Tag Archives: Botox

Mastering the Art of the Olds


I loved the article last week in the NYTimes by Dominique Browning about being too old for certain shit and not even caring if you are too old for it. And definitely giving zero fucks if some slightly younger bitch who is still bothering to pull out her rogue grey pubes gets all haughty and says: “Don’t say “old,” say “wise,” BECAUSE OLD IS A BAD WORD AND MAKES US ALL UNCOMFORTABLE.

It shouldn’t though. Old is an empowering word. Young is for amateurs. Old  is the new black, trust. Everyone is rocking it. I just got a solid case of the olds recently and I don’t completely hate it and neither should you. Stick with me, I’ll take you under my soft downy wing and show you the way, don’t be scared.

Last week at Loblaws,  I ran into this woman I know from the gym. We haven’t seen each other since the heyday of Lululemon active wear, right before Chip Wilson  opened his big douchey mouth and made those of us who want to take a stand against  the Donald Trump of yoga turn elsewhere for our camel toe game. So yeah, we haven’t seen each other in 1 or 2 or 3 or 4 years, who knows, as you know, time flies whatever your age is….however long ago it was, she looked amaaaazing. She’s about 5 years younger than me in her mid-to-late forties and her hair was all blown out and her face all smooth and Botoxed. Okay, relax, I’m not being mean, I’m saying this because I know the injectables and my bae Botox just makes you look rested and not like you’re up all night playing on-line Scrabble with an internet troll in a different time zone, drinking vodka, and bouncing off the walls, trying to find a flattering angle for your titties to Snapchat. She looked super fit, like in her prime hotness. AND LIKE SHE’S BEEN GOING TO THE GYM EVERYDAY.  Shit. So this was the conversation:

Me: “Hi!!! How are you?”

She: “Great! How are you? Are you still going to the gym?”

Me: “Yes! Well…. no…actually. Yes, I do go and walk in the door  but since they started moving things around for the renovations, I can’t figure it out, so I just flail around the hallway and then go drink beer.”

She (nodding): “Yeah, that spinning room in the squash court is kind of brutal.”

OBVIOUSLY SHE KNOWS THIS BECAUSE SHE ACTUALLY DOES THE CLASSES. I have only heard about this makeshift spinning room in a squash court but I’m waiting for it to come back when they’re done with this reno. I hate change and I’m too old for bright lights.

Me (upper body collapsing on my glutenous white carb laden grocery cart):  “I just let the menopause hit, I didn’t bother reading that Suzanne Somers book. Estogen Shmestrogen. I don’t care anymore….”

She looked at me incredulously like I was a frog on a highway and she and her pert antioxidant-filled shopping cart scuttled away before we could talk about how our kids were doing. I had a case of the olds and she was not going to catch it. No, she’s going to run from it. And probably train for a Tough Mudder along the way. Ha ha, the joke’s on her, there’s nothing more ageing than doing some archaic strenuous shit squinting in the sun. “You choose the face or the body,” said the grand old bitch Catherine Deneuve, who wisely chose the face, knowing that the thickened middle pudge is practical for holding Netflix on the laptop and trays of snacks and cans of beers or whatever.

YOU CAN RUN BUT YOU CAN’T HIDE, THE OLDS ARE COMING FOR YOU, TOO! I wanted to warn her but best let her find out for herself. Cue the theme song from Jaws.

So yeah, she will get the olds in due time and there’s not much she can do about it. But like all of life’s curve balls, it’s how you flail your bat at them that counts. I’m not even sure that’t the right metaphor but you know what I mean. At some point she will tire of fighting with her glorious hair and  it will start looking all fantastically witchy when the silvers start winning. She will also finally get that postal feeling of irascible rage over the song “Footloose” and stop spinning all together like I did. Then finally, by the light of the giant harvest moon in 2019 she will burn all her Lululemons in a giant bonfire and she will yell; “I’M OLD AS FUCK AND I DON’T GIVE A SHIT ANYMORE!” And we will embrace her in our old-as-fuck community by getting our Botox on because we are never to old for botulism injectables.

