The worst. It’s a Tuesday morning and a kid walks up to me on my way out the door and says, I don’t feel good. The kid who only says that when they’re really actually sick. So I went right into hero mode.
Since it’s a Tuesday, I will stay home and take you to the doctor. Because according to my diary- Bollywood works the urgent care clinic today. No, Beau, you go ahead and go to work. I will take the day off and stay home with our poor, sick, ailing child. Besides, I can’t let this outfit go to waste.
So we wait the 2 hours until the doctor’s office actually opens. In that time, I whiten my teeth, curl my hair, put eyelash extensions on, and polish my nails. My teeth and my Tuesday just got a whole lot brighter.
All set. Let’s go.
One time when I was at Bollywood’s, he told me I was petite. I was there in a very dire situation. I had no lip gloss on. It was a real low.
But I was in major pain and hurtin for certain. I was literally bawling my eyes out and blubbering all over the good doctor’s 3000 thread-count shirt. He was writing me a script for something new to try (to get me the hell out of there) and I heard him say, clear as day, “I’m putting her on a low dose since she’s petite”
All of the sudden, as if Moses himself came down from the heavens and put his healing hands on me, I felt no pain. Bollywood’s words were healing me.
Excuse me? Did you just call me petite? I think I heard you say I’m petite.
Am I dying? Is this how my story ends? So happily? I can’t be this lucky.
I like to retell this story every time I walk into the office. I made them write it in my chart. I’m praying my records are summoned for some reason and that this information will become public knowledge someday.
Anyhoo. Today I have a kid in there with strep. Shocking.
Side note: I totally do not suffer from Munchausen By Proxy Syndrome. But it is my favorite syndrome. Besides Stokholm.
And this right here is why I love coming to see our family doctor. Over shots of amoxicillin, he points out all of the sun damage my face has. Adorably, like only he can.
Um, I mean, I know you went to school a long time and all. But trust me, I went longer. These are freckles.
I’m Irish. It’s what happens to my people when we go in the sun. It’s part of my flare.
Thank God he’s so damn fine. Or his lack of worldly medical knowledge might actually bother me in a doctor. I said, well I am 42. He says, oh I thought you were 39. That’s why I love him.
He tells me I should come in for a little work. I blush. At least I thought I did. But apparently my face is always so horribly bright red. That I need needles stuck in my pores. STAT.
The only other person on God’s green earth who could get me to stick needles in my face over and over again is named Oprah. The rich and the beautiful have that effect on me. Coincidentally, I have that effect on myself.
When Oprah tells me to do something, I do it. When Bollywood tells me to do him, I’ll do it. Whoops. Was that a typo?
I love when people are so famous they only go by one name. Oprah. Bollywood. Po.
Now never you mind why I take my kids to a pediatrician who actually doubles as a plastic surgeon. That’s not the point of this here article. But it really does come in handy.
Next thing I know my face is numb. I mean the entire thing. It’s the weirdest feeling. But I was numb and ready for Bollywood to work his magic wand on me.
Then, before I know it, Jessica is VIVACE Microneedling my face and Brittany is filming. The entire time I’m trying to act natural. And if it’s one thing I’m really amazing at, it’s actually behaving naturally.
Even when I’m alone. It’s just not me. I’m just not a natural person.
I get up out of that chair feeling so amazingly beautiful. And no joke half my freckles were gone. Perhaps I did have years of sun damage after all. You mean to tell me all those years of baby oil, tin foil, and the roof of my parents house damaged this baby’s ass of a face?
Next you’re going to try to tell me global warming is real. Pfffff….
And that is the story about how I got into before modeling for Dr. Bollywood’s office. Those supermodels are not lying when they say how hard it is. How many before pics can they possibly take of this carefully sculpted mom bod? I mean how many different angles can one have? And why? Let’s leave something to the imagination, fellas.
So now, that’s my actual body you see in all the before pictures in the office. But for some reason all of my “after” pics came out looking just like Debra Messing. Weird.