and the mother wrap of them all, the highest gig in the salon: the seaweed wrap.

The seaweed wrap was billed as a fabulously relaxing way to pull toxins from the body -- the whole body -- and soften the skin. It was also the smelliest. Rich ladies with too much time and money on their hands Customers would pay about $200 (and this was nearly 25 years ago!) to be painted with reconstituted dehydrated seaweed and lay there in the stinking mess for upwards of an hour.

And who painted the seaweed on their bodies? Me. I was responsible for all the steps it took to make their skin toxin-free and baby-butt soft. For my work, I made $125 -- an unthinkable amount for two hours of work ... at least unthinkable for a 25-year-old with three babies and a husband already  working two jobs to support the family.

So I mentally tallied up how many diapers I could buy with $125 and went through the steps.

Step 1: Show the ladies the restroom, where they could remove their clothes, throw on a robe and return to the wrap room, where they were to remove the robe and settle in on a massage-like table -- in the buff. (It was always ladies. Men requested the service, but that was too freakin' weird for me and I refused to take those customers. Luckily the salon owner understood ... and wrapped the males herself.)

Step 2: Exfoliate the skin -- of the entire naked body -- with a soft-bristled brush. The entire front side ... and I mean entire. All as I held my breath as much as possible because I have a thing about smells -- and these women often didn't smell so great. Then flip for the other side.

Step 3: (After brushing all the gunky dead skin off the table and myself!) Go over the entire naked body with a little rubber massager thingee to stimulate the deeper tissues. Continue holding my breath. Flip for the other side.

(Do note here that I'm kind of a prude. I never was one of those liberated gals who "experimented in college" or any other place and was not used to brushing or massaging or doing anything else to another woman's naked body. The ladies never seemed to notice, as their eyes stayed closed and they appeared asleep through the entire process, but it was the height of discomfort for me. Well, not the "height," as the next step was even worse.)

Step 4: Mix up a batch of seaweed paint using the dried seaweed and warm water, while holding my breath and refraining from gagging; seaweed stinks! Using a paintbrush the size of those found in hair highlighting kits, paint the stinky seaweed slime all over ... no, ALL OVER the already stinky bodies of the women. Flip for the other side.

Step 5: Wrap the stinky seaweed slimy woman in a plastic sheet, put a warm towel over her eyes, turn down the lights, turn on the soft and stupid new-age crap music, and let the woman stew in her juices for 45 minutes.

This is where I would go in the bathroom, scrub my hands nearly raw and try not to cry. I hated this more than anything in the world. If there were cell phones back in the day, I would have then gone out to my car, called Jim and cried. But there were no cell phones so I held back the tears and kept myself busy with other beauty-salon-like chores until the timer went off and my customer was done.

Step 6: Direct the wrap lady to the shower, where she could wash the stinky slimy mess and the toxins sucked from her pores right down the drain. Instruct her to gently towel dry and return to the table -- still in the buff.

Step 7: Lotion up the newly toxin-free and soft-as-a-baby's-butt woman, from neck to toe. Flip for the other side. Tell her to take her time relaxing then get dressed and meet me at the front counter.

This is where I'd again scrub my hands raw, hold back the tears, and practice a fake smile for the final step of the process: collecting payment.

Step 8: Smile, speak in soft new-agey "Wasn't that refreshing and wonderful" terms and take the money from the satisfied customer.

Then, because I always made sure I had no other customers scheduled after a wrap, I pocketed my $125 and drove home. In tears the entire way. Feeling like a prostitute because I took money for doing something I would never ever in my wildest dreams do if I didn't need the money so badly. Then I'd wipe my tears, go in the house and hug my girls. All the while swearing I'd never do it again.

Until the next seaweed wrap showed up on my schedule and I couldn't refuse it. I had three babies at home and a husband who already worked two jobs and we needed the money.

All these years later, I can still smell the stink of that seaweed. Maybe that's the reason I can't stomach sushi.

I think the time has come for me to add "The Best Job Ever" to my resume. I've clearly already had the worst!

Today's question:

What's the worst job YOU have ever had?

Gimme an "M"

During my visit with Bubby, he made it quite clear that he'd aced the child development stage related to object permanance: He knows an object exists even though he can't see it.

And when it comes to some of his favorite objects, Bubby dramatically expresses his sadness that his beloved this or that is existing somewhere other than right there by his side. Be it a toy, animal or loved one, Bubby lowers his head, scrunches his eyes ever so slightly and in the saddest of voices says "buh-bye."

For example, when he misses his best buddy, it's "Ro Ro buh-bye."

When the bunny outside his window decides to hippity hop behind the bush, it's "Bunny buh-bye."

After the garbage truck empties the curbside cans and heads on its way, it's "Truck buh-bye."

And when Megan and Preston left for their trip and Bubby was left with Grandma, it was "Mommy buh-bye. Daddy buh-bye."

All said in a sad tone, all sounding like the poor kid has had his heart broken.

Bubby was sleeping when I kissed him goodbye at the airport, so there wasn't true closure at our departure. One minute I was there, then I was gone. Megan told me that once home, Bubby clearly felt my absence and let everyone know, using his typical, sad "buh-bye." Even his daycare provider told Megan that the next day, Bubby moped around and when asked what was bothering him, he let her know in no uncertain terms that he missed his grandma.

