Inking of You
I knew my daughter was getting a tattoo. She’s been talking about it for quite some time now, and although I figured she’d probably do it eventually, I was hoping that she’d wait until she was older. Like seventy-three or so.
In my opinion, the best time to get a tattoo is during middle age. You start getting set in your ways, so if you’re a big fan of tater tots at forty-five, by God, you’re going to be a tater tot fan until the day you die. If you opt to get a portrait of a container of them plastered on your bootie, it’s doubtful you’ll regret the decision. Besides, you don’t have that long to live anyway, so there’s less time for regret.
Also, middle-age spread will have set in by this point, and your body starts looking pretty pitiful anyway, so what’s the difference? In fact, you can probably cover a multitude of sins with some strategically placed ink. At the rate mine’s degenerating, I may one day get an entire quilt tattooed over my entire body.
About twenty years ago, I was forced to hire this incredibly ditzy young woman by one of my superiors, with whom she was having a torrid affair. Remember when Prince quit using his name, and started being a symbol instead? The ditz came to work one day bragging about how she’d had that symbol tattooed on one of her extremely large breasts. Fast forward to the twenty-first century. Prince is Prince once again, and that tattoo is probably hanging down to the woman’s dimpled knees. If she’d waited until now to get inked, her breast would probably say, “Prince!” and she could either have it directly tattooed onto her knee, or tastefully applied wherever she wanted, without fear of stretchage. Yes, I just made up the word “stretchage.”
Anyway, my daughter called the other day and told me that she was driving to Missouri to have this tattoo thing done. I questioned her– what was it going to be of (a Red-winged Blackbird)? Did she know about this tattoo artist and his work (yes, his reputation is impeccable)? Where would the art be located (her shoulder blade)? How big would it be? This is when I started to freak out a little.
“About six inches,” she told me.
“SIX INCHES? Your entire shoulder blade isn’t six inches– it’ll cover half your body!” She admitted that this was true, and promised that she’d make sure it was a little smaller.
I knew better than to try to talk her out of it, so I tried to talk sense into her. I told her that I wished she’d wait a while. I told her how tastes, ideas, and personalities change dramatically over the years. Blah, blah, blah. Insert more useless parent-speak here. These things no longer matter when it comes to getting inked. Gone are the regrets over youthful mistakes. The tattoo is a time stamp– a page in your scrapbook that reminds you of a specific period of life. Besides, you can always get it covered with something else later.
What I really wanted her to consider was the following: Where is your head right now? Are you in a good place? Are you happy? Do you feel at all mentally unbalanced? Have you been drinking? Are you trying to make yourself feel better after a crisis? A sort of “no regrets” check list.
And what about the placement of this objet d’art? I was browsing pictures of tattoos last night, and came across the blog of a free-spirited woman who calls herself “Naked Jen” (because she likes to be nekkid) who decided to have a gigantic beet tattooed across her entire back. A beet. Her mother asked her why she didn’t just buy a painting of a beet and hang it on her wall where she could see it, which makes sense to me. Unless you’re walking around with a rear-view mirror attached to your forehead, you aren’t really going to be able to enjoy the visuals of a back tattoo. But I doubt that Jen will ever regret that beet, or that my daughter will ever regret hers.
My ex-husband gave our daughter his blessing, as he does with everything. In his mind, his hands have been permanently tied since the kids were born. “You wanna drive race cars at 200 m.p.h. without a helmet? Well… I think it’s a bad idea, but what can I do? You just go right ahead, honey.” His feeling has always been that they’re going to do whatever it is that they want to anyway, so why veto anything? If one of the kids had asked for a Big Bird tattoo at age six, he would’ve okayed it. My daughter really likes his theory of child-rearing, and tends to take full advantage of it.
I told her to call me when it was all over, and she did. She phoned from outside the tattoo parlor, shivering in the cold in the little tube top that she’d had to wear to stay modest while having the procedure done. She was hurting, bleeding, and shaking. She sounded happy and dazed, as though she couldn’t believe that she’d actually gone through with it. She said that the tattoo was larger than she’d planned; it had to be, to show the detail. Gulp. I talked to the friend that went with her, and quizzed him a bit. He said that it looked really great, but I wasn’t convinced, as he has a smoking skeleton holding a martini glass on his calf.
I was as dazed as she was. I kept picturing her like this:
and imagining a huge blackbird tattoo, as large as a California Condor covering one of those tiny little shoulders.
We spoke again the following day, and she was hurting like crazy. She put me on speaker phone with two of her other friends, who both reported that the tattoo looked great, but what were they going to say? I needed proof.
“Please, please someone take a picture and e-mail it to me, okay?” They promised that they would, but a photo has yet to appear in my “in” box.
This is the part that drives me crazy. See, I have a very overactive imagination, and until I actually witness what this thing looks like, my mind is going to race and hallucinate and imagine horrible things . 
Worst of all: what if she decides to start wearing pastels? Her back is red and black now. She’ll always clash.
I called my son, and asked him what he thought about it.
“Well, I’m not a tattoo fan,” he said, “but as far as tattoos go, it’s really nice.” He told me that it was about the size of an index card, and could easily be covered by a shirt.
