While I was home over Christmas, I had my yearly facial with the awesome esthetician I’ve been seeing since I was 15  (15, and then in the throes of dermatological unpleasantness).  She is the mistress of the art of extraction, and my first visit to her was as much a cultural touchstone of my entry into modern womanhood as my first trip to the gynecologist.  Though no less painful than my first pap, at least the esthetician rubbed my face and shoulders down with essential oils, and I had glowy skin a week later, once the zits she coaxed to the surface and the redness had subsided.  The gyno just poked me with a metal spatula and gave me the pill… which made me break out.  (Sudden stroke of brilliant idiocy – spas that also offer pap smears!  I am trademarking that business idea right now.  Whole Women’s Health & Beauty sees you inside and out!).

Sadly, after treating my skin for almost 15 years and my own mother’s for 30, our esthetician was hanging up her tweezers, imported creams, and bug zapper to retire.  This would be the last proper facial I will have in a while, as I’ve yet to find anyone half as good.

Lying back in the chair, listening to Enya, snuggled in my quilt, wholly safe in the hands of a professional, I was sad, and wanted to mark the occasion somehow.  What about… a lip wax?  I’d been annoyed at the downy hairs on my upper lip for some time.  Terri is the only person I would let wax and pluck my eyebrows, given her skill, and the only person I trusted to tell me if an upper-lip wax would be a terrible mistake, or a bold move forwards. (more…)

drunk-kitten

I am having a shitty week, y’all.  On Monday I had to have a mammogram because I found a lump a few weeks ago, and if you’ve not yet experienced this joy let me just tell you, having your tits hefted, squashed, marked on, imaged and squashed some more is not a nice way to start the week.  Especially if you happen to have tig ole bitties like I do, although I don’t imagine the experience is any less uncomfortable for small breasted women.  After the Mash-n-Press to my rack, I got to have the girls ultrasounded for good measure.  This part was much easier to get through, although it was done twice by two different people and both times the nurse squirted me in the face with the ultrasound jelly.  Um, thanks for warming it up?  The good news is that everything was fine and the lump was determined to be a swollen milk duct, which my doctors assure me is no cause for concern.

Yay for that because my hormone levels probably would not have allowed me to display any civility to anyone otherwise, seeing as how my period refuses to sync up with my NuvaRing.  Instead of having my period during the week when the ring is out, mine wants to be a little bitch and show up 2 weeks earlier.  And that’s just too many fucking things in my vadge at one time, yo.  On top of this the cramps that I normally never suffer from have been threatening to cause me to whip off a heel and break someone’s face with it.  Why the face?  Oh, well that’s because my own face is under siege from an acne breakout that I fear will never end.  As someone who hates to wear heavy, dulling foundation I’ve been literally plastering concealer on every morning and pretending it doesn’t actually make me look worse.

*sigh*

But, the weekend is here and I only to have to get through one more week and then I’m taking off the week of Thanksgiving — after that it’s three short weeks until Christmas vacay and then I’ll be counting down the days until the beach mini break Mr.K has promised me in February.  Now, please excuse me while I get shitfaced and browse lolcats.