Erin: (Laying on Lisa’s table getting face lasered) “Ow. That fucking hurts. Are you about to start your period? Based on the joy you are eliciting from afflicting pain on my face, I can totally tell your progesterone levels are nonexistent.”
Lisa: “You know what hurts? When I tell you to quit picking your face and you keep doing it. In fact, my retinas are burning right now just looking at my ruined masterpiece.” (Angles laser)
Erin: (Zap) “Son of a Bitch. Dammit. Shit. Bitch. Mother fu-Oh, I forgot to tell you, we are getting anti-aging IV’s on Saturday!”
Lisa: (Zap. Zap) “Based on your breakout, it looks like you are already reverting to adolescence. Don’t worry though, they are just superficial.”
Lisa’s Version of Events
I picked Erin up from Starbucks, where she lives. I don’t usually “want” to get an IV unless I am in active labor or have eaten sushi from a strip mall (*also with Erin). We rolled up to this super chic IV place in a swanky part of town and were greeted by the second hottest dude I have ever seen (the first was the emergency room doctor who informed me I had gas, not appendicitis). I batted my eyes and casually purred, “I would just like something to reenergize me from all of the pilates and yoga I do. I am super flexible. Tee-hee.”
I was pretty sure Hot Guy and I had established a soulful, fiery love connection and were going to end up entwined on a beach somewhere until Erin glanced up from the IV menu and said, “Oh, we definitely need two ‘Anti-Aging’ bags.” I glared at her. She then asked if they used “new needles because we don’t want AIDS” and requested we be seated as far away as possible from the people who were there for the flu because “that is just nasty.” Fantasy over.
We were seated in cozy chairs with blankets, pursuing some health magazines when a nurse came over. She informed us she worked at a hospital emergency room and was an expert at administering IV’s. She quickly found the perfect vein on me. Unfortunately, the nurse claimed Erin had “superficial” veins and had to get poked twice. (BAM. That’s what she said.) I just laughed and laughed.
A few minutes later, some guy stumbled in and sat slouched over in a chair. Erin and I exchanged WTF glances. We happened to be there the morning after St. Patrick’s Day and obviously this ginger was out celebrating his heritage. However, based on his condition, I thought an IV seemed a little conservative. The dude needed a crash cart. But sure as shit, as soon as he was finished with his hangover bag, he skipped right on out with his IV punch card in hand.
Erin’s Version of Events
Like usual, Lisa’s synopsis of events is somewhat skewed with the exception of the alcoholic redhead. That little leprechaun just came alive, clicked his heels and left to go buy a morning-after pill for whomever he hooked up with the night before. It was seriously the craziest thing I had ever seen.
I had heard unnecessary IV’s were the newest rage and I wanted to see what the hype was. Of course I was going to bring Lisa. She is the only person I know who would actually go. Lisa will stop at nothing to be pretty, a quality I deeply admire in a person.
I did get poked twice (heeeeey-oooooo) and was called “superficial” for the second time in one week. However, I knew when I took this job, it would require both mental and physical fortitude. And so here we are. Selflessly and courageously reviewing products, while sacrificing our bodies so that you know the truth. I am sure there will be some form of monument resurrected in our honor upon our untimely deaths by plastic surgery.
Lisa and I both agreed we felt absolutely no different when we left, except now our arms hurt and we had to pee. I planned on going home to nap after our taxing morning however, Mike called to tell me my kids were fighting. Lisa whipped the car over so we could get our nails done instead.
We walked into the nail salon and because Lisa has the patience of an honest Mormon on her wedding night, she promptly ripped off her bandage. Blood started pouring out of her arm. I stood there frozen, laughing hysterically like I always do when I see someone bleeding. Everyone around us looked super grossed out.
After Lisa manufactured a tourniquet out of the sleeve of her Lululemon jacket and received a blood transfusion, we settled back in our chairs. I had just arrived at the conclusion that the entire IV experience was totally stupid when out of nowhere my nail tech said, “You pretty enough to be stripper.” Lisa and I excitedly locked eyes. We decided to make appointments for the following week.
You should definitely go get an IV if you are a hungover redhead or a stripper.
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