It’s all good. Here’s a random list of things I’m too old for, let me know yours:

  • Snapchat
  • Grown ass adults having birthday parties. Unless the booze is free.
  • Having to continuously re-download the annoying Kik app for a D pic because a certain type of Tinder dude is too paranoid about his precious package to send by old-fashioned text message. Having said that, the last one was worth it.
  • Winged eyeliner…reluctantly 😦 but it’s just too much work.
  • Yelling at customer service phone representatives like a toddler as though the world owes me HBO and faster internet for free. I am NOT going to become one of those cantankerous cane-tapping old bats who get their way only because they are about to die on an ice floe unbeknownst to them. Instead I will always use my freakishly girlish phone sex voice in order to get free stuff.
  • Thongs

And like the NY Times article says, just because you’re old, doesn’t mean you can’t embrace new things and make new friends. Also things you shouldn’t have to apologize for because you’re old as fuck, here’s my list:

  • Lipstick, especially those bold colours from the 80s that only Gwen Stefani gets away with. I know the olds come with those vertical lines that can make a mess of things but! Fuck it. Also I have discovered those 8-hour BJ-proof-stay-on formulas like Kat Von D’s Everlasting from Sephora, caveat: You have to paint it on carefully with a super steady hand so get rid of last night’s martini shakes by having good morning Caesar BUT! Once you get it on and let it dry, you can eat a gooey delicious croque madame sandwich and your lips will stay intact. Oh, also: I put this shit on in public because I’m too old to care.
  • Cheetos
  • Long Island iced tea, let’s bring these back in style, mama needs to howl at the moon again.
  • Tinder. Where has this app been all my life? This is the dating app for those who don’t have time or the life skills for meaningful relationships and base their attraction solely on a few photos and a couple of sentences. Me: Boobs, Soft downy wings, Sandwich maker, OCD hair twirler, Boobs…Looking for  a D for my V. How concise is that? The boys in the photos are all flying through the air on bungees, parachutes, and trampolines. Catch me if you can, bitches, they seem to be saying. Swipe left and it’s nope, you can fly off the cliff and die, dude; Swipe right, and yes, we can totally bone if you can hold still for a second. Of course, nothing has come of this for old as fuck moi because everyone on this has severe ADD and they expect you to stop what you’re doing RIGHT NOW and come over PRONTO. I need witty banter for lubrication and Tinder boys can’t take light repartee, unless you’re asking them what their favourite boneage position is, they’re like, “you’re wasting my time, lady” and off into they go into ether on their roller blades or pogo sticks. Whatevs, like I care. Maybe I am too old for this, but I’m waiting patiently to catch the great white whale.  Also I get a cheap little thrill when there is a match which means both of us swiped right! This is destiny at work! Then I plan the mock wedding:
  • Dumb bridal shows, like “Say Yes to the Dress.” This is my Friday night guilty pleasure slash porn. Back cleavage makes me gleeful. I don’t know why.
  • Your dad, please have him call me.



Meh…Can’t Be Bothered to Make a Title

Meh…what exactly is it?  Urban dictionary: “Don’t care.”

Me. unshowered after a work out, trudges over to the restaurant at the gym to see what’s the soup of the day.  “Meh,” I say out loud to no one in particular, not even bothering to read the sandwich board. Mulligatawny, minestrone, what’s the difference?  On normal days, that are not in January, mulligatawny makes me shriek with glee as I cream my jeans, and minestrone sets me off into a murderous rage.  But January is “meh” month, and nothing seems to matter. But luckily, “meh” is just a gateway emotion. “Meh” should not be confused with the divine detachment that the elite Buddhists have mastered.  A truly pure “meh” is the perfect storm of disgruntleness combined with a low-level frustration that creates a palpable, gelatinous, balloon of boredom which lasts an entire month. As you can see by my rage comic calendar prediction, it breaks in February, when despair takes over.  Thank God!  There is nothing worse than the January “mehs.”

