After the country club charity luncheon I attended today, I'm pretty sure there's no botox left in the state. I felt overweight, underdressed, and severely underplumped, woefully out of place in my black pants and turtleneck and afraid to smile for fear that the lines on my face would draw too much negative attention. Trust me, I would have bid on the thousand dollars worth of plastic surgery, just to save face, had there not been such a long line. At least there was little competition for the delicious hors d'oeuvres being passed around. The theme was purses, and the place was abuzz with women looking for a deal. I thought about putting my own Chanel up on one of the tables -- it's worth a lot more than I'm going to be once this divorce gets finished -- but I couldn't figure out a way to redirect the proceeds from the childrens' charity to, well, me. Best that I kept it on my arm anyway; it's probably the only reason I didn't get kicked out.
But back to the woman with the beef fat. I know it's tough to live on a budget, but what was she thinking? Apparently, when she showed up at the emergency room, her face was burned and infected -- I guess you can't really inject cold, congealed beef fat, so it makes perfect sense that she didn't wait for it to cool -- but the coroner determined the cause of death to be inconclusive. Lucky coincidence that she also had an infection of some kind in her stomach, I suppose; it would be so humiliating to have to explain the disfigurement.
All I know is if I want to be the belle of the trailer park I'm going to have to toss the syringes and the beef fat and figure out a Plan B. No more expensive creams from Elizabeth Arden for me; can't afford them. Anyway, the only time I see improvement is when I dim the lights. Hmm. Now there's a plan.
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