I care a lot about my looks...I don't think I've left my home without makeup in the past 15 years. The way I see it, I'm doing you the favour...Jesus Christ, I'm not the one looking at my face all day, you are, so you're fucking welcome. About two years ago, I realized that I had been punishing the general population for decades with my lacking upper lip. Such a pretty face, but no upper lip, there was only one clear solution: pay someone hundreds of dollars to stick needles in my face and make me look like Angelina Jolie. Done. For the past two years I've gotten my lips done repeatedly, and despite the less than impressed reaction from my friends who fell in love with me as the Lipless Wonder, most people appreciate the improvement.
Last weekend I went to get a minor touch-up, nothing serious, just a couple pricks here and there and I was on my way. However, this time, something strange happened. About an hour after I left my doctor's office, my entire bottom lip had turned blue and was cold. Huh. Now I've read a lot of books by doctors...well, one doctor, Dr. Suess, and if I've learned anything, it's that you shouldn't let stray cats in the house, and also, if any part of your body is cold and blue, it has likely lost circulation. Now, you'd think that this would alarm me, particularly because I have done the procedure about 10 times before and never ended up with a cold blue sausage for a lip, but it didn't scare me in the least, so I smacked myself in the face a few times trying to increase circulation to the area, and continued on with my day, where I had planned to go out of town to meet some friends.
I don't want to bore you with the details, let's fast forward to approximately 9pm that evening, where I am being discharged from the emergency department in my friend's hometown. I know you're worried, don't be, I'm fine, my ridiculous antics will carry on for many years to come. So there I am, my lip is now only partially blue, I have about 3 bruises on the lip area, and a massive bruise that encircles the bottom half of my mouth and reaches half way down my chin. In a nutshell, I look like a hooker that didn't pay her pimp. However, I felt the need to rejoice the fact that I was still alive, so I went along with my dinner plans with my friends.
My friends took me out to a Mexican place. I believe I was doing a shot of Cuervo's finest when I realized I still had my fucking hospital bracelet on. For fuck's sakes, how was I even served wearing that thing? Sheesh. Fucking bartenders, can't trust them to watch out for you in the least. Idiots. My friends had to work early so after dinner they dropped me off at my hotel. The only problem was, I wasn't quite done rejoicing yet. I had a drink at my hotel bar, (which I actually had no recollection of until I saw it on my bill at check-out), then I went to the only club I knew in the city. As I was waiting in line alone, three guys behind me started talking to me. Now this was something else. Not that I got hit on by three guys simultaneously, that happens on occasion, but the fact that three guys were hitting on a girl that looked like she'd just lost a fight in the Irish pub next door. They chatted me up for the next 20 minutes...they were soccer players in the MLS, one was from Peru, one from France, and my favourite was from Chile. They all had amazing accents so naturally, 20 minutes was all it took for me to go with them to a place that would actually let us in.
I spent the rest of the night with these guys all fighting over me, and every chance I got I made out with the Chilean. He was yummy. Around 2am I realized I STILL had my hospital bracelet on...oops, guess the aftermath of the tequila made me forget to take it off. Even though my international fan club didn't seem to mind, I thought it would be best to remove it before I ended up with my Chilean Sauseege, wearing nothing more than my hospital momento. I woke up the next morning wondering if they were insane and incredibly un-picky, or if I was fucking awesome. Naturally, I chose the latter. Still fucking got it.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Friday, February 3, 2012
Facial Surgery, Magnetic Beds and Chipotle Mayo
Well, I just had my first 41 year-old date. I can already tell this is going to be a problem, and not the fun kind of problem like running out of condoms or only having Pakistani Chardonnay in the house...the annoying ones like overdue bills and early morning meetings.
The minute I met the mature bachelor, he said "I just want to squeeze you!" hugged me hard and was quite literally bursting of excitement. If I asked him to marry me right there on the spot, I'm relatively certain he would have obliged. I don't want to sound like a masochist here, but I don't like it when guys like me that much. For starters, he knows very little about me, so his ecstatic reaction to seeing me in the flesh only makes me think he's built me up in his head to be some kind of Martha Stewart/Wonder Woman/Jenna Jameson. For seconders, now I know I don't need to do anything to impress him, and that is just no fun. I could have shown up without makeup on and farted during the appetizers, and I'm pretty sure I would have gotten the same warm welcome. The one good thing is that I immediately relaxed once I realized that he was never going to see me naked.
We went for lunch, the food was lovely. The restaurant was lovely. My pineapple soda was lovely. The conversation was absurd. First, he told me that when he was a kid, they had to break his jaw and reconstruct him from the cheeks down because he had some kind of facial deformity that caused his lower jaw to stop growing while his upper jaw to continued to expand. Huh. All I thought about for the next 20 minutes was how, if this did turn out to be my dream husband over the course of this meal, our children would have a 50% chance of having to endure years of operations and rehab to their faces, or otherwise end up looking like descendants of Bart Simpson.