Watching television simmers a meh mood and caramelizes it so thick, you become inert and catatonic on the couch. It’s a vicious cycle. You might want to jostle yourself out of it by taking up an extreme sport. But if that’s too rad, I have 3 suggestions, all involving needles:

1. Give blood.  When you are laying there with a needle in your arm, squeezing a wad of paper towel, imagine you are ridding yourself of meh…you can’t pee, poo, splooge, or even blow it out in a lame yoga class, you have to go to drastic measures to bleed it out, like they did in olden times when they leeched out the consumption. It’s just a metaphor for you to wrap your dull mind around, but ultimately your crappy blood will be going to someone who actually needs it. And that should make you feel at least like you did something good. Smug happiness is better than no happiness.

2. Get Botox.  We’ve been through this before, Botox is not going to make you look like the Joker, those are fillers.  Botox is going to wipe that meh expression off your face, the one that makes your brow furrow and you won’t have to squint when the stupid sun comes out and makes that annoying glare on the salty roads. Fuck the sun. It’s so stupid.

3. Get a tattoo.  You know the tattoo you get when you’re in a meh mood will be the one you never regret because the upside of meh is rationality.  Last night, I dreamt I got a tattoo of a purple owl on my back and when I woke up and realized it was real, for a second I never felt a twinge of smug happiness.  Then I rolled over and went “meh.”  But still.

That’s all I got, just ride it out and wait for the up-beat months like June and October.  Until then, here’s Johnny with probably a worse case of the mehs than you or me:


Botox This

No, I’m not angry, I was born this way

Last year I had my first Botox injection:  30 units pumped straight into the trenches of my forehead.  I grappled with the decision for years before actually getting it.  I have wacky vision and I furrow my brows alot and on top of it all, I have a macabre scar that runs between my two eyebrows from jumping on my bed and faceplanting on the headboard.  I was four, my oldest sister dumped me in the bathtub and let me bleed furiously while she watched “Love of Life” until my mother came home.  I am grateful she didn’t try and stitch me up because things could have been worse.  So with the horizontal scar and the vertical furrow lines, my forehead was a multi-purpose gameboard, you could play tic tac toe, hangman, or harvest some crops if you couldn’t log into Farmville.  When I was a teenager I used to tape my forehead at night so things wouldn’t get worse.  But the creases deepened and by the time I was in my twenties, people thought I was angry all the time.  Random men would say: “Why are you so mad?  Smile!”  STFU, I would grit my teeth.  Bangs were the answer.  Then Botox came on the scene and I knew I wanted it.  But it seemed really scary and anytime I would chirp about it, someone would inevitably say:  “Don’t you know that it’s poison, POISON!!!  It’s made out of botulinum toxin, you will die a slow death!!  And look like a duck while you’re doing it!”  First of all, I am going to die a slow death without Botox and look angry while doing it, and secondly, and most importantly, Botox does not make you look like a duck, the fillers do.  Botox just relaxes the muscles, okay, paralyzes the muscles and then they gradually over time go into atrophy, the same as your ass does when you watch too many soap operas.  My only fear was that the injection would affect my ajna chokra, you know the third eye that is the centre of your intuition.  What if I lost all instincts and started dating men who advertised on Craigslist?   Nurse D assured not only would my chokra be intact, it would be running on overdrive, all that furrowing was actually blocking it.  Nurse D also said she could fix my one eyebrow that arches too much, but I said no, it is what makes me look clever.  So the needle went in and I never looked back.  A year later, the verticle lines have softened, I don’t squint anymore when I read {less headaches!)…seriously this shit should be on OHIP.  So last week, wagjag had an offer for 20 units of Botox for $79 from Skin Vitality at 11 Yorkville.   I jumped on it, a little nervous about discount Botox but it turned out great, my brow muscle is losing its furious furrow but you can still tell when I am truly pissed at something, which is good because I don’t want to be perceived as a pushover.  Just don’t try and upsell me on the fillers…yet.