What To Do If You Can't Afford Botox

I went into my local Beauty Supply and was lamenting the fact that Botox wasn't sold over the counter. In a cream. For $2.78.

The Beauty Supply chick recommended I try Hollywood's Beauty Secret for the forehead and between the eyes.

She assured me a lot of My People, unemployed actors who really wanted to direct but were writing a screenplay while waiting on tables, used Frownies religiously.

And by religiously I assumed she meant that My People packed them for a trip to Vatican City hoping to have them blessed by the Pope. Who really could only promise the Frownies would be having sex with underaged boys in the near future.

I wear them every night. And am surprised I have no boyfriend. And really should wash my hair more often.

End of chat.

Do You Need A Facelift?

This is one of the easiest ways to determine whether or not you need a face lift and what you'll look like after one. I've used my sister Lindy as the subject because it's always appropriate to humiliate members of your family in a small venue like the Internet.

While sitting up look at yourself in a hand mirror.

Then lie down on your back and look at yourself again in the same mirror.

Lindy was so depressed after she saw these results she asked me if I had a scalpel on me.

Like I'd do her before me. So selfish.

And if you can't tell the difference between the two then get your eyes checked. Seriously. Now. On a Sunday. Hurry.

The Plastic Surgery Whisperer

Don't ask me if you need plastic surgery because I'll tell you.

I dated Dr. Howard for 3 years and saw surgeries performed, which is fairly gross. But it's fun to watch the boobs get bigger and the skin peel up and off the facial bones. Once I asked him to lipo under my chin and he replied Stop Eating So Much.

I weighed 134 at the time. Asshole.

Then I moved to L.A. and my sister put me on Herbalife and I lost 12 pounds (turns out that the more protein you eat, the less you crave sugar) So I hadn't needed lipo after all. It's so annoying when your boyfriend is right, especially about plastic surgery when he's a plastic surgeon and you're on food stamps.

Once two female comics came to my house. We were discusing my upper and lower eye job. One asked me if she needed hers done and I said yes. Then the other one asked me if she needed one and I said no. The one I said yes to went around telling everyone that I had told her she needed her eyes done. People from Latvia to New Guinea were writing me hate mail. Of course she had left out the part where I said, if you really want to know, I'll tell you the truth and show you how different you'd look.

For example, if you wonder if you need a face lift, lie down on the floor and hold a big hand mirror up to your face. If your face looks better lying down than standing up, you need one. I spend all day lying on the floor. Crying.

I remember a comedian who was told she needed a nose job. The agents who liked her, and she was very funny, told her to get one. She didn't. She's now married with two kids and no longer living in L.A. and not in the business.

There was a male comic who needed a nose job but he wasn't as funny as the girl. He got no nose job but booked commercial after commercial and is now head writer on a late night talk show.

If you ever meet me and I start staring at a certain part of your face or body, call a plastic surgeon and let HER give you the bad news. I don't need more hate mail.

Three days ago I saw this dark spot on my thigh. I had never seen it before. Yesterday it spread and today it had spread a little more. MELAFUCKNGNOMA!!! Do I call my dermatologist or wait and see if it gets bigger?

IS GOD EVEN ON DUTY ANYMORE?

So I decided to scrape it off. I picked at it expecting to draw blood but no blood. I had scraped it all off and now it was on my nail and vicinity. I could not drive to the doctor with some random melanoma on my finger. I walked around looking for small containers and then the phone rang and while I was talking I must have had a mini-stroke because I PUT THE DEADLY FINGER IN MY MOUTH.

And then I died and the girl who needed the eye job was arrested for murder.

It was only chocolate.

End of chat.

Plastic Surgery For Dummies

There are two kinds of New Yorkers who move to Los Angeles. One is dreaded and hates L.A. because there’s no winter/smoking/people who read. Then there’s me. I loved it because there were hot cars, hot homes, and most importantly, hot people everywhere. Not to mention my building had a pool and a view of the Hollywood sign. I know there are gorgeous people who live in other parts of the world but it couldn’t possibly compare to the pulchritude this town spits out like olive pits from a dirty martini. And Los Angeles was littered with car dealers to the stars, realtors to the stars and plastic surgeons for the rest of us. This is where Hot comes to die and the Mother Ship had called me home.

Even though no one in L.A. has actually had plastic surgery, is ever going to have it or would ever admit it if they did happen to have it while accidentally sleepwalking into downtown Beverly Hills for a three p.m. appointment, there sure are a lot of people ahead of me when I go for my Botox shots to my plastic surgeon’s office. I admit to having it because I love it and will be having it to the end of my life. As a matter of fact, I’ve booked my doctor for my embalming or autopsy, whichever comes first. I’m going to exit this world looking glorious, especially since I’m surely not going to feel that terrific.

I just don’t understood women who say they would never have plastic surgery. I’m pretty sure Janet Reno does not spend all her free time returning Jude Law’s calls or texting Colin Farrell. I once heard Cindy Crawford interviewed and she said that if she felt she needed it, she would have it. Cindy Crawford, not Broderick Crawford.

I wasn’t obsessed with my looks until a week after I moved to Los Angeles and was walking down the street with my mother. We ran into an old family friend who hadn’t seen us in many years. The friend looked at us and said, “Wow, you two could pass for sisters,” and I thought, ‘Man, how bad do I look?’

So I bought a jar of face cream that claimed to reduce the visible signs of aging and I tried it. It didn’t do much for my face but I used it on my 1998 Toyota and now it looks like a 2001. I knew then that the only thing that really reduces the visible signs of aging is death. And an upper and lower blepharoplasty.

When I had the eye job I told my friend Metia and she replied “You’re kidding, you can’t even tell.” Well, if you could tell, it wouldn’t be called an eye job; it would be called a lawsuit, now wouldn’t it?

Then I wanted my nose to tip up so I had a piece of my ear put in right above my nostrils. The manager of my Hollywood Hills apartment complex asked me if I could hear through my nose. So apparently there are some people here who don’t read. Restylane? Captique? Mesotherapy? Sculptra? Had it, had it, had it, need it.

A lot of people are afraid of surgery and I can understand that. When I had my eye-lift, the last thing I remember before I went under anesthesia was the doctor holding a scalpel, the fluorescent lights and the smell of burning flesh. I was mortified. Do you know how bad you look in fluorescent lights? The nurse asked me to count backwards from 100, giving me the illusion that I was going to be awake for a really long time. Meanwhile, no one makes it past 98. Why don’t they just make you count backwards from 2?

The truth is that I’d rather have plastic surgery than go to the gym with all the mutants oozing toxins out of their pores. If I see toxins coming out of any part of my body, bring me a margarita and check me into the Chateau Marmont.

Because my friends all know I’ve had plastic surgery, they ask me if they need it. Yes. Even if they don’t think they need it now, yes, they need it now. And for those of you stalwarts who think you don’t need anything done ever or are too afraid or too cheap I can only say this: When your rear grazes your ankles and you’re carrying your breasts around in a little red wagon and your husband is sleeping with the baby sitter, don’t come crying to me. Just remember that King Solomon had seven hundred wives and three hundred concubines and I’m sure he has male descendants out there somewhere. And I’m sure the hot ones ended up in Los Angeles. End of chat.