Thimples

My mother has a set of Shirley Temple dimples. When I was little, people always looked at me with disappointment when I smiled. "Oh," they'd say. "You didn't get your mother's dimples." Once I hit college, I could reply, "Oh, yes I did." They were simply on my thighs.

It's been an ongoing battle smoothing those ripples. I got to the point a few years ago where they were almost nil. I was living on the South Beach Diet, working out at the gym like a madwoman, burning 1,000 calories on the treadmill at a time, and slathering my thighs with Neutrogena's Anti-Cellulite Treatment twice a day. That seemed to be the right combo for my DNA. I was confident sitting down in short skirts or wearing light twill white pants. I didn't even cringe under the lighting of changing rooms. It was a glorious summer.

Then I went on a two-year writing binge, stopped exercising like a madwoman, would be lucky to burn 1,000 calories per week on the treadmill, had to bail on South Beach (you can't have copious amounts of artificial sweeteners with an inflamed stomach lining, nor should you when you are trying to eat all organic, and effing Stevia hasn't gone mainstream...thanks for nothing, FDA), and I can only find that Nivea stuff on the shelves. It seemed I had found the perfect cellulitic storm of writer's lifestyle, age and genetics. Something had to be done.

Not to be catty, but when Jennifer Love Hewitt tried to tell the world that's what a size 2 ass looks like, I had to cough out a bullshizzle. Try multiplying that by four. For a second, I thought someone had sold them a shot of me. But then I remembered I haven't been to Hawaii. To put it mildly, I'm no 2. It was a sad day at the Gap when a 6 didn't fit, and I used to be a 4 there. With a heavy sigh, I bought a bigger size. I knew there was nothing I could really do about it until I finished the book and the writing on my to-do list. My discipline only stretches so far. Now that it's done, I've gotten a bit more wicked with my diet (food will no longer come delivered in white paper bags). I'm back to a 6 now, and I've accepted that, until I can find two hours in the morning for the gym, I won't see a 4 anytime soon.

When I saw the photos of Mischa Barton sitting at a fashion show the other day, I again had a flash of, Is that me? Outside of the cankles, those are my legs right now. All of a sudden, I've gone lumpy. Something is definitely amiss. This has only happened once before when I went on the wrong Pill. Practically overnight, my breast grew a cup-size and small curd cottage cheese moved onto my thighs. I was okay with the boobage, but there was no way I would tolerate the rest. I went off the Pill immediately and both side effects went away. Unfortunately, I cannot blame oral contraception this time. Effing genetics.

Alas, the Nivea stuff just isn't packing the punch I need. For one, it doesn't have that tightening tingle that both the Neutrogena and Clarins creams provide. That's the caffeine, crucial in the fight against thimples. Nivea lacks that, and their L-Carnitine can kiss my cheeks. I've gone to CVS, Walgreen's and Long's, but no one has the damn Neutrogena. Haven't in ages, and I will not drop $75 on the Clarins. It works miracles, but I'm in a bit of a cheap phase right now. Instead, I did something I'd rather avoid at all costs: I shopped online.

About the only thing I buy online is music (but iTunes is a quick in and out). Occasionally, I'll purchase a book over the internet, but would much rather wander the aisles and annoy clerks by asking them to help me find a book that I inevitably end up standing next to when I finally request their assistance. Outside of that, I like to walk into a shop and get what I want or need. I'm a tactile individual. Keystrokes just aren't enough. Netflix is something I only recently warmed to, and that's because I absolutely loathe video stores (I had a traumatic experience working at one my first year of college).

As luck (and logic) would have it, I found the Neutrogena miracle cream on several sites. I hesitated for a moment, noticing the company did a packaging re-design. I don't trust that. But, I got over it. I even got over my cheap streak and bought two bottles. Sometime within the next five-to-seven business days (still too cheap to spring for overnight shipping), I'll starting feeling the the cheese melt. Let the smoothing begin! In the meantime, it's back to being a madwoman. At the gym at least.

Going Deep

When you haven’t had a facial in five years — and by “facial” I mean one performed by a licensed professional; not a DIY version, such as a Queen Helene’s Mud Pack Masque, at-home microdermabrasion, or self-inflicted “extractions” — you kind of have to make up for lost time. Or, at least that’s what I told myself. I’m going deep. I got my first “peel”.

Okay, stop. Please remove the visions of burn victims from your head. Really. I had a hard enough time imagining what I might have done to myself. There was an episode of “Sex and the City” that kept playing in my head...and I was without a handy black hat and veil to hide behind.

When I saw this specific facial done on TV (yes, that’s one of the problems of living in L.A.; you see it and have to have it...and it’s usually located around Robertson), it boasted a recovery time of about four days. I made specific plans to allow heal-time to happen over a weekend when I booked the appointment. However, as we were finishing up from the procedure, the esthetician sweetly said to me, “You are going to have a good peel.” Then I believe the word “sheets” was used in reference to the skin I would be shedding.

Whattha?

