Recently, my friend F was invited to a botox party and she was kind enough to include D and I in the invitation. I, of course, accepted immediately and was giddy with anticipation. I based my excitement on the botox parties I had seen on Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. Okay -- let me tell you how theirs went down: everyone shows up at Adrienne's house where they are given a big, white fluffy robe to put on. From there, they are ushered upstairs to the in home spa floor, where doctors are circulating with botox filled syringes and masseuses are waiting with towel lined tables. There is a table set with rare fruits, tea sandwiches and very expensive bottles of wine. OMG, I am so in!
At the agreed upon time I pick up F and D, and we head to the Tampa location, which I assume will be a water front mansion in one of those beautiful, gated neighborhoods. But wait, the GPS lady is taking us to a strip plaza next to the Circle K. She and I have had it out many times, as she thinks shortest route means taking me past every school zone within 20 miles at three pm, however, it appears she is right this time, according to the address F has written down.
We pull into the parking lot and I am extremely concerned as there is no catering truck in sight. We make our way to the door and out of nowhere, a gentleman dressed as a zombie auto mechanic with dreadlocks that don't look intentional appears. He eyes us carefully and I think he is imaging how our bodies would look, NOT naked, but in teensy pieces buried in his front yard. I'm not worried, though as F is a 29 year old hot Ecuadorian, with a beautiful face and body to match, and I'm sure he would go for her first giving D and I time to run.
We enter Dermatology Is Us, and are greeted by a young woman with lips the size of life rafts who tells us to sign in. She hands us a paper with the services available this evening and the prices? I did not see Lisa Vanderpump or Kyle Richards open their wallet once! I glance around; on a TV tray in the corner is a plastic container of slimy apple slices with some brown goo for dipping, and a warm bottle of Chardonnay. Suddenly it dawns on me -- this is not a party! This is an open house for a new dermatologist looking for clients to practice on!
I grab F by her young, unflabby shoulders:
"F this is not a party!"
"I dunt know, I dint understand, I tink she say party"
"Well unless we leave right now, one of us is going back there for 500 dollars worth of botox and it is not going to be me!"
I look into F's beautiful, unlined face and know that in all good conscious I cannot send her back to Dr. Mengele. D is on the phone with her daughter arguing about bed time and is blissfully unaware of what has befallen us, therefore, we sign her up. I fill a dixie cup with hot wine and join Paulie Walnuts in the waiting area. He is waiting for his numbing cream to kick in. I am sure that an unlined forehead will keep the women from noticing the wall of fat hanging over his belt and the stiff bouffant. Badda Bing.
D joins us and I hand her a nice hot cup of wine and tell her she has been looking tired lately. I explain to her that in order to be polite and not embarrass F in front of her friends she will be getting some needles stuck into her face and to be brave. I also tell her that due to the fact that I am starving and in desperate need of a martini already, she will have to forgo the luxury of numbing cream. I promise her it won't be near as bad as that time she gave birth to twins.
Two martinis and three sushi rolls later, I am finding the whole evening rather funny. D is not laughing -- or maybe she is... it will be easier to tell in a few months when the botox wears off.