good luck deluxe

I’ve had a bit of a quandary since I last posted.

I was enormously perplexed as to what in the world I could possibly blog about that wouldn’t look like mud next to my post on the Anaheim White House Restaurant. Anything else might pale in comparison.

I had considered seguing into revealing a hot venture capital tip I just discovered,
but nah.

The only thing I could think of that can hang tough with that divine eatery is my experience at Bliss Spa. Sorry venture capitalists, but first things first!

Guys, you might want to liken this post akin to being out shopping with your woman. Ask the receptionist if there’s a place where you can have a seat or if she can recommend a good spa for men, because we’re gonna be a while…

The best thing about living in Los Angeles is the overindulgence factor. Everybody wants to give you champagne and a massage. Well, maybe not in that exact order…

If it’s your birthday and you live in L.A., you’re going to get either a bottle of your favorite bubbly or a gift certificate to a spa. Guaranteed. At least if you’re a girl.
But wait, this is L.A. I’m talking about…so I suppose it applies to both genders!

I’m too sheepish to admit how many spas I have frequented in Los Angeles and the surrounding areas. Only my family knows. I went spa crazy at one point, and the entire staffs at the more swank-a-dank, chi-chi spas knew me by name more than they did their celebrity clientele. So yeah, I’ve been to a spa or two in my time.

But I must say that I always have a thoroughly enjoyable experience every time I set foot into Bliss Spa. My favorite is the one inside of the W Hotel in Westwood, although they have locations nationwide that I’m sure are equally groovy.

I love everything about Bliss: the layout, the squeaky clean and sterile interior, the brownie buffet and lemon water in the lounge, the lemony-zesty aromatherapy wafting overhead continually, slipping into a luxe lounging robe with a dippy grin on my face, the sauna, the warm steam shower…and oh, the massages are pretty good, too.

See, I’m one of those intensely-deep-tissue massage lovers; so the Bliss massage therapists, although they try, can never dig deep enough for me. But that’s OK.
They get a million points for everything else they do to utter perfection.

I’m not saying those ladies don’t give a good massage, because they do. I just know that if I want a black-and-blue massage, I have to see my Armenian masseuse.

But let’s speak of Bliss, not relishable torture!

I call this piece “Anticipation”

Where are my brownies?!

Grabbing that robe I mentioned…

Oh yeah, sister. Show my muscles no mercy!

You’re gonna have to light a stick of dynamite to get me out of here…

And that, my friends, is a typical experience for me at Bliss Spa.

But wait, there’s more! I can’t leave without buying some of their lemon-sage soap, their dreamy hand cream, and 10,000 other favorite Bliss products!

Now where is my man?! I know he didn’t leave me here!