Still coming down from a blissful weekend. Made no art, barely got the house licked and promised before bed Sunday, and the cats are not on speaking terms with me (at least, not until the food bowl requires refilling); but a great weekend nonetheless.
It all began with Spa Day on Friday. We started the Spa Day tradition last year, when Lynchpin was feeling blue because Hub was at an SCA event, and she wasn't. (He was feeling the need for some time with the boys. She had homework, the bane of any Master's program.)
So we decided to get a group together at her place, avail ourselves of the hot tub, make some delightful snackies, and paint our nails colors not found in nature. And then we realized that one of our mutual guy friends was a licensed massage therapist . . .
Enter Spa Day year two, the way we've always done it. (Once is the thing itself, twice is the way we've always done it, three times is tradition.) This time, Goldfingers brought a roaster oven and his Rocks of Bliss.
I never understood about hot rock massages. Rocks are HARD, after all. And hard and hot doesn't necessarily make for an improvement.
But now I get it. Oh, boy. I swiped one of Goldfingers' business cards, and asked what the going "friends" rate is. And considering he'll come to my own little home, on my schedule . . . well. It pays to know the right people.
Catch you Sunday. Hopefully I'll have something worth showing. This blissful smile doesn't count.