I was told I had about two days before the anticipated reptilian molting would take place. Just enough time to run out and get supplies (Cetaphil and Aquaphor) and my hair done. The hair appointment was put on the books weeks before and, even if I was scary, I was going to get my roots done dammit. It’s all about looking good, even if you are looking bad. And I do enjoy the irony of the ugly one must go through to get to the beauty. It borders on ridiculous, doesn’t it? All this for a little sun-spottage and melasma from the Pill. The Pill. Oh, how I rue the day I went back on it.

The upside was that I had this done over the Spirit/Oscar weekend, my high holy holiday. I was more than happy to stay in, glued to the telly, cheer on the winners while I (theoretically) worked on a screenplay and survived on delivered pizza. The pizza guy has already seen me (repeatedly) in sorry writing shape. I’m sure he wouldn’t blink if I looked like I had just returned from Nuclear Winter.

It was going to be easy taking four days off. Oh, the writing and housecleaning I could get done! Yeah, right. But, with the news that it would take a tad longer (7-10 days), I was disappointed that I couldn’t (wouldn’t) go to the gym to shed some of that writing weight. Not if I was going to be leaving epithelials all over the place. I do have some pride. Besides, during a peel-heal, you are very shiny. There’s no way to be in any way incognito when you are basically a walking, talking beacon. I thought I’d spare myself that indignity.

Yet, in spite of “Sex and the City” flashbacks, I didn’t resemble Samantha at all. It took about a week to completely molt (which I sped up on about day five by doing a DermaNew), and no children or old people were frightened in the process. There are still some spots I’d like lightened but, overall, it was worth it. And I won’t be waiting another five years to get another facial. As I was being examined by the facialist she complimented me on my small pores, and advised me to “keep it that way.” That’s just word-crack. You want to be sure to hear that again. And, there’s nothing like a threat veiled in a compliment to stir one’s vanity. Now I am looking forward to another splurge. Ole Henriksen, I’ll soon be calling.

Faux Naturale

Is it me, or did Madonna appear both nipped and tucked on the red carpet for her husband’s next flop...er, I mean, film? Now, it seems, she has a pair of black eyes (viewable in paparazzi photos behind oversized shades). Is this faux-Brit patronizing New York to get some work done? Only her surgeon knows for sure. But if an array of photos of her through the years were laid out in front of us, we’d see how often she’s been renewed.

Nicole Kidman claims to be all natural. Really? Like, it’s natural when your lips inflate on their own and your face freezes? Hmmm. I guess if you look at it her way, botulism is natural therefore Botox is, too. Hyaluronic Acid is a derivative of sugar, so Juvederm must be Mother-Nature-made. See, you can be totally plastic and be totally natural at the same time. It’s just amazing what modern science can do.

My favorite Barbie is Demi Moore, who went around claiming her body got better and better with each pregnancy, then spent a reported fifty-grand on total body restoration. Why? It’s not the work that was done, but the lies that were told about it. In this time of scripted reality, people are losing the sense of what is true. We are falling for the delusion. But, what’s worse is that, rather than tell the truth, it’s become vogue to lie about it. It’s easy to keep a straight face when it’s been chemically paralyzed.

Generally, cosmetic procedures are private. A personal choice one makes for whatever reason. Celebrities lose that luxury. From their public existence, we see it all. We have photographic evidence of what has been altered (that is, before it’s been Photoshopped). So why lie about it? How about a simple “no comment” instead? Or even a statement like, “Even though I lead a public life, I choose to keep some aspects private.” But, if you say something like that, then keep your trap shut about what should be private. It’s about consistency, people. You look less like a hypocritical ass if you keep it consistent.

I don’t have a problem with plastic surgery. Not at all. Since I was a young girl and saw my mother in her smalls, I knew a tummy tuck and boob job were in my future should I actually decide to bear children (it was also about that time I saw the purpose of a surrogate). I plan on treating myself to Botox for my next birthday, just to amputate those crow’s feet. And, depending on who asks, and how tactfully they inquire, I will either answer with full disclosure, or simply reply, “What do you think? Do you really think it’s any of your business?”

Still, I want to know who Susan Sarandon and Cindy Crawford sees. That is vital information. I mean, they will talk about their nutritionist or trainer or stylist, til the cows come home, but I want to know about their doctors and dermatologists. That’s only fair, and a true public service. I also want to know who did some of the “odd jobs” we see out there. That’s even more vital so you know whom to avoid. There have been times when I wanted to stop women on Rodeo and ask, “Who did your work?” so I could put the word out.

While I think there is a purpose to some procedures, there are a few things I think it’s prudent to avoid. Like starting when you are too young. Why are these twenty-somethings going for Botox and lip injections when they are in the bloom of youth? And boob jobs at 18? Please. These girls aren’t fully developed physically or emotionally. Going from B to DD isn’t the kind of maturing I would want for my daughter. But that’s just me.

My mother got her boobs done. After two kids, I didn’t blame her. But when she told me, “I have some bras to give you that I’ve outgrown,” I corrected her. “You didn’t ‘outgrow’ anything,” I reminded. You have to keep it real, even when some of it is fake.