When I tuned back into the live conversation, I hadn't missed much...he talked for 10 minutes about the exact same stuff we had discussed in our hour-long conversation three days prior. Then he asked me what I did for a living....which was interesting because again, we discussed that at length just 72 hours before lunch. So one of two things is happening here...either I can expect to have a severe decline in memory function between now and 41, or he was hammered when we last spoke and doesn't remember a thing about me. For the next 20 minutes I listened to him tell me about his job...again. Then, he asked me if I believe in the healing properties of stones and gems, hmm...I didn't know to be honest, I've never thought about it. I believe in the healing powers of scotch on the rocks, does that count? Regardless, this could be interesting for me to listen to, so I give him the conch again. He proceeded to tell me that he sleeps on a bed of magnets because it makes him feel closer to the earth. What? There were so many parts of that sentence that confused me, I have a headache from the facial gestures that followed. He then told me about the special shoes he buys, also with magnets. Magnets? In your shoes? What? I seriously need to Google this shit as soon as I'm finished writing today, I've never heard of such insanity. At this point, I'm thinking it's no fucking wonder this guy is single...I wouldn't exactly want to shack up in the magnetic bed of this cuckoo clock. And you just know that anyone who needs "special shoes" is in fact, just that..."special."
He walked me back to my office and continued to talk about how living with magnets is the best way to become one with nature. I prefer to go outside, but what do I know. When we hugged goodbye I didn't realize I hadn't looked at his face in quite some time. I looked up for what I knew would be our final goodbye, and there was a huge clump of chipotle mayo in his beard. Gross. I didn't have the heart to tell him at that point...he would have known that I hadn't looked at his face for a solid 30 minutes. Is this my future? Intensive surgery for my children, magnetic beds, and chipotle mayo? Jesus Christ. I feel sick. Maybe it's just the image of the mayo that I can't seem to get out of my head. I wasn't in my office for 5 minutes before he asked me out again. Oh Magnet Man, I hope you take my lack of response as a subtle hint that I'm not interested in waking up with my steel watch magnetized to your bedside. Keep looking, Magnet Man, I'm sure you'll find your Earth Girl one day. PS - I think I lost one of my bobby pins on your shoe.
The minute I met the mature bachelor, he said "I just want to squeeze you!" hugged me hard and was quite literally bursting of excitement. If I asked him to marry me right there on the spot, I'm relatively certain he would have obliged. I don't want to sound like a masochist here, but I don't like it when guys like me that much. For starters, he knows very little about me, so his ecstatic reaction to seeing me in the flesh only makes me think he's built me up in his head to be some kind of Martha Stewart/Wonder Woman/Jenna Jameson. For seconders, now I know I don't need to do anything to impress him, and that is just no fun. I could have shown up without makeup on and farted during the appetizers, and I'm pretty sure I would have gotten the same warm welcome. The one good thing is that I immediately relaxed once I realized that he was never going to see me naked.
We went for lunch, the food was lovely. The restaurant was lovely. My pineapple soda was lovely. The conversation was absurd. First, he told me that when he was a kid, they had to break his jaw and reconstruct him from the cheeks down because he had some kind of facial deformity that caused his lower jaw to stop growing while his upper jaw to continued to expand. Huh. All I thought about for the next 20 minutes was how, if this did turn out to be my dream husband over the course of this meal, our children would have a 50% chance of having to endure years of operations and rehab to their faces, or otherwise end up looking like descendants of Bart Simpson.
When I tuned back into the live conversation, I hadn't missed much...he talked for 10 minutes about the exact same stuff we had discussed in our hour-long conversation three days prior. Then he asked me what I did for a living....which was interesting because again, we discussed that at length just 72 hours before lunch. So one of two things is happening here...either I can expect to have a severe decline in memory function between now and 41, or he was hammered when we last spoke and doesn't remember a thing about me. For the next 20 minutes I listened to him tell me about his job...again. Then, he asked me if I believe in the healing properties of stones and gems, hmm...I didn't know to be honest, I've never thought about it. I believe in the healing powers of scotch on the rocks, does that count? Regardless, this could be interesting for me to listen to, so I give him the conch again. He proceeded to tell me that he sleeps on a bed of magnets because it makes him feel closer to the earth. What? There were so many parts of that sentence that confused me, I have a headache from the facial gestures that followed. He then told me about the special shoes he buys, also with magnets. Magnets? In your shoes? What? I seriously need to Google this shit as soon as I'm finished writing today, I've never heard of such insanity. At this point, I'm thinking it's no fucking wonder this guy is single...I wouldn't exactly want to shack up in the magnetic bed of this cuckoo clock. And you just know that anyone who needs "special shoes" is in fact, just that..."special."
He walked me back to my office and continued to talk about how living with magnets is the best way to become one with nature. I prefer to go outside, but what do I know. When we hugged goodbye I didn't realize I hadn't looked at his face in quite some time. I looked up for what I knew would be our final goodbye, and there was a huge clump of chipotle mayo in his beard. Gross. I didn't have the heart to tell him at that point...he would have known that I hadn't looked at his face for a solid 30 minutes. Is this my future? Intensive surgery for my children, magnetic beds, and chipotle mayo? Jesus Christ. I feel sick. Maybe it's just the image of the mayo that I can't seem to get out of my head. I wasn't in my office for 5 minutes before he asked me out again. Oh Magnet Man, I hope you take my lack of response as a subtle hint that I'm not interested in waking up with my steel watch magnetized to your bedside. Keep looking, Magnet Man, I'm sure you'll find your Earth Girl one day. PS - I think I lost one of my bobby pins on your shoe.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)