Plastic Surgery for Dummies

I love living in Los Angeles. There are hot cars, hot homes, and hot people everywhere. I know there are gorgeous individuals who live in other parts of the world but they couldn’t possibly compare to the pulchritude this town spits out like olive pits from a dirty martini. This city is the home of car dealers to the stars, realtors to the stars, and plastic surgeons for the rest of us. This is, undoubtedly, where hot comes to die.

I wasn’t obsessed with my looks until a month 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. She looked us up and down and said, “Wow, you two could pass for sisters,” and I thought, “Geeze, how bad do I look?” So I bought a jar of face cream that claimed to reduce the visible signs of aging. It didn’t do much for my face but my car looks brand new. 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. Okay, they’re pretty but not that bright.

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 in for Botox. 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. Restylane? Captique? Mesotherapy? Sculptra? Had it, had it, had it, need it.

Many people are afraid of surgery and I can understand that. When I had an eyelift, 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?

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 or are too afraid or too cheap I can only say this: When your butt 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.