Beej, no, I go to Salon Cielo in Pentagon City.

And, dear dog (I use the word on purpose).

edited to get the link right

::preens::

I had the good sense to marry a man who put himself through a semester of college doing pro massage at the Y. He can be a bit ham-handed on my itty delicate face muscles, but on the shoulder and neck knots? Paradisical.

He taught me, too, so I know the techniques. My wee bitty hands just poop out long before he thinks his knots have all eased. Still, better than no massage at all.

I love massages. In fact, I would love one right. now.

Me three!!

Ha! That doggie kimono would be adorable on Bartleby, but I think he'd leave home in shame.

Ima try Cielo...closer than 1WashingtonSquare.

I go to Kim ... who's only there on a rather odd schedule. I know it's Thursday evenings, alternate Sundays, and other than that I can't remember.

My dog does not have a kimono, nor will she.

(Though I'll confess I thought about trying to find her a purple bathrobe at one point. But that was so she could be Hong Kong Fooey for Halloween - she's already got the mask.)

I don't care for massages, because I don't like strangers touching me. I spend the whole time wondering where their hands have been. However, I do love the woman who I go to for facials -- she did my brows for a long time before I would let her do the facial because of the stranger/touching problem -- and now she gives me a hand and foot massage as part of the facial.

I thought it was amusing ... and talk about a hangdog expression!

I go to Kim ... who's only there on a rather odd schedule. I know it's Thursday evenings, alternate Sundays, and other than that I can't remember.

Check!

I am a big giant massage whore -- mostly, I go to the massage center at the gym/sports clinic on campus, which works beautifully for me because it's a hospital, which makes it easier to keep the Naked and prodded by a stranger!OMG! body-image demons on a nice snug leash; I know, no matter what noise the BIDs are making, the therapist has seen infinitely worse and more damaged bodies, probably just earlier today, and somehow the hospital-ness of it makes it feel less like an appalling indulgence and more like simply taking my hurt and twisty bits for repair to someone who does this for a living, which is really just sensible.

I also beg for massages from Hec far more than I should. He's achy too, especially during Little League, and I'm in the same position as Bev -- when I reciprocate his lovely massages, my hands cramp up and give out long before they should.