Smug Marrieds: Face Lift

Sunday night, 5:40 pm. Harris residence. Christmas trees - fired up. Cats - snoozing.

Blair - relaxing in library. Dena - front room watching TV. All is well on nigh. Until...

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Dena: Blair! Blair, get in here! Now!

Blair: Why? (He no longer reacts to cries of panic, me having cried wolf one too many times during our many years of marriage. Sad.) 

Dena: I'm getting sucked into an infomercial. My powers to resist are fading. Get in here. 

Blair: What's it for?

Dena: I'm not sure. Some sort of face-lift-botox-stand-in-alternative-to-chemical-peel thingee. You can put it in the freezer. Looks cool. 

Blair: You don't need a face lift. (Sound of Wall Street Journal rustling as he turns a page.)

Dena: I'm not kidding! I'm dialing. You hear me? That's the sound of me dialing. 

Blair, yawning: Don't do it. 

Dena: Minnie Driver is telling me to call. Minnie isn't like those other sell out movie stars. Minnie loves us. If Minnie vouches for the product, it must be true. 

Blair: Minnie Driver is a tool.

Silence. 

Blair: What are you doing now? Are you calling? 

Dena: Um... no.

Pause.

Blair: Are you ordering it online? 

Dena: MINNIE DRIVER SAYS IT REDUCES FINE LINES AROUND THE EYES INSTANTLY. WHAT PART OF THIS DO YOU NOT UNDERSTAND?!

Blair finally walks into the room.

Dena: You're too late. The product is on its way. You should thank me. This is much cheaper then me going in for a chemical peel.

Blair, shaking his head: My mistake. Minnie Driver is not a tool. You are.

The man has a point. 

Cheers,

Dena