So what did Bubby say to Mommy and his babysitter as he lamented my absence? He told them again and again, "Graya buh-bye."

Uh, what?

"Looks like your name is Graya," Megan told me, with what I thought was a more enthusiastic laugh than was called for. She knows I've been waiting to find out what special name Bubby has for me, the grandma moniker that belongs to only me, separating me from all the other women in his life that have the grandma label attached.

Now that he's talking more and more, it looks like Bubby's come up with that name.

And what do I get?

"Graya."

Yes, I hadn't colored my hair before visiting Bubby and my gray roots were pretty evident, but I didn't think a 19-month-old would notice.

Okay, yeah, I know it has nothing to do with my hair and everything to do with Bubby's inability to fully enunciate yet. But I really don't want to be called "Graya." It doesn't have the warm and cozy ring of something like Nonny or G-ma or Grammy. I want something sweet and loving and special.

If nothing else, I want at least an M in his version of the word "Grandma." I'll settle for being called just plain ol' "Grandma" or "Gramma" over "Graya" any day. Either would be sweet and loving and special coming from my Bubby.

Bubby's vocabulary skills still have much room for improvement, so I'm pretty sure he'll get down the "M" in "Grandma." And if that's who I'll be to him for ever and ever going forward, that's okay with me. Because more important than what he calls me, Bubby makes it clear already, at this young age, that he loves me. And when I'm not there, he misses me.

At least as much as he misses the garbage truck after it empties the neighborhood trash cans and toodles on down the road.

What more could a grandma ask for?

Today's question from the "Would You Rather..." board game:

Would you rather age only from the neck up -- OR -- age only from the neck down?

Assuming that "from the neck up" doesn't involve the actual brain and mental functions, I'll say I'd rather age only from the neck up. I'm starting to get a tad arthritic in my knees and am finding I'd much rather have my body work correctly than have a wrinkle-free face and neck.

Signs you're not yet used to an empty nest

My nest is empty once again, now that Brianna has moved into her new house. Jim and I were here once before, for a very brief period of time when Andrea and Megan were away at college and Brianna lived with some girlfriends.

Then Brianna moved home. And Andrea needed time to figure out her next move after college graduation.

But now with Megan married, Andrea fully ensconced in the life of a single, independent woman and Brianna settled into her new place, the nest is once again empty.

And this time I think it's for good.

And I'm having a little trouble getting used to it. Not emotionally -- I'm thrilled the girls are out on their own and succeeding as adults. It's the smaller habits of a full household that I've not yet been able to break, little things here and there that as I do them, I realize I'm not yet used to an empty nest.

I've started a list of those little things I've noticed myself and other empty nesters I know doing, the signs that we've not yet adjusted to the kids being gone. If you have an empty nest, let me know the signs you've noticed, the habits you're trying to break. And you younger folks -- you whippersnappers whose parents are still trying to get used to life without you (no matter how long it's been!) -- now's your chance to vent about the wacky ways of your empty-nesting mom and dad.

SIGNS YOU'RE NOT YET USED TO AN EMPTY NEST

• You still lock the bathroom door because it's always been the only place you could get a little privacy.

• You have stacks of empty shoe boxes you can't get rid of because you never know when one of the kids may need one for a school project.

• You throw away lots of fruit and vegetables each week, as you're unable to eat all the apples, oranges, kiwi, carrots and bananas that have been a staple of your weekly shopping trip for years.

• Or your freezer is overfilled with frozen black bananas you've saved for making banana bread instead of throwing them away.

• Your freezer is also packed with loaves of frozen banana bread because you have used some of the bananas already.

• You still have a file folder of crafts and recipes you've torn out of magazines that you never got around to doing with the kids. But you keep the folder -- and continue adding to it -- because now your plan is to eventually use them with the grandkids.

• You still buy the same number of rolls of toilet paper you have for the past 20 years and now have enough on hand to stock the bathrooms of all your kids ... and your neighbors ... and their kids.

• Same goes for tampons.

• You find yourself dumping out gallons of spoiled milk on a regular basis because it just doesn't feel right to buy the half-gallon containers.

• You catch yourself saying, "Keep it down ... the kids will hear you" in the middle of arguments.

• And in the bedroom.

• You make three times the amount of dinner you and your spouse will eat.

• Which means you have quart-size baggies of  comfort foods -- chili, crockpot soup and sausage gravy -- stacked in between the mountains of bananas in the freezer.

• Which also means you have very little room left for the frozen pizzas, burritos, Hot Pockets and other favorites of the kids that you still habitually fill your shopping your cart with.

• You've found you kind of like the taste of Cocoa Puffs and Fruit Snacks since the cupboard looks bare without them.

• You pull curtains, sheets off unused beds, rugs, throws and more to wash each week as the three loads of laundry created by you and your husband don't a laundry day make.

• Once you settle into bed at night you realize you forgot to shut off the hall light, the light you always left on so the kids would get safely to the bathroom in the middle of the night.

• Same goes for the porch light, but you decide to leave it on ... just in case one of the kids decides to come home in the middle of the night. In need of some comfort food. Which they know they'll find in the freezer. Right next to the bananas.