“Just scooch back and put your feet in the stirrups.”
No man will ever hear these words without pants on, unless he is learning to ride horses in the nude. Crap, mental image now. Yes, they have the ever humiliating grab em by the balls, turn your head and cough routine, but it’s nothing compared to the metal duck crammed inside and cranked like a vice in reverse. The annual pilgrimage to the gyno, or the OBGYN. No real difference, just whatever your preference is, baby doc, crotch doc, really whatever. No disrespect to the men and women who went through medical school, residency and the array of twats they’sve Had to see, but if someone is sticking implements and fingers up my who-ha and I’m in a hospital gown and not an evening gown not even getting to imagine an orgasm, I get to call them whatever the fuck I want.
Back to the pilgrimage. If you are responsible, organized and going to the same doctor, you get that postcard in the mail. It’s pretty, flowers or art adorn one side, you have that moment ‘oh someone sent me a . . .’ and you flip it over. Damn it. Dear Miss Baldwin, just a friendly reminder it is time to get in an awkward position so we can scrape cells from your who-ha. Oh, and it’s also time to smoosh your boobs, too.
Now you have your appointment set, trying to remember the last time you had your period. That morning you can’t forget to shave legs and pits, trim anything else needing maintenance, find your cutest, newest pair of underware (I’m still trying to figure this one out, no one ever actually sees them), pick an outfit that is breathable down there and cross your fingers it’s not one of those ‘discharge days’. You always try for the earliest appointment or the one right around lunch. The less time your pussy is confined, the better. After the obligatory hang out time in the waiting room, where you play, “she’s knocked up by baby-daddy” or “we’re having our first baby” and a few “I hope I don’t have to use the room she is going to”, they slaughter your name worse than a drunk barista and call you back.
The worst, absolute worst part of the entire day is about to happen. Right there, just on the other side of the door are all of those judge mental women (they are by default because you were just a second ago), in front of other staff, nurses, assistants and other patients. Anything but “step up on the scale please”. Nooooooooooooooo! Racing through your head, what can you take off here? Jewelry, the watch and pandora bracelet could easily be a pound. Shoes for sure, could the pants come off, they are about to anyway. The scale at home tells the truth most of the time, this one on the other hand, it’s a conspiracy at the deepest level. Hesitantly, the foot, sans shoe, raises to project my entire mass onto this wretched torture device. The digital numbers deliberately toy with my mind. It stops. No do-overs, no ‘let’s spin the wheel again’, that number is you. The nurse scoff and laughs, then screams out the number like a bingo game. It is projected on to the wall like a bat signal. The clock in the waiting room wasn’t a clock, it was a scale face synced with this scale now everyone knows. Damn Ben & Jerry’s. This is what it’s like anytime we have to step on a scale in public is like.
What really happens though, you walk in, they ask how tall you are, you step on the scale, they take down the number as you cringe. They ask you to step off and sit down in the small chair next to the scale and take your blood pressure, temp and pulse. You are then escorted into the empty room with the modified exam table and in the back a wall or curtain with a bench.
Now ashamed and totally regretting the pint of ice cream you destroyed Saturday night, you have to strip. The whole Monty. Bare butt and all, you put on what they call a gown, but it is more like a couple of Kleenex scotch taped together. I have see more substantial ‘toilet paper wedding dresses’. They also give you a ‘sheet’, a disposable piece of paper, aka a giant kleenex to place over your legs. And so it begins.
It’s great when the doctor walks in and asks how you are doing. It’s creepy that the nurse has to hang out in the room (patient safety from pervy doctors). It’s freaky when your in ‘the position’ with the doctors head below deck and with a hand gesture included says ‘scooch your bottom towards the end of the table. A little more, just a bit more, perfect.’ This is the position where your feet are in the stirrups, the Kleenex on your legs is really only there to keep you from having to look at the doctors face while they are on their expedition and the Kleenex with tape, open to the front is trying to fall open at every point and you have the feeling that your fat ass is about to fall off the edge of the table.
You wouldn’t believe the pick-up lines the doctor will try now!
”I’m placing my fingers in your cervical canal”
”You’re going to feel a little pressure as I push down on your uterus”
”This will be a little cold”
Then they play with your boobies! Which of course isn’t necessary because they are sending you off for a mammogram (radiology speak for squished booby x-ray). Before you even blink, the doctor is up at the sink washing their hands about to give you the biggest brush off you will ever get after having someone touch your goodies, “ok, good to see you, stop by the front, see you next year.”
It’s really depressing when this is the most action you have seen in a while. I’ve got to update my tinder profile.
Beautiful, pretty, gorgeous, stunning, radiant, glowing, hot, smokin’, unbelievable.
Tired, exhausted, sad, painful, nice, ok, hot, mad, old.
Now put, “you look” before each word. Can you guess which ones describe someone with make up and without? Hey sister, it’s not just men who use these terms! So we don’t leave the house without makeup, or if someone is coming over, you’re going to be snap chatting, FaceTiming or it’s a selfie day.
Everyone has a different routine, but we all start with a big sigh as we look at our face, followed by an OMG and making weird faces by pulling and squishing every inch of the pained monstrosity.
Did I drive home or take an Uber last night?
Crap, wanted too much time on the taffy pulling, I need to wash this layer of gross off. Splash of water and a towel or the washing ritual that in and of itself that alone that takes 30 minuets.
Oh god, I didn’t call Mark (the ex-bf) last night, did I?
