8/14/2008 – 8:22 pm | by Mary
I have an orange bellybutton. I noticed when I took a bath tonight. I looked down and there was a strange orange circle right in the middle of my stomach. “What the hell?,” I thought to myself. Did I buy new shower gel? And then it came to me: spray tan.
Once before, the time R and I went to Mexico, I got a spray tan for the trip. Reason being is I knew I’d be in a swimsuit and I didn’t want to blind anyone poolside by my bright white skin.
I actually did like the results, I felt more confident in my bikini as tanned skin has a way of making one look more toned and thinner. And I need all the help I can get.
The salon I went before that particular trip, I’m starting to think is a front for some drug ops. They’re never open. I know this because its right next to Panda Express and the only thing the kid likes more than Panda Express is X-Box. And he likes the X-Box a LOT.
I checked online the hours of the tan place and the website stated they opened at 9. Perfect. I’d drop the kid off at school, get the car lubed up and then hit up the tanning salon on the way out to San Diego. Yes, I know, I should have called first. Hindsight is 20/Fuck Off.
Friday morning, I drop the kid off, swing by Jiffy Lube (I used to boycott them but one out where I live is decent - and this time they even gave me the 10% Military discount. I’m a cheap bee and I’ll take a discount anywhere I can get it), I get hit on while there by some asshole that I will surely talk about in a later post… but right now we’re talking about my “tan”.
I make it out of Jiffy Lube and cruise over to the tan shop shortly after 9… and they’re closed. Of COURSE they’re closed. A sign on the door indicates their “summer” hours are between noon and 5. Oh really? How’s that working out for you? Oodles and gobs of business, is it?
In this economy I do feel bad for businesses that don’t generate enough income and have to close for good. While others, they make it so difficult for you to even go to their establishment, they DESERVE to close. F you, tanning place! F you, I said!! *hurls brick thru plate glass window*
I call Jo since I had a feeling I could ask her to look up a tanning place in Goodyear, Ari-fucking-zona and she’d do it and ask minimal questions.
I say that about the minimal questions because I’m a huge bitch when I’m in a hurry, or agitated. Actually, I’m a huge bitch most of the time but ESPECIALLY when I’m in a hurry or agitated. I was both. I had to get on the road to see R-face. And pinch his cheeks. Both sets.
Jo found a couple of places via Google and I had just passed one of them. I really should have known it was there and I could have saved Jo from doing my bidding during work hours. (Thanks Jo!) Phoenix is the land of strip malls, however, so they all blend together after a while. “What street is that Best Buy on again?”
I walk in the place and the guy there, who turns out to be the owner, he was… really rather odd. I mean, it was quite obvious the man had some health or mental issues so I’m just going to leave it at that. I’m a bitch, but not that big of a bitch.
It always creeps me out to be in a tanning salon when I’m the only customer. There have been a few busts out here with employees sneaking peeks over the walls at people undressing, or one owner even had cameras in the tanning rooms.
So it crossed my mind this could happen, not because the man was clearly special, but because it does happen.
I went ahead with the tan, anyway. At that point they could raid the joint and I’d be all, “Can I finish my tan? I’m already undressed and all that and I really, really have to get to San Diego..”
Blessedly, the guy did not tape me (that I know of anyway) but he did neglect to point out where the hair covers were located.
I didn’t think of it, like I said, I’ve only done this once before. I did immediately think of the forgotten cap once I stepped out of the booth after getting blasted with “tan” - and felt my head.
At least my hair was in a ponytail so only parts of it got the full brunt of the icky, gooey brown liquid. That’s when I spotted the hair caps off there in a corner behind the machine. Great. Just in time.
I really should have gone home to change but I was so far gone by then, I was working myself into a frenzy: I simply HAD to get on the damn freeway.
But, not before the shop owner showed me around and offered me a bunch of free crap if I’d only come back for another visit. Fuck, I thought. He probably did tape me.
I jump in the car and instantly notice that I don’t care for the smell of whatever brand of spray tan this shop uses. Some sunless tan just has an annoying scent. It’s hard to describe. Feel free to give it a go in the comments as I’d love to pinpoint exactly what the hell that smell smells like.
