I've been lax in posting the last two weeks. First, because I was visiting Sissy, and second, because I returned to a three-year-old with the juiciest cold I've ever encountered, which then made its way to me and to Dean. Molly has been miraculously spared thus far- thank you Liquid Gold a.k.a. breast milk and its passive antibodies. That and the 500 extra calories I can eat in Rolos and Symphony bars each day make every bout of mastitis worth it. Almost.
Last night I attended a Botox Party at the spa. Sadly, I was not on the receiving end of the Botox, but on the administering end. My friend Cam cannot for a moment imagine injecting a powerful paralyzing toxin into her face. I myself am counting down the days until I am finally neither pregnant nor nursing so that I can stab my forehead with that magic potion. Tiny needles, five minutes, wrinkles smoothed, I ask you, what is not to love?
A Botox Party consists of delicious hors d'oeuvres and wine (again on the part of the recipients and not the administrators) and then a few fast pokes above your eyebrows and next to your eyeballs. Attendance was a bit sparse, which enabled me to help myself to the appetizers during the festivities. I hadn't eaten much for lunch, so it was very difficult not to scarf down entire trays. I kept the same plate and just kept surreptitiously adding another cheese cube here, a bit of tapenade there. While I was stuffing my un-Botoxed face, the disconnect between my work life and home life was amusing me. Just an hour before, I was in my velour sweats, wiping snot from Frankie's nose with her sleeve, trying to keep the baby from grabbing her poop diaper, and then I sat, coiffed and heel-clad, in a throng of Coach purses and partial hi-lites.
Speaking of hi-lites (please, this is how they write it, people), I had my first set ever at the hands of a professional and not at the amateur and dangerous hands of myself. Just ask my sister what havoc my hands can wreak. Have you ever heard the term "hot roots"? Well, apparently, Molly has hot roots. Bright flaming orange traffic cone roots. And my handiwork brought them to light. And repeat applications of other concoctions at my hands failed to diminish their brightness. Somehow my family always trusts me to attempt things on them that should best be left to someone who actually received some sort of brief training. And I, overconfidently jump right in. Luckily for my patients, I have actually earned my medical license. Not that I attended many classes.