I get Botox. Yep, I do. (Jeez is this a week of confessions for me). In fact, my dad and I go for Dad/Daughter Botox sessions and then we sit over lunch wiggling our foreheads at each other because the lady said you have to move your forehead afterwards so it doesn’t freeze into a deathly slab. You see, I woke up on Jan 1st, 2011, looked into the mirror, and for some reason saw myself in a completely creased, wrinkled new light. And headed immediately for the needle. It’s better than hitting the bottle, right?
Looking for a new Botox lady here in San Diego led me to go somewhere I had been given a gift certificate for. Hey, it was $100 and a surgeon’s office. Meets all my criteria for cheap and credible. Except the lady’s name was Daiquiri. And my last experience with that drink led to me rollerblading with my friend Brad, at midnight, down the hill behind the Hyde Park Shopping Center and breaking my elbow.
Turns out the Botox experience was pretty similar. Big honking bruise on my forehead. I’m going to tell people I got it rollerblading.
And next time I’m asking for Margarita.