Getting Ready for Matt, My Close-Up, and Possibly (But Not Likely) the Brazilians

Two weekends from now I will be celebrating my 37th birthday in LA with my girlfriends and hooking up* with my closest celebrity pal** at the Golden Globes.

* stalking

** Matt Damon who I met once at a Bourne Identity screening in Boston. (And by "met," I mean "babbled a supremely dorky question that he misunderstood, followed by me inwardly berating myself for the rest of my life.")

It is easy to become delusional about my looks in the suburbs. Here I am hot and young. But then I travel two miles in any direction and realize that I am neither, and that sometime in the past ten years, every woman but me has gotten fake boobs.

Back in the day, when kids only watched the odd porn flick that someone stole from their pervy, moustaschioed Dad's stash of videotapes, this was our model of hotness:

Big hair, small boobs

And now too many people I know look like this:

Small hair, big boobs

I miss the days of big hair.

To compensate for my B cups and to aid in preparation for my Weekend O' Fabulousity:

--Yesterday I visited the Kooky Hairdresser Lady and asked her to make me blonde, blonde, blonde! Emerged from Jazzy's Nails blonde-ish and well-educated on her IBS. (Damn it, Kooky Hairdresser Lady!)

--I'm using Crest Whitestrips and guiding ships through foggy nights with my dazzling smile. Ching!

--I'm also using a home microdermibrasion kit, which I'm choosing to believe is NOT a cleverly packaged-Pond's cold cream-and-vibrator combo.

--Scheduled an airbrush tan with a prayer I don't look like the pear-shaped offspring of an Oompa Loompa and Janice the Muppet.

--Worked off aforementioned pear rump at the gym. Convinced myself that Matt Damon would notice me in LA if only I did ten more minutes on the elliptical. Then I looked in the mirror, saw a mom in an Aeropostale sweatshirt, and went home to eat Alouette straight from the container with a spoon.

--Considered the Brazilian wax. Alas, the Brazilian wax is the one reason I have never had an affair. Sex with a new man would necessitate a Brazilian wax and I'm too lazy to commit; I know from experience that the regrowth stage is an ancient form of Brazilian torture.

Back in the day, the stylings of one's vajayjay was not discussed. The unspoken goal was simple: look more Play than Kid:

With apologies to Mr. Kid and Mr. Play

And maybe, if a gal was really skanky, she did a little of this:

Hi-top fade action with designs

But now, it is this shit show:

SO not happening.

(By the way, I am not African-American. Not sure what happened there.)

ANYWAY, in conclusion, I am going to LA with or without the fake tits, real tan, or Sinead O'Connor cootch. See you on the red carpet in two and two, Matt. Ching!

xo Moi