by Nicole Crews
Mother: What are you doing with all of those bras?
Me: I’m burning them in the firepit.
Mother: Oh God, are you being a feminist?
Me: No, they just give me bra fat.
Mother: What the hell is that?
Me: A byproduct of the Golden Age of Vanity.
As I write I am literally flipped on a gurney at the plastic surgeon’s office and a coolsculpting tech is coming at me with a vise that looks like a cross between and octopus tentacle and a mammogram clamp — only this one sucks and pinches harder and lasts for a full hour. It’s a lot like having a snuffleupagus give you a hickey.
Me: Did they come up with this at Guantanamo Bay?
Tech: No, it’s actually called the “Popsicle Effect.” Researchers found that little kids who sucked on a lot of popsicles were losing volume in their cheeks.
Me: No way. You’re making that up. Who does popsicle research anyway?
Tech: I know, right. They also found that women who rode horseback in cold climates on cold saddles lost fat on their thighs.
Me: That makes me want to ride horses in Alaska whilst eating a popsicle and open an ice hotel.
You see I’ve spent the past year pushing more push-ups than the ice cream truck all in the name of ridding my body of that charming entity of back and sideboob flesh that is the annoyance of many a female — and I’ve given up.
I’ve succumbed to the modern world of moderately invasive cosmetic procedures. In this case it’s coolsculpting and what it is, is a non-surgical fat-reducing treatment that freezes fat cells in specific areas and then they are naturally eliminated from your body. If it sounds like a magic wand, it’s not quite that gentle. It’s more like Manny Pacquiao going to town on said specific area. In brotherly empathy, I imagine it’s what getting kicked in the balls feels like.
It’s the price we pay for beauty. And it seems more and more of us are forking over dollah bills and enduring pain for it. We are living in the Renaissance of Rejuvenation — or as I like to call it, the Kardashian Effect. More than 15 million surgical and nonsurgical cosmetic procedures were performed in 2014 — up 4 percent from the previous year, and ass implants doubled! Talk about more bang for your buck.
Hour 2 and one wing has been frozen, and we’re cold-jelling up the other one for the ice chamber. I’m feeling a little silly worrying about something this dumb, but I rally when I think about how long it’s been since I’ve done something totally self-indulgent that will make me happy. My mother used to say, “Don’t forget to reward yourself,” so I’m doing it. I’m excited thinking about all of the strapless dresses I’ve avoided like MRSA over the last few years — and thrilled at slowing down on those gruesome push-ups.
Me: I finally won’t be hapless in strapless!
Viking: You ladies….
Me: Hey you like the clean lines of a boat. I like the clean lines of a dress. And I’d prefer not to look like a trussed up ham wearing it.
Viking: You don’t have anything to worry about.
Me: Well I won’t after this is over.
The procedure is actually not too bad once you’ve settled into it. It helps to distract yourself. (Try writing a column while being wrestled by a giant squid!) I think George Plimpton would approve, and more importantly, Joan Rivers would be proud.
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I live in England now where we don’t have air conditioning but where proper punctuation is considered more essential that etiquette. Leaving the serial comma aside for the nonce, when I need an infusion of Serial Comedy, I go online & check out “All She Wrote”. While satirical puns and an appreciation of televised punditry are held in low regard here, I admit to an occasional craving for both, along with a soupçon of ribaldry. Ms Cruise invariably satisfies, like a rack of ribs with a side of hush puppies, and Maker’s no ice, waterback.
Although sadly her momma JoAnn has now shrugged off her mortal coil and stands in Heels-That-Never-Hurt among the Heavenly Hostesses, I still sense her aura when I seek out the clairvoyant girl talk in the lead. I make up my own retorts when I read a bit of her banter with her bearded boy toy, The Viking. The Ravages of Time are cruel, and Nicole Crews has undoubtedly ruined many a manicure trying to claw her way back into the demo. If you consider using a magnifying mirror while plucking your eyebrows as a form of ruthless self appraisal, then this gal will talk to your heart. Yes, that’s mascara, not ink stains, but of course she puts on more airs than an electric fan and one of them is that faux digerati bit. You ask me, I’d say her main OCD trigger is an itchy finger on the remote control – My TV Mama, the one with the big wide screen.
TCB in a flash frame, sugar. Another Maker’s for the road?
Oh, dear, “more essential that etiquette” should read “more essential THAN etiquette” – I am so humiliated!
Once again, you folks at TCB have framed Ms. Crews’ piece with the name Anthony Harrison (note the by Anthony Harrison in bold, with Ms. Crews beneath, as well as at the end, talking about who Harrison is and not Ms. Crews. Elsewhere during her tenure it was Eric Ginsburg or Brian Clarey or Jordan Green. I’m guessing your editorial staff doesn’t read this, but they should, and rectify this matter immediately. Small wonder you lost her.
And Mr. Lashley, enjoyed your input.
I am trying to visualise an areola on an iceberg, or the erect summit of an icy mountain. Cold, remote, yet men still want to conquer it.