Family Portrait

Once a year we do this when we reach a certain "vintage" We go and have a mammogram. I remember my first one; after being coached and coaxed ... "It's not bad.  It's real quick." Lies. All Lies.

Well today I went to have my annual family portrait.  I always schedule these appointments early because you are not permitted to wear powder, perfume or deodorant. None. With fears of having an armpit let down of mammoth proportions, I do my best to stay calm, not get worked up or nervous and get it over with ASAP.

This morning, I got up and changed the words to "You don't bring me flowers" :

"You cannot wear your powderrrrrr"
"You can't wear a perfume."
"You better not put any dee-oderant on, when you get dressed and come for your mammo todayyyyy"

.... "I remember wheeeeen...."

heehee. I love doing that.

So I got dressed and continued my Streisand/Diamond duet about my neglect of hygiene today. My armpits were sticky. Crap. Shower didn't take. I did the Wonder Woman Windmill in hopes of clearing the situation up. Can't go to the portrait studio being the stinky kid. Nope.

I went downstairs to have breakfast, moving almost as if terrified I was going to break out into a marathon sweat, drenching my shirt and chest. I was carrrrreful... CARRRREFUL not to move too quickly or get too excited with the conversations.  Without my Right Guard, I was on guard; for Sure.

I made my coffee and got in the car.  I took a moment to collect a few Dry Ideas and headed out. I was bound and determined not to get distressed on the ride (you KNOW how I love Jersey drivers) looking to keep a Tickle-d attitude rather than the angry Arm and Hammer; on that type of attitude there was a Ban.

Arriving at the office, I was greeted by Dr. Mitchum with the usual Degree of pleasantry and ushered in. I prepped the girls and stepped in to face the Brut who would fondle my sweater puppies.  If you have not had a "portrait" taken, let me try my best to describe the myth, share the Secret.

You take off your top and the tech hoists your lil girl right up between two plates. Heavy. Chilly. Did I mention heavy? And they come together in a slow clap. Very slow. Heavy? Did we go over that? And you need to turn a" little" sideways, reach AAALL they way across a table (-that if done up for a meal would seat twenty) as if someone is about to take the last of your very favorite dish and you will NEVER have it again.

"Hold your breath please."

WHAT? I AM!

"Let's Paaaa...."

The heavy clapping plates begin to whir and click.

"...aaaauuuuuse....."

My temples have begun to throb. My fun bags aren't laughing. Yet that confounded machine is still clapping on my poor little oompas.

"There. Now step away."

No shit~ step away. RUN! As fast as you can for cryin in the sink! Seek shelter in your Maidenforms! THIS IS NOT A DRILL!!!

"Let's turn to the side"

No. Let's turn YOU on your side and put your skull in here.

"You need to bring your arm back. Look awayyyy..."

Yeah. Arm back. Look away and wave because your tatas are going bye bye.

"Aaaaand HOOOOOOOLD"

Good GOD! Am I at the Salem Witch Trials? I confess! I'm a witch!

"You will feel some pinching in your neck and along your chest."

SOME? How about you have pulled so hard that you dragged my earlobe down and taken a LOVELY shot of my earrings? Clap THAT with your pinchers from Hell.

"Okay. Step away."

Again. No need to tell me that.

"Let's do the other side."

Let's not and call it even. I have a Twister Championship next week and I wanna WIN Dammit! So stop mauling my jumblies.

"Step up..."

I hate you.

"Reach across."

I want to punch you in the throat. Stop jiggling my boobs unless we're going steady.

"Turrrrn and hoooooold"

If I turrrrrrn anymore, my hips will disconnect completely and collapse on the floor.

"Hooooold"

Is my face SUPPOSED to be this shade of purple? My eyes! They are bugging out so much I can SEE them! Sweet peaches for pie! Make this stop. My poor lil Moo-Moo's will never forgive me.

"Good." she smiles.

Blood rushes to my face and my vision gets tingly/dark around the edges. I think we are all about to pass out. I just want to hold them, say sorry and go off crying by myself.

"You're such a good patient."

Is it my turn now? Because I REALLY want to have you "turrrn and hooold" and feel a lil "pinchie poo" while the "Golden Girls" are smooshed between stone dinner plates filled with rebar and dragged halfway across the room by a Tonka.

"See you next year."

Can't wait. Maybe the bruises will be healed by then.

I sure hope I picked the portrait package with the refrigerator magnet.


Silliness. 

Thanks for hanging out. I hope you laughed with me today.