My Third Eye Is Thoroughly Relaxed Now

Yes, a rough life, I know. First a Morrissey concert, then a day at the spa – a girl could get used to this.

I was finally able to renew a gift certificate I had left over from Christmas (yeah, I know that sounds really obnoxious….), at this little spa place right near the theater where I was all gooey and sentimental over Morrissey the previous night. I decided I would get something different from the usual massage or facial and indulge in a “Shirodhara Scalp Massage" along side a peppermint scrub pedicure.

Folks, I cannot say enough good things about this scalp massage thingy. Admittedly it’s a little new age-y, but it’s all good. First, they rub cool stones over your face – which feels a whole lot better than it sounds. Then they pour warm oil over the “third eye” on your forehead which feels every bit as new age-y as it sounds. But then the rubbing.

My God, the rubbing.

Then they rub your scalp for 45 minutes – the exact same way your mom did when you were a kid, which makes you all sleepy and relaxed and zen-like and able to ignore the fact that cool stones are occasionally re-applied to your face and that they're pouring warm oil over your head and that you’re in a spa paying for this rather than being 8 years old and having your actual mom rubbing your actual head.

At the end you emerge, as my head-rubber called me, as a “greaseball,” (because, after all, your hair has been virtually soaked in oil for 45 minutes) albeit a very relaxed, chilled out greaseball.

Worth every penny the gift card was spent on...it's enough to send a girl home singing "Girlfriend in a Coma" the whole way without even thinking of the fact that she's dripping oil onto her Old Navy t-shirt.

Panic on the Streets of....Denver?

If you’ve ever wondered what it might take to make 33-year-old Beth all giggly and school girlish, then all you have to do it take her to a Morrissey concert with her junior high co-hort Rena and there you’ll have it. He may be 48 and a bit gray at the temples, but he’s still got what it takes to make me giddy and weak in the knees.

Against an angsty backdrop of James Dean, urging the crowd to ‘be tender with him” due to the altitude, the Moz put on one hell of a show, including Smiths’ favorites like "Panic," "How Soon Is Now," and "Please Please Please Let Me Get What I Want." It was all I could do to just stand there and grin like a maniac while clinging to my $7 beer. The encore sucked, but HEY, if you don’t leave a Morrissey concert feeling sad and angsty, what good is it, right?

I’m sorry folks, but there’s something very poignant and moving about a crowd of angst-ridden 30-year-olds screaming out “I AM HUMAN AND I NEED TO BE LOVED” at the top of their beer-soaked lungs. Growing up, Morrissey’s music spoke to me – and dare I say, actually saved my life - at times when I felt utterly alone; it was touching to hear him again in an entirely different time and place in my life. I recall journals of mine in college plastered with lyrics from Morrissey and the Smiths that still touch me. Being in a concert with hundreds of like-minded folks seemed downright therapeutic.

Anyhoo.....Good to reconnect with old friends over old music. I’m in Denver, by the way….

“Burn down the disco….hang the blessed DJ….because the music that they constantly play….sings nothing to me about my life….”

An Open Letter to the Hotel Diva in San Francisco

Dear Hotel Diva,

Um, hi. I’m not a diva by any standard – my people, the Danish, were brought up to believe that it’s just plain bad manners to raise a fuss about ANYTHING (including being in fire, trapped in a well, etc.), so I feel a little out of sorts by writing you in the first place. However, you’re the freakin’ HOTEL DIVA so I feel like we need to talk. I mean, look at those pictures of you - you're adorable. And while technically not incorrect, they're a little misleading.

For one, the fact that you have concert footage of Cher and Liza playing in the lobby (kitschy in its own right) isn’t enough to make you “diva-licious.” My room was smaller than my kitchen table and featured a “goody bag” that included deodorant and coupons for male body spray. Again, I hate to raise a fuss here, but you call those GOODIES? What self-respecting diva in her right mind is going to be wooed by some deodorant and a few sample pieces of Trident?

Girlfriend, do we need to also talk about the fact that my comforter (while soft) was grey on one side and then hunter-caliber ORANGE on the other? Is this diva-worthy? You’re telling me that Beyonce sleeps on sheets that are grey and orange? Methinks not.

Your concierge referred me and my guest to Max’s, which – while very conveniently located – felt to us like an upscale version of Perkins. Perkins. Which – don’t get me wrong – is fabulous when the situation calls for a bread bowl salad and a Chocolate Chipper, but when you’re staying at the HOTEL DIVA, it’s a bit of a bring down.

Finally, may I point out that my guest had a room with no air conditioning (What, a diva is supposed to sweat here?) and I was in a street-level room with a view of an alley. The glamour, shall we say, was a bit lax.

Look, I feel weird even bringing any of this up. But the fact that you pride yourself on being the HOTEL DIVA makes this letter all the more necessary.

Bring in some fluffy white down comforters, some air conditioners, a goodie bag that features at least something beyond COUPONS, free Wi-Fi for your guests and some rooms that are more than closet sized and we’ll talk again.

Until then –

Beth