So, on Friday, I wrote a rush-job post about a strange woman who looked me right between the eyes and asked:
“Have you ever thought about getting a Botox injection?”
You can’t make this stuff up, right?
But there was more. And some context might help the perplexed among us (except probably not).
I was in the small reception area of a local salon waiting to get my eyebrows waxed (which I’ve never done before, but with my oldest daughter’s upcoming wedding in June I thought it might be nice to see if a professional could do something with the hot mess over my eyes) . . . where was I? Oh yeah. There was another woman also waiting for an appointment. She was thumbing through Us Weekly when she turned to me, looked at me carefully, and possibly thought I was there for Botox, right? Except they don’t do Botox at that salon. Just nails and eyebrows. I asked. (No, I didn't.) (Yes, I did.) (But only because I was wondering after the strange woman's question.) Anywho.
You might be wondering why I kept answering her after the initial Botox question besides the fact that I’ll always whore myself for blog fodder. You know how the freeway slows and you see flashing lights ahead? And you know how you get annoyed because the slowing is due to rubbernecking? And you know how you vow not to look when you pass by the accident, but then you peek ever so quickly? This conversation was like that for me. I knew what was ahead, but I just had to hear it anyway.
Here’s how the entire conversation went:
Strange Woman: “Have you ever thought about getting a Botox injection?”
Me: “Um. Oh. Uh. I don’t know.”
She went back to her magazine. And then . . .
Strange Woman: “Do you live in Rancho Santa Fe?”
(Note: Rancho Santa Fe is like the Beverly Hills or Bel Air of San Diego.)
My thoughts: WTF?
Strange Woman: “Oh. Where do you live?”
My thoughts: WTF?
Strange Woman: “Oh. XYZtown is nice . . . if you’re by the beach.”
(Note: I don’t live by the beach.)
Strange Woman: “Do you work?”
My thoughts: WTF? I have an iPhone, a laptop, and HDTV, why would I want to work?
My thoughts: Holy crap. What have I done? Now she’s going to ask what I do.
Strange Woman: “What do you do?”
My thoughts: WTF do I say now? I can’t say writer because I’ve been paid exactly zero in the last three months. But even when I’m not paid, I do write. Sometimes. Crap. I hate having this why-can't-I-say-writer conversation in my head, particularly right now.
Me: “I’m a writer.”
The strange woman looked right at me. I’m sure that if she could have raised her eyebrows she would have. Then as she opened her mouth to speak . . .
My thoughts: Holy crap. Now she’s going to ask me what I write. She’s already dissed my face and where I live. What the hell will be her response if I just tell her I’m a blogger? But what if I don’t say blogger? An idea formed quickly beneath my wrinkled forehead and unkempt brows! What if I pretended to be Barbara Kingsolver? Surely this woman doesn’t read anything other than reception-area magazines, and even if she did, would she even remember the author's profile picture from the jacket of the last Barbara Kingsolver book? I bet I could get away with it! Think of the blog fodder that would create!
Receptionist: “Cheri? Lindsay is ready for you now.”
Saved by the brow.
*I'm using a fake town so the person who came to my blog last week by searching "fat black tranny mom" can't find me. (I'm not making this part up either.)