Tag Archives: massage-chair

Doug’s Funhouse?

Doug’s Funhouse sounds like the title for an orgy porn. Guarantee you, it’s not.

He’s away on a reunion with old friends…literally. Doug might be the youngest one in attendance.

While he’s away, Doug wants to assure his plants stay alive. Why he asked me to tend to his plants is beyond me. One plant, resembling a young money tree, took a turn for the worse. Its leaves were bright, dark green when Doug first left. Three days later, they’ve browned.

There was a time when I thought I had a green thumb. Tended to a few gardens where cucumbers exploded to the hundreds. But isn’t that what cucumbers do?

Getting back to this funhouse concept, I was tempted initially to tidy his entire home. Everything similar would go into their own separate boxes. As I counted the number of categories of things Doug owned, I would buy Walmart out with all their plastic boxes. I’d still run short and then have to take a trip to Staples. No…thank…you

Organizing another person’s crap is no fun, anyhow. So, I sat on Doug’s massage chair, blasted Lonesome Doves, and pretended to be an eighty-two-year-old kleptomaniac. The vibration of the chair was so fierce, I couldn’t hear a thing..or maybe that was just me moaning?

Moaning from the vibration…not from being a sick pervert.

There’s only so much vibrating a man can do in one day. Just as I was about to head home, I saw it. The words “Soil Tester” was poking out of a pile of mail long before Doug head out on this reunion.

I pulled it out from under the mail. Turned it on and inserted the metal spike into each plant. All sorts of signals went off. I was alerted what needed water, what needed to be placed in sunlight and what would be left as is.

This soil moisture gauge is something else. Almost magical? I’m certain that money tree will turn around in a matter of days.

Honestly, this little device might be the only reason Doug still has a jungle to come home to.

For a second, I almost stuck the gauge up my ass, to see if I needed moisture, sun or if I was all good. Good thing reason stepped in.

There are two affiliate links in this post. Do with it as you will.

Minimalist At War

If I were an architect, all homes would resemble a high school gymnasium. In my home, I’d remove the basketball hoops and the bleachers. Covering the windows would be a black-curtain that would close at 9:00 pm and then gently open as the sun rises.

There would be four pieces of furniture: A bed, armoire, a set of chairs and desk. Everything would be made of wood to match the floor.

Homes in the Hudson Valley are not designed this way. They are rickety. A magnet for horders. They scream “Look at me! I’m unique”.

I pondered all this while vaccuming my bedroom carpeting. If you ever used one, or been around anyone has, you know those machines can be loud. They scare the shit out of domesticated animals.

Once finished I heard my phone vibrating. I’ll give you three guesses who it was…

The postman? No!

Architectual digest offering me a gig? Guess again.

Hulu wondering when I’ll resubscribe? You’re terrible at this game.

Doug! Good old Doug, huffing like he just summited Mount Everest. “Been trying to call you. Please get over here now. The Amazon guy needs help.”

The Amazon guy needs help! Oh my God! Stop everything. I raced over there like it was Doug’s last breath…yeah, right?

Once I finally got there, the Amazon guy, a young, relatively muscular man panted while resting his right arm against a box the size of an average walk-in closet. “This thing’s a monster,” he said.

“What it?” I asked.

“Massage chair,” Doug replied on the other side of the box.

Nothing against Amazon but you’d think they’d send at least two men to deliver such a thing. Between me and the Amazon guy it took us fifteen minutes to get the massage chair inside. No breaks taken.

Inside this monster box, we quickly discovered the chair was in pieces. Required assembly. There was no way I was gonna let an eight-two year old man do this all on his own.

The instructions were straightforward enough. About an hour later it was ready for use.

The massage chair looked like something out of a sci-fi movie. Put an eight-two year old man in there vibrating so fast you can hardly see his face, you’d think it would de-age him.

Watching someone on a massage chair looses its appeal after twelve seconds. I nearly left but Doug insisted I give it a go.

While on the chair I amended the list of items that would go in my future-gymnasium style home: A bed, armoire, a set of chairs and a desk. All made of wood to match the floor.

Then, sitting of to the side, made of leather (maybe), meteorite (without a doubut), would be this massive massage chair. It would be vibrating non-stop as I would never want to get off it.

I sell my minimalist soul to the affiliate link embeded above somewhere.