the F word.

 I read in the LA Times that they've done tests on peoples' ability to read others emotions by their facial expressions. Weirdly enough, those who have had Botox are far less able to read emotions on others faces! So, not only does Botox remove your own facial expression, it REMOVES your ABILITY to read others! Sheesh!

And yet, I still went and got it. Yep, that's my admission (that's what this blog is about -- trying new anti-aging treatments and reporting back). Toddled in last week to the fabulous Dr. Rady Rahban and got pumped up with Botox. First time in over a year. I'm trying to be graceful about aging, but that Rotten Kid really did get to me (see post #1). My forehead now feels like alabaster. Guess I won't be giving a shit if someone else looks like they're in pain, because I won't be able to recognize it.

The good news: Dr Rady said my face looks great from the top down -- until you get to my chin. That's where my age is showing, he said. So, I'm now a chinless wonder. Fabulous.
His solution? Filler. Fill my chin with Restylane. Or get a chin implant. I had visions of me with a giant super-hero-like lantern jaw. No thanks.

And Filler? Won't that just puff my chin out so I look like I just had oral surgery? The chipmunk effect?  I'm confused. But I do trust him. (By the way, girls, he's cute and single). He's no nonsense. He said the only laser worth getting is C02 (whatever that is -- hey wait, isn't that carbon dioxide? The greenhouse gas?), and that all others are a waste of money.

So I'm vacillating. To Fill or not to Fill?
Fill, baby, Fill?

Yeah, I know what most of you are thinking -- there she goes -- next thing she'll have duck lips and a weirdly puffy chin and she won't be aware of the horror in our faces when we gasp at the sight of her.

Hmm. Maybe Botox = ignorance = bliss?

A bevy of old broads

 I read in some shelter mag that an interior designer for his seriously wealthy clients was taken aback when they told him to stop buying Pratesi towels and get the Macy's Hotel Collection because they were the best for the price. Even rich folk like a bargain.

So I waited until there was a sale, and off I trotted to Macy's (I need the bargain). I loaded up on white fluffy towels and was at the register, when three old broads came up beside me.

One was in a wheel chair, looking decidedly worse for wear - white hair askew, a slightly dazed look in her feeble eyes.  The other looked loopy in that  Bette Davis - Whatever Happened to Baby Jane - way, like she was once an actress. Maybe she'd had in illustrious past as a starlet. You never know in Hollywood. Everyone and their pooch is or was in the biz in some incarnation.  Her bleached blonde-with-grey-roots hair sprung like a wild mop from her head and she sported ruby lipstick that had run into the deep crevasses around her mouth.

The third was a Filipino, probably the caregiver to the dame in the wheelchair. She was no spring chicken either. She looked almost ready for a walker herself.

Clearly they spent a lot of time together. They looked comfy in each other's presence. An old friendship. Maybe the two broads were sisters. Come to think of it, it was very Whatever Happened to Baby Jane. There was Blanche in her wheelchair and Baby Jane swanning around lording it over her.
Baby Jane had two sets of overly floral towels in her mitts.
"Whaddya think", she said, "do they match?"
Being the nosy broad that I am, I naturally had a gander. They sure were ugly.
Phyllis the Filipino leaned over, grabbed the towels from Baby Jane and ogled them. "No," she said, "they don't match. And this one is cheap."
She threw the offending towel in a dismissive gesture. It landed in an insouciant flop over the headboard of a display bed. Then she loaded a pile of shopping bags onto Blanche's lap. I could barely see Blanche's eyes poking out over the load. More bags were slung around the arms of the chair. These broads liked to shop.
Phyllis saw me trying to suppress a giggle. She tried to suppress one too. I'd busted her. For having good taste. And being in charge.
"You shove any more bags on her lap, you'll bury her", I said. Probably not the best choice of words considering Blanche's advanced age.
At that point Baby Jane gave a loud cackle. And we all started laughing. Even the guy behind the register chuckled.
And off they tottered, Phyllis pushing Blanche and Baby Jane teetering on her kitten heels.
It made me think of my friends. I hope I still have a gaggle of gals around me when we get decrepit. That's one plus to getting old. You have old pals.

And The Macy's Hotel collection? A tad flimsy. I think Phyllis and I would go for the Pratesi every time.

that rotten kid started it

I blame this blog all on that rotten seven year old. He had the face of a cafe au lait angel and the mouth of the devil. It was the last day of weeks shooting on location, and I was exhausted. He rolled around in the grass near where I had my wardrobe racks parked and laughed. I thought he was delightful, until he looked up at me and asked, 'how old are you? 81?' The gasp of horror nearly choked me. I replied, 'actually, I'm 92.' 'Well,' he said, 'how come you have young hair?' 

Little shit. If clipping a kid upside the head was legal, he would have copped a good one. Unfortunately there were others in earshot. A swift kick up his bum was not on the agenda. 'Oh,' his silly mother giggled when I told her, 'he has no edit button'. Really. Really? How about teaching your rotten shit of a kid some manners? 

Well, that sort of threw me into a tailspin. Okay, I'm now what's called middle aged. Fuck, I hate that term. It instantly brings to mind pictures of fat guts, greying hair and elastic waisted slacks. I'm also am very aware that these days I'm one of the oldest on a film set. Hate to admit that too. But 81? Cripes. Is that how others see me? 

Suddenly, I did feel 92. I wanted to do a Gunther Sachs. Poor Gunther. The original billionaire jet-set playboy who famously married Brigitte Bardot. He took fashion photos for a hobby. I modeled for him once on the island of Ibiza. That's another story. He put a bullet through his head the other day at the age of 79. Didn't want to get any older. Can't say I blame him. 

When you think about it, there is a plus to carking it young. Take Marilyn. She would be 85 this year. Would we still think the same of her if we saw her all wrinkled and stooped? Same as James Dean. And the gorgeous Heath Ledger. Young forever. No wonder Brigitte Bardot became a recluse. 

I reckon I look pretty good for my age. As do my friends. I still hang out with many of my old modeling pals. Somehow we've all ended up here in Los Angeles. And we still love a good party. What is life for if you can't have a cocky and a giggle? 

The Dilemma is what to do regarding fighting these encroaching lines, the sagging skin and the cellulite? I don't want to end up with a tragic, overfilled, duck lipped, expressionless face, like a few people I know. It's so not cool. And hello peeps, you're fooling yourselves if you think you look younger. You just look like an old person trying too hard. It's pathetic. 

So, I'm on a mission to find the best anti aging skin care products and procedures without spending a fortune. I had collagen once on the sides of my mouth. I looked like a monkey. Thank God it wore off in three weeks. 

I actually think the best way to stay young is to have fun. And so I intend to do exactly that. 

Wish me luck!