“Don’t worry Mom,” he reassured me. “She’s not doomed to only being able to find work at a Seven-Eleven yet.”
Yet. Oh my God.
I know that this is all just another right of passage for me as a mother, and I’ll soon adjust. The reality of it is that she could have a Thomas Hart Benton mural plastered across her body, and I’d still think she was beautiful.
Sigh…my little Red-wing Blackbird. Gotta let her fly.
A gallery of really bad tattoos.
Another gallery of really, really bad tattoos (this one’s my favorite).
Note to parents: Don’t try this hyperactive imagination-fueled obsessive worrying thing at home. I’m a trained professional. Oh wait…so are you. Never mind.
Note to tattooed people: Please understand that this fretting is a temporary condition. I have nothing against anything that you personally have decided to do to your bodies. In fact, I’d probably like all of your piercings, inkings, and postage stampings if I saw them (except you, guy with the gopher on your forehead). I’m just getting this all out of my system, and will soon be just fine with all of it.
Survivor: Christmas Edition, the Final Chapter. Sorta.
I’m a woman of extremely limited mental capacity. I think my brain used to be a bit larger, but I partied a lot when I was in my twenties, and what I’m left with is this tiny object the size of a Chicken McNugget that nests inside my skull.
You see, I wanted to write an exciting final installment of the Christmas Survivor series, letting you know how perfectly it all turned out, and how Tom and I quietly shared the beauty and joy of the day. It’s the first Christmas where neither of us had to commute back to our individual abodes afterward. We felt so happy. We share a home now, and to us, it’s one of the best gifts we could ever hope for.
So I was going to tell you about that, and how I spent much of the day on the phone, talking to family and friends. About how my kids called and put me on speaker phone to tell me how much they loved the presents we sent. My daughter was thrilled with her wrong-color, wrong-brand hair straightener, and the other little trinkets I enclosed. My son appreciated his Pinto of electric razors and his snowman boxer shorts, and the hat and gloves we selected fit just fine. They sounded happy and giggly, which delighted me and somehow made me feel that we were together for a little while.
I was going to give you a follow-up to the story about our poverty-stricken neighbor. How we brought over the Playstation 1 that we’d managed to locate for her little boy, and how he opened it with delight and shouted, “Wow!!! Another one!!!,” then stacked it on top of the brand spanking new Playstation 2 that he’d also received.
I wanted to tell you about my favorite gift of all. Wendy, author of the Life With Buck blog, and one of my favorite people in the universe, called to ask for my address. I was expecting a Christmas card, but what I got instead was this:
which is one of the most thoughtful, perfect gifts I’ve ever received. It was made by her friend “Raging Storm,” who often posts comments on her blog, and it’s incredible. She also sent a CD of fantastic cover songs which I listen to constantly, and some issues of the magazine that she and Buck edit and write for. Needless to say, all of this overwhelmed me and made me cry for about sixteen hours. When I called to thank her, she said, “Well, I know it’s kind of like saying, ‘Keep On Smoking!!!!’…” but I assured her that no ash would ever mar this wonderful gift. I just have to get to a point where I can look at it without getting all waah waah.
So I’d planned to do this Christmas wrap up post, and tie things up into a neat little bow, but my seventeen-year-old daughter called last night to tell me that she’d gotten a tattoo. A big honkin’ tattoo on her perfect, tiny, porcelain-white shoulder blade. This information has sent me into shock, and pushed all of the Christmas happy crap from my microscopic mind. I can think of nothing else. There’s no room left at the mental inn for all of the stuff I was going to share with you, because my little brain keeps shrieking, “SHE GOT A FREAKIN’ TATTOO!!!!!”
So I’m really sorry. This is kind of an anti-climatic Christmas wrap up. I’m now onto this tattoo thing instead. I’ll tell you more, as soon as the blood starts flowing back into my tiny brain. Unless I have an aneurysm first.
Survivor: Christmas Edition, Part 2
There’s a point to what I’m about to tell you.
At the beginning of the year, I was lined up to have a hysterectomy. The doctor was going to try to do a partial one, but there was a distinct possibility that it would be a full one. I was terrified. I have this thing about wanting to die with all my toys– I don’t want to lose any body parts along the way to the grave. I researched the subject for months, talked to people who’d had it done and discussed it endlessly with Tom.
Years ago, my mother had a radical hysterectomy, which she later found out was unnecessary. She told me that she regretted it every day since.
I also found out that hysterectomies tend to make the symptoms of Fibromyalgia worse.
But here was my biggest fear of all: I confided to Tom that I was having nightmares about waking up from the surgery and finding that I’d become sort of a female
linebacker. “I’m afraid that I’ll become one of those masculine-looking, totally sexless women. I’ll have a mustache, a deep voice, and one of those short, bowl haircuts. I’ll look like a block of wood, and I’ll start wearing seasonal sweaters.”
He seemed a little puzzled.
“You know, those holiday sweaters. The ones with turkeys on them at Thanksgiving, pumpkins at Halloween, and big reindeer on them at Christmas. With a matching turtleneck underneath.”*
At the last minute, I opted not to have the surgery, but for months afterward, every time Tom would see a woman who matched my description, he’d nudge me and say, “Hysterectomy.” It was our little inside joke. Our little PRIVATE inside joke.
