This is the auto-response I got when I unsubscribed to the newsletter that I never signed up for from Advanced Health Laboratories:
Thank you for your time. Sorry for any inconvenience.
This is the auto-response I got from my plastic surgeon’s office when I unsubscribed to their newsletter, which I did sign up for:
This is the last email you will receive from us. We have added you to our "blacklist", which means that our newsletter system will refuse to send you any other email, without manual intervention by our administrator.
Blacklisted. Top that freaks.
I get Botox every three months. I love (need) it so much that I will make sure my embalmer has plenty of it on hand before I’m laid out in front of people with a 1971 forged birth certificate clutched in my wizened hands like a rosary.
I don’t mind needles. I’ve had immunization shots, spinal taps, cortisone shots, IV’s, Restylane, blood drawn, allergy patch shots, collagen, and diagnostic shots. I even used to donate blood once a week in college because I’m O negative and that paid $25.00. Only Novocain brings me to my knees. Even though my dentist presses on part of my gum and then wiggles the lower part of my mouth to distract me, I still grip the chair as if I was onboard Apollo 15 hurtling towards space. I repeatedly beg for gas but dentists in LA won’t give it to you unless you have someone to drive you home.
Sidebar: I always want to tell mine about the time a friend and I dropped acid back in the 80’s, drove to a MacDonald’s, ordered food and drove home. We got the order right but were unable to eat it as it appeared to be multicolored and crawling all over the table, which pretty much describes an ordinary McDonald’s meal anyway.
“Someone will be by later to pick me up,” I lie sweetly to the dental receptionist as I sign in and ask for gas.
“And who would that be?”
“Your mother who lives in France?”
“No, my stepmother, who most assuredly does not live in France.”
“Realllllllly? Well have her stop at the desk for your release forms.” Jesus, I need to seriously shut the fuck up when I’m talking about my dead stepmothers with the people taking my credit card and telling me what a good patient I am. If you call ‘offering to have sex with the dentist if only he’ll stop the drilling’ being a good patient. I hear dentists have a high suicide rate. I have no problem with that.
My plastic surgeon, Simon, got so successful that he moved from The Doctor’s Building of Beverly Hills, next door to Eyebrow Queen Anastasia, and bought an entire building two blocks away. The waiting room has flat screens, serious art work and snacks. And not gross ones like Chex party mix or cellophane wrapped butterscotches but homemade chocolate macadamia cookies, fresh fruit and designer coffee. The iced water pitcher has lemons and cucumbers floating in it. Note To Overcharging Establishments Everywhere: Cucumber and lemon slices in WATER do not make me feel privileged to shell out a mortgage payment for services rendered. Throw in a cashmere sweater and maybe. Throw in some Dolce and Gabbana and definitely.
The men in Simon’s waiting room always sit on the cookie side of the waiting room and the women always sit on the fruit side. I sit on the cookie side long enough to check out the talent and then head over to the fruit side if any guy is staring at himself in a hand-held mirror. But only after I’ve had at least two cookies. Maybe three.
I love Simon. In the past, when I was broke, he would load me up with extra cc’s for free because he always watched out for my career. You can’t live in this town and get acting gigs without Botox unless you’re 23, which I was two years ago. Or was it a hundred?
Three months ago Simon’s nurse practitioner gave me Botox and it didn’t work. I had to go back, which they let you do if it’s in less than three weeks time, and get more for no extra charge. She was nice and very gentle, like she was the first time, when it didn’t work. So I insisted on Simon for last week. I never had to return for more with him. As we were catching up I realized that no one had numbed my forehead. They usually put some cream on and leave it for ten minutes or so and then return to give you the injections. As we chatted, Simon walked over to me holding a syringe and I realized he was just going to plunge the thing into my forehead, probably assuming I’d already been numbed. Before I could open my mouth and stop him he pushed the needle into my forehead. I braced my feet against the chaise-lounge when I heard the crunch of cartilage above my eyebrows. He continued at such a rapid pace that I couldn’t catch my breath long enough to breathe. And then it was over. And I had felt nothing. I’ve now had so much Botox that I don’t even need a numbing cream. That’s got to be worth some sort of discount, right?
End of chat.
Botox, Beverly Hills