Monday, June 07, 2004

Plastic Surgery for the Proletariat

Our house's staircase is a death trap. The steps are really small and fairly steep, which means that you have to watch your step if you don't want to slip and break your neck.

You don't, ever, run. Not if you want to live.

I am preaching to myself here. What I am gonna say sounds like the perfect battered housewife excuse, but it is true. Except that I didn't fall down the stairs. No, I was actually stupid enough to fall up them.
I tripped on the last step and the next thing I saw was the window sill on the landing racing towards my face in a blur.
My upper lip hit it at full speed.
The pain was exquisit. I sank down, seeing stars and little birds orbiting my head like in a cartoon, and couldn't do anything but whimper. I could feel my lip expand immediately.
Dom heard me and came racing up. "What happened?"
"I'm gonna look like Melanie Griffith!" I whimpered.

And I do. I've got a trout pout now that would turn Hollywood's elite green with jealousy. That would make Lesley Ash look like a thin-lipped governess. Heck, maybe I should try my luck with Antonio Banderas, since he seems to dig that kinda facial distortion.

I can't believe people actually spend money on looking like this. All they need is an English staircase and my two left feet.

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