The first couple hours of the drive were pretty uneventful. The stench of the tan didn’t annoy me too much because I was riding high on adrenaline and my insatiable need to see R. God, I miss him.
Anyway. Since I had the blow out a couple of months ago, I’ve been really uneasy driving on the freeway. Even with Jiffy Lube telling me my tires were fine and everything was as it should be, I was still nervous.
For this reason, I decided not to take Highway 8, the shorter route. It goes through some pretty scary mountains and it freaked me out too much to attempt it alone.
Big mistake. Big.
When you’re anxious to see your boyfriend you haven’t seen in 2 months, when it’s hot as hell and you’re driving on an unfamiliar freeway and you don’t know where you’re at or how much longer it’s going to take to get there, you stink and your hair is starting to mat to your head in a brown sticky mess? You REALLY don’t want to add one extra MINUTE to the trip.
I added about an extra hour and some minutes. I completely lost my shit in Riverside, California.
I stopped at a Target because I wanted to buy something to change into (yes I had a suitcase full of clothes, hush) so R wouldn’t see me in the messy ass condition I had found myself in. I wondered to myself why I didn’t look so crazy on the Mexico trip. This spray tan made me look… dirty. Like I was dipped in mud.
We had driven 4-5 hours down to Mexico, didn’t have time to shower and headed out for drinks with friends and I was none the worse for wear.
Then I remembered: You idiot! You went to the tanning place the night BEFORE the road trip. *slap forehead* I had a chance to clean myself up that time so I didn’t have to stew in this brown juice for hours on end in a hot ass car!
I call R while in Target and he was annoying the shit out of me. Asking me where exactly I was located. I kept replying, “On Highway 60, heading towards Riverside.” He kept coming back with, “But where?” What the fuck? You want a mile marker? Like I fucking have any clue where the fuck I’m at.
I bark at R, “YOU’RE NOT HELPING ME!” And hung up.
(This part of the story is what I told the Senior Chief (sans F-bombs) when I met him and he found it quite hee-larious.)
I find a guy in the good ol’ khaki and red and asked him how much farther it is to San Diego. To think how frantic, crazy, dirty, smelly I must have seemed to this poor man. He looked at me with such pity in his eyes and broke it to me gently, “About 90 miles.”
Fuck.Me.
I should have been there already. I could have been there already, if I had driven through the scary mountains. And now, R was at the hotel and it ripped out what was left of my heart that I wasn’t there with him.
I get back in the car (after buying this outfit, I didn’t change into it after all as I knew the fucked up spray tan would mess it up too much) and sent R a text telling him I was sorry. I was hot, tired and just wanted to get there already.
He replied, “No biggie. See you soon.”
That man is too good to me.
I hauled some major ass the rest of the trip, and finally get near the hotel just as R has to run to the base for something. Probably come covert operation or a recon ritual, whatever.
I’m walking up the sidewalk and I see him calling me on his B-Berry and I didn’t feel like digging for my phone. I’m motioning to him like, “Hey, dummy, put the phone down. I’m right here.” Well, R didn’t recognize me in my new brown state. Probably would have walked right by my ass if I let him.
I gave him a hug, he gave me one and I sheepishly said, “Don’t look at me.” I buried my head in his chest to try and hide. Really good thing he wasn’t wearing his dress whites, huh? He laughed and asked why I didn’t want him looking at me and I shooed him away.
I got to the room and jumped in the shower right away. RIGHT away. Couldn’t have made it in the shower any faster if the entire ROOM was a shower.
The thought did occur to me that I just spent money on something that was going to go straight down the drain. That gave me pause. What I decided to do was clean up the “tan” the best I could and get that shit out of my hair.
You should have SEEN the amount of brown crap flowing down the tub, all from my head. It was DISGUSTING! But hey, keep it in mind you need your roots done - for cheap!
R has never dated a woman with as light as a complexion as me. By light complexion I mean, white as Casper’s sister.
He knew I was going to get the tan and instead of just saying, “Oh…” and dropping it, it became a topic of conversation throughout the entire weekend. My favorite quips?
“You actually look whiter with a tan, than without.”
“Why is it darker down there (points to legs), than up here (points to chest)?”
Upon going into the bathroom and spotting a mucked up towel: “Wait. It comes OFF?”
Sigh.
Never a dull moment.