Then out comes the magic tray / box / countertop, or all of the above, and it’s on. This pre-face is going down! This is down to a science, a specific order, predetermined colors and amount depending on what the day ahead holds. There’s work face, errand face, the make my x jealous face, running / cycling face, tennis face, I’m getting laid tonight face, shit I did the wrong face for the occasion face, staying home face, burb moms face and my personal favorite, the I don’t give a shit face.
I subscribe whole heartedly to the last one. Most women avoid the last one as much as possible, with only a fatal illness that keeps her makeup off limits, there is always some level of face painting going on.
So, after the cleansing ritual begins the sacrifice. Starts with a bit of concealer in order to attemp a cover up of the North Star. Moving to foundation, yes, like concrete for a building, but this shit is much stronger. So if you had to evacuate the building at this point, you would see a colorless mask covering even the eye lids, lips and the eye lashes look creepy too. Don’t even ask about the mop of what resembles hair on the top of your head.
Wait. Oh shit, I think I DID call Mark . . . Fuuuuuuuuck.
Attention will now focus on lips or eyes. You’d think easy, just pull some lipstick across your lips or a dash of eyeshadow and mascara. See, THIS is where the man-brain and women-brain can never be in the same space. This inability to think the same way, regardless of the verbal agreements or statements made at this point, THIS is why we are never ready to go when you are. For lips alone, at least 6 products: foundation (yes, that was in the previous step, but there is foundation for lips alone), base, color, liner, moisteriszer and gloss. Plus all the bushes you need. Everyone knows all makeup has it’s own brush or applicator, and the one that came with it just won’t do.
Did I actually SEE Mark last night????
The eyes, oh, the eyes. The never ending array of colors & textures, lights & darks, neons & glow-in-the-dark, smokey & naturals. Just like numbers, there are an infinite amount of combinations available for the eyes. Plus there is artwork! Even if only one color is worn, there are a plethora of different shades blended, sparkly, matte, reflective, prismatic. The eyes have it, and they have it all. Just head over to YouTube and enter ‘eye makeup’ in the search engine. The average ‘how to get this look’ video is half of your life in man-time.
Aren’t we done now, that’s it, right? Awe hell no! There is still contouring, highlighting, blush and finishing powder to lock it all in. I’m so tired of standing in front of this mirror. It is SO and upday for my hair, where is that scrunchy to put this rats nest in something that resembles an up-do I was shooting for. I need caffeine , I smell coffee. Wow, my neighbors mugs have some strong coffee.
“Hey, Good Morning sunshine! Coffee?”
Oh, holy fuck shit! What the hell did I drink last night? Fuck!!!
“Get the fuck out Mark!!!” In pure astonishment, I herd him to the door with not explanation and not another word. He stands in the door with both cups of coffee in his hands with that stupid look on his face. I grab one of the cups and slam the door on his face.
Screw this. I’m going back to bed and staying there.
I’m excited to fire this piece and then paint it. It will be my first fired piece. Come back soon to see the finished product!
We all have ‘that pair’ in our closet, our skinny jeans. We will never, ever throw them away. They represent different things to each of us, one day I will, I once was. Everything that lives around that pair of skinny jeans, however, is a different story. A woman’s closet is a mini store in and of itself. First, you have your seasons and depending on your climate will determine the severity of your seasonal fluxuation (someone in Chicago will have a heavier winter collection than someone in Miami). Now, within those seasons, there are formal, business/work, casual, comfy, p.j., and junk clothes. Formal is going to be your LBD, anything with sequins, shines, glittery, floor length, etc. Business attire is self explanatory. The difference between casual and comfy is casual can be worn in public, comfy not so much. The junk clothes, that’s the clothes we use to clean out the garage in, heavy yard work, paint, destructive things. Now, everyone knows the next one. We have at least two sizes in most of the above. There is no real designation between them unless there is a significant size reduction. Most of the time it just depends on how you feel that day. Bloated and lazy, it’s time for those baggy pants or that peasant skirt with the drawstring waist. Feeling awesome and hot, time for those jeggins with the back slit top. When we loose those 7 pounds though, buddy, SHOPPING SPREE! Even if there is shit in our closet that fits, it’s time for new goodies. Every so often, we purge. We go through, piece by piece. The first to go are usually the fashion disasters, left overs from the neon 80’s or the grunge 90’s. Next, the ones we know we will never, and I mean never fit into again (except for those skinny jeans). The next casualty, with our new found sveltness, the two-ton Tessy pants, well, at least a couple. You keep a couple of nice ones that you really like, just in case, and hide them in the back of the closet. After four bags of donations, your closet is still bulging at the door, your searching for hangers, you have no drawer space, the skinny jeans still have their coveted spot on the top shelf. Yet even with a proverbial mall in that closet, you wear a uniform or the standard ‘work outfit’ to work, come home and put on your favorite pair of sweats and a grubby t-shirt that you have worn since 1998 almost 98% of the time. Classic.
This started as a simple pour, but then as I started moving the paint around with the blower, a cool effect started to happen when the top layer of paint had dried faster than I wanted but there was still enough wet paint underneath, that the top layer would curl back and under the curl would reveal a new pattern. I did two pours, the second on top of the dry first and then I saw the prussian blue ‘body’ spewing the bright yellow. I then did small focused pours or drips/spatter and this is now the result. I hope you enjoy. All pieces for sale as original or print. Contact me for pricing.