Okay, here’s a newsflash for you. A new study just came out that says when Botox is injected into your face, the poison has been found to ENTER THE BRAIN. Really? I am astounded! You mean, when you stick a needle into someone’s face, less than a half an inch away from the brain, and inject POISON, some actually travels there??? Wow! Stop the presses! How could this possibly happen?

Obviously, very few people took science in school. Including me, but even I figured out that if you stick a needle in someone’s body and inject poison, the stuff doesn’t magically contain itself to the injection site. There are these things called veins and capillaries and neurons that ACTUALLY CONNECT to other parts of the human body. Ever heard of the circulation system, people? Freakin’ kindergarteners seem to have a better grasp on the human body than most adults, especially the ones who think they’ll look younger with their faces frozen like mannequins.

I just can’t believe that anyone believed the manufacturer when the Purveyors of Poison told them that “studies had shown” that the neurotoxin completely broke down at the injection site into innocuous compounds and didn’t go beyond it. Wait. Let me get this straight. Poison—a compound used as a bioterrorism weapon—is injected into the muscle, kills some nerve endings and then somehow magically transforms into pixie dust or something? After destroying tissue, poison turns into rainbows and unicorns and pretty pink clouds? How the hell could anyone buy this BS? Even doctors believed it. Probably because their golf trip to Scotland was funded by the drug companies. And where did they do the testing on Botox originally? Greed Labs?

Doesn’t anyone realize that these corporate bastards don’t care if their product kills us? The Botox guys are the same kind of corporate creeps who told us Vioxx was safe. All they want is MONEY. And people are so gullible, they watch an ad on TV that says sticking poison in your face is completely safe and will make society like you more, so they grab their credit cards and rush to their nearest plastic surgeon.

The underlying message from these corporate jerks is that aging is a character flaw. If you don’t poison yourself, you might actually commit the horrible sin of LOOKING YOUR AGE and you will end up friendless and alone. Yeah, every time I see my grandmother, I think, wow, what a hideous troll, she should hide herself away. I mean, what is wrong with people? When did aging become something to be ashamed of? And just whom are we trying to please with all our Botoxed looks?

Which brings up the entire reason people get cosmetic procedures and inject their faces with poison: to make some stupid superficial people like them more. I mean, how dumb is that? No friendship is worth shoving a bunch of poison into your system. Women are spending money poisoning themselves so some fat middle-aged idiot won’t divorce them for a trophy wife. Why would anyone risk life and limb to stay in a relationship for the rest of your life with some creep who wanted you to look like a freakin’ twenty-year-old at forty? Why would you risk brain damage or death for some narcissistic freak? How could you be this desperate to stay with an idiot like that? For God’s sake, spare the injections and buy yourself a vibrator.

I realize some women are forced into cosmetic procedures to protect their jobs. If I were in that position, I’d tell my corporate masters to take a hike. What? Poison myself so I can keep my bloody job? Screw you, I’ll start my own freakin’ business. I mean, if you put Barbara Walters next to her wax figure at Madame Tussaud’s, there is no way you could tell the difference. Her face is a mask of surgical Botox wonder. And let’s not even go into Joan Rivers, she doesn’t even look human any more. Do these people look better than they would if they’d left their faces alone? No. They look like circus freaks.

Which brings us to the other problem with Botox: it doesn’t work. You don’t look younger after you get injected. You look like a stroke victim. Part of your face reacts to my jokes, part of it remains frozen. You can’t even raise your freakin’ eyebrows. And when you smile, your face goes all lopsided. You look freakin’ weird. Like some character out of a horror movie. I mean, whenever you run into anyone who’s had a bunch of plastic surgery and Botox injections, you don’t think, hey, they look good. You think, wow, they had a lot of work done. I think, jeez, there’s someone without any self-esteem. And lack of self-esteem can only be cured with therapy not surgery or poison.

And yes, I’ve heard the “pro” arguments for Botox. Medical uses like with cerebral palsy and stuff like that. Okay, so that makes sense. But other than for a disease, I don’t get it. Some shrink friend of a friend had some bad stuff happen to her earlier in her life so her neutral expression made her look mean. It was off-putting to her clients, so she got Botox. How dumb is that? Yet another example of someone poisoning themselves so crazy people will like them better. I mean, this is the reason everyone gets injected with Botox, so crazy people will like them better. What solid reasoning!

Of course, I’m sure the new warnings won’t scare off the die-hard plastic surgery junkies. In fact, I’m so sure of it, I’ve started a new company. Forever Beautiful: Embalming For The Living. I’m gonna make billions.

©2008, Janet Periat

After nineteen years of forest dwelling, I have decided to make a change in my life. I’m moving to the Land of the Contracted Blondes, better known as the Peninsula. “Why?” you may ask. Especially given the earlier negative connotation. Quite simply, I need a change. After nineteen years of schlepping my garbage to the dumps, of being an hour away from EVERYWHERE, of having my shoes turn green with mold, I have decided to defect and move to the Other Side of the Hill. To the land of asphalt, pollution, cellphones and the aforementioned Starbucks-swilling, Contracted Blondes.

And I haven’t been this excited in years. Did you know that when you’re in suburbia, if you press a certain combination of numbers into a telephone, Chinese food magically appears at your door? Mind-blowing! After years of watching Domino’s commercials, suddenly, they have all new meaning to me. Dialing that number on the screen will actually bring a pizza to my door! Astonishing! Not only that, the Post Office delivers! So does the Chronicle, Waiters on Wheels and a million other places. It’s unreal.

