Catherine Gigante-Brown

The santero sent us off with a shopping list of ite

raunchy renaissance woman. multimedia artist. probably a slut.

I fumbled with my lace bra, hoping my silicone form wouldn't fall out from the left cup. I wasn't exactly ready . . . yet I was.

BCBs are loud and proud and refuse to go down easy. And quietly. We have things to say. We have things to teach. We still have life to live. And damn it, we are and we will. With one breast. With no breasts. With reconstruction surgery.

Were you going to run into that cute guy John Williams on the way home? Would you see Anne Marie by the lockers and sort out what to do for the weekend? It was hit-or-miss, and that was the beauty of it. The breath-holding chance of it all. Now, our kids’ friends are as close as a keyboard stroke away. It’s too easy.

The Daily News quoted one painted lady as saying, “People come up to us sometimes and say what we do is disgusting,” she said. “But what is disgusting about the female body? They shield their kids sometimes, and I think, ‘Kids come from the female body.’”

From New York to LA, this lady knows a good story.

Why do we venerate individuality in adults but condemn it in children?

To the tattoo artist, I was a flesh canvas that she could transform into something beautiful.

Alas, I am the lone female in a house full of men. Only two men, but they take up a lot of space.