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So…… it was almost Christmas. Tom’s older sister (we’ll call her Sue) invited us over on the spur of the moment to exchange gifts and go out for pizza. I was so happy, because they seldom have family gatherings, and I just love this stuff. I don’t know the older sister very well, but I adore the younger one (code name: Cindy).
Tom, “Sue,” “Cindy,” Cindy’s husband “Leonard,” Leonard’s son “Sparky” and I gathered at Sue’s house. We weren’t going to exchange gifts with Cindy that day, because we had to keep up the tradition of playing “Stealth Elf,” in which we mysteriously deliver presents to her doorstep on Christmas Eve.
I’m “really” enjoying this “quotation mark” thing right now.
Anyway, I was excited and nervous as we knocked on the door. Tom’s family is pretty laid back and quiet, and I like them all. We walked in and greeted everyone. Sue’s yappy little dogs, “Spongy” and “Springy” were pouncing all over us, in an adorable way, although I was the only one who seemed to think so.
We made small talk for a minute or two, and then Cindy said, “Ohhhh. I should have worn my Christmas sweater today.” Her husband looked at her quizzically, and she continued. “You know, Leonard. The one with the snowmen on it.” She was grinning from ear to ear. “The one with the matching turtleneck.” Then she grinned at me.
The blood started draining from my head. “Oh my God.” I said, “Tom, you told her.”
No one else knew what the hell she was talking about, so I tried to explain. About the hysterectomy thing. About my theories. But the more I talked, the worse it got. Tom mentioned mustaches, and Cindy (who is small and cute and whom I didn’t know owned sweaters with thingies on them) said she’d been waxing her upper lip for years. Sue, a tiny, feminine woman, said that she’d had a hysterectomy decades earlier, and that it was the best decision she’d ever made.
I kept digging the hole deeper and deeper, and finally, red-faced, I just said, “Okay, I’m going to shut up now.” But I couldn’t shut up, really. It got worse. The more nervous I get, the more chatty I become. The more silent people get, the more I want to liven things up. It’s a compulsive thing.
We talked about John Edward, UFOs, the miracle of DVRs, and doggies. Few problems there. In fact, I started feeling a bit saner.
Then we exchanged gifts. Sue had gotten Tom and I these wonderful cycling gloves, which I immediately put on. Backwards.
Spongy and Springy went outside to play and when they came in, Spongy’s little
white face was covered in mud. He looked like a little toddler who’d gotten into some chocolate pudding. I found this quite hilarious, but soon realized that I was the only one laughing. Sheesh. Tough crowd.
Then we went to dinner. Tom and Cindy went to the counter to order pizza, and when they returned to our table, Cindy said, “Hey! We’re taking the same anti-depressant!” Just the common bond I want to have with my boyfriend’s family.
This led to a discussion of the fact that I take an extremely low dose of Lexapro to control my Fibromyalgia, which led to a discussion about Fibromyalgia, which makes me cry to talk about because it makes me feel like a loser. Thankfully, Tom switched gears by proudly bragging about my writing, and of this weird passion I 
have for this thing called “blogging.” They all wanted to know the web address of my blog, but I told them that it was anonymous, and explained that it would really inhibit my writing if too many friends and family read my stuff. By this time, Sue was looking at me as though she was trying to decide what life form I was.
We finished eating (I think I may have developed an ulcer in the process), and exchanged hugs. On the way home, Tom kept talking about what a great impression I’d made, and about how much his family liked me. He used words like, “sparkly” and “sweet,” while I was thinking more along the lines of, “daffy,” and “bubble-headed.”
“I think they may hate me,” I fretted.
“They don’t hate you,” Tom said. “That’s just the way they are.” Which is good, because I’m kind of crazy about the whole lot of them. They’re quirky, and I happen to love quirky.
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On Christmas morning, I opened the present that Cindy had given me. I was expecting sort of a small, token “my brother’s girlfriend” kind of gift, which was fine by me. I really wasn’t expecting anything at all this year. Instead, the box contained this lovely long woolen wrap (the most Ohio thing I’ve ever owned) and a gorgeous pair of earrings. The beauty and thoughtfulness of it caused me to bawl like the hormonal crybaby that I’ve become.
Later, I called and thanked her. Of the gifts she said, “Whenever I see you, I think
of someone mystical, and those things seemed to fit that.” I don’t exactly know what that means, but thank God the box didn’t contain a straight jacket and a padded helmet.
Into her gifts, I’d tucked a painting I’d done that she’d once admired, and on the phone she raved about it and said she’d already hung it on her wall. I like her so much. We talked and laughed for a long time, and she told me that she’d seriously considered getting me a sweater with reindeer on it.
I would have worn it proudly.
Next: More good stuff that happened.
*Note: I have nothing against these sweaters. Some people actually look good in them. I am not one of those people.
I also know that these fears weren’t rational. I’ve known many women who’ve had hysterectomies and had great experiences. None of them turned into men, and none of them suddenly changed their wardrobes.