I got a real shock when I started calling painting contractors. Instead of calling up a number, explaining where I was and either hearing hysterical laughter on the other end of the phone or the words, “How’s the year after next lookin’ for ya?” contractors came out the next day to give me bids. Competition for services? No way! I keep pinching myself, barely able to comprehend it all. I. Will. Be. Part. Of. Civilization. Again. Unbelievable. I’d forgotten what it was like.

Now for the other side of the coin. The aforementioned Contracted Blondes. After living on the Coastside for 19 years, I am accustomed to being surrounded by mostly friendly, down-to-earth people. While I am now surrounded by many more people, a shocking majority of them are Contracted Blondes. I swear, there is a manufacturing plant over here that produces them by the bushel. Everywhere I turn, there is some blonde, forty-something, Botoxed woman with perfect nails, wearing Nordstroms’ latest fashion, driving either a Mercedes, a Lexus or a BMW. She is in a hurry. Her hair is neck length, with either a slight flip out or in and she has the latest model of cellphone grafted to her ear. She is so tightly controlled, living within such narrow parameters that even her gestures are minimal. She holds her fifteen hundred dollar Louis Vuitton purse close to her gym-toned, bulimic body and when she waves to one of her Contracted Blonde friends, it’s a tight little sideways jerky movement, no more than an inch in either direction. Her mouth is a flat line, pursed occasionally into disapproval. I’m not sure she remembers how to smile. Of course, with all that Botox, that unmoving expression could be a smile, but I seriously doubt it. She seems to hate everyone who isn’t another Contracted Blonde. And I’m not sure she even likes other Contracted Blondes. I’m not sure she likes anyone. God forbid you should pull your loathsome American car in front of one. Talk about the Frozen Face of Death. I have only been living here in San Mateo part-time for six months and I have personally been frostbitten over twenty times by these odd creatures. Another thing, don’t bother trying to be friendly with a Contracted Blonde, they seem to take this as a personal insult. They look at you as if you had three heads, contract even further, almost to the point of disappearing up their own existence and then click away quickly in high heels, every step measured and perfect. I find the phenomenon fascinating. They are almost a different species of human. Actually, I’m not sure they are human. I’m beginning to suspect that they come from a plastic injection mold. I had to stop myself from reaching out and tapping one’s face the other day to see if she was real.

Aside from the weird species of humans, suburban living has changed somewhat since I was here last. When large trucks back up now they make a DOOT-DOOT-DOOT noise. I suppose the ear-shattering sounds of large engines wasn’t enough of a warning for people to get out of the way. I mean, if you’re too deaf to hear a truck engine, one wonders how the addition of the DOOT-DOOT-DOOT has helped anyone. Especially garbage trucks at four AM. We’re all supposed to be in bed at four am. I do not understand the need to be awakened by the back-up alarm unless the truck plans on backing through my bedroom wall. I would assume in that case, the sounds of crunching stucco and walls breaking would be enough of a warning.  Since I now live next door to a parking lot for a financial institution, most mornings I get serenaded by the garbage truck coming to unload the Dumpster, a mere thirty feet from my bedroom window. Just the other morning, the truck got stuck on the Dumpster and I was entertained for a full five minutes while the garbage man attempted to get unentangled. DOOT-DOOT-DOOT! CLATTER CLATTER CLATTER! DOOT-DOOT-DOOT! CLATTER CLATTER CLATTER! And so on and so forth. Then, the other night, some moron in a truck with a trailer got stuck in the parking lot at ten-thirty at night and tormented me with a twenty minute DOOT-DOOT-DOOT concerto. When I opened my curtains to glare at him, it seemed to just add to his humiliation as he seemed quite aware that not only had he made a serious miscalculation in parking, he was alerting the entire neighborhood to the fact. While it was annoying, the instance highlighted the only positive I could see for the devices, serving as a negative sanction for bad drivers.

Despite the annoyances of suburban living, I can’t help but be thrilled by all the modern conveniences. High speed Internet access makes shopping on eBay almost somewhat enjoyable. I can now walk to the bank, the store, movie theaters and about fifty restaurants. While I understand my safety is now in question (thieves, pollution, over-eating) knowing that if my car breaks down I still have access to food and my mail is quite reassuring. But of course, the jury is still out, the honeymoon has not even begun. Who knows? I could some screaming back to the Coastside in six months, clutching handfuls of Contracted Blonde’s hair. Only time will tell. But for right now, I’m calling and ordering a pizza to be delivered. Because I can.

© 2005, Janet Periat

AUTHOR’s NOTE: Sadly, I have adjusted to suburban living and have no intention of returning to the country. Chinese food delivered to my door won out over mold on my shoes. I no longer hear the garbage truck at 4am and if I do, I immediately fall back to sleep. I’ve met actual humans here since I moved here, wonderful people who aren’t at all like the aforementioned Contracted Blondes. Although, there are still multitudes of the alien creatures. I still find it odd that some idiot with a Lamborghini choses to drive his 100K vehicle to SAFEWAY, of all places. I guess rich people have to shop for food, too. Or maybe because his vehicle cost him so much, he eats ramen in secret. Who knows? All I know is while it is a weird place to live, it is now home. I love my neighbors, the weather and the sunshine. And I love that my shoes no longer mold and I don’t have to clean raccoon mess out of my yard. Yet, sometimes, I really do miss being surrounded by tall redwood trees.