Tattoos, Madonna and narcissism. What more do you need in a title?

So as I was recovering from a recent bout of laziness and was flipping thru my On Demand cable options, I came upon TLC’s choices for my viewing pleasure. One of the shows was Miami Ink. If you don’t know what this is, it’s a documentary type of show of a Miami Tattoo parlor.

I was oddly fixated on this show and watched a few episodes. Yes, I will admit I found Ami (that’s pronounced in the French way like in, “Mi ami” not as in the woman’s name, “Amy.”) oddly sexy too. (What I want to write is HUBBA HUBBA but that would just be tasteless and a little crass and I am way too mature for that) HUBBA HUBBA. But besides him being sexy, and the other tattooer people being weirdly interesting (mostly because they inject ink under people’s skin with a tiny needle and make it into art for a living), what I was fixated on were the people who came in to get the tattoos. Some were sad, some were weird, and of course there were some obligatory college bimbos wanting cheesy butterfly tattoos that they will surely regret when they’re 30 even though they may be an appropriate accessory for them now. There was one guy who wanted his new rap album cover tattooed on his arm. Puh-lease! Buddy, you are not going to be a “star” and in ten years are you really going to want that constant reminder complete with naked woman sprawling across your inner arm, when you’re the manager of a McDonald’s? Even Madonna was smart enough to not tattoo her “current” image on her arm. She had the decency to publish a coffee table book of nude photos of herself and share it with the world that way instead.

I don’t have a tattoo. I’ve thought about getting one. Usually while drunk or when I’m feeling a bit self righteous about something but, as they say, this too shall pass, and it has. As I sat there and watched I tried to think about what I would ever possibly want tattooed on my body that would be there for the rest of my life - or until I had it lasered off along with those 2 chin hairs that keep growing back. (Seriously, what is WITH THAT?!? HElllllooooo, no one tells you when you’re young that you’ll get those as you get older. And for all you guys out there, seriously, EVERY SINGLE WOMAN gets them. She just plucks them out before you ever see them lest you thing she’s some transsexual freak.) I could not think of one thing I would ever want to have tattooed permanently on my body – even IF it didn’t hurt at all.

But now that I think about it, having my name or at the very least my initials tattooed might not be a bad idea. You know, in case I get amnesia and wander off or really, just because I’m a narcissist.

Do these jeans make my cornea look odd?

Sorry for the lackluster posts as of late but how funny would you be while your MOTHER WAS STAYING WITH YOU FOR A WHOLE WEEK. Again. She’s gone now and I really, truly do love her to pieces but I like to be alone. In MY house, with MY rules. Of course on the plus side she did buy me dinner, make me dinner and have me be tidier than normal.

I just got back from the eye doctor. I really like my eye Doctor and it’s a good thing too because I have some messed up eyeballs. I have really bad astigmatism which makes fitting contacts difficult but then today he told me something I’ve never heard before. I have “odd” corneas. Yup, he used the word ODD. Now, it’s not like I don’t have enough of a complex about my odd shape but why did he have to throw my eyeballs in there too? And really, let’s get down to it, which parent will I blame for it? It's got to be someone's fault because it sure as hell ain't mine.

I know I get my big hips and non-existent ass (I know, I know, I will take a picture) from my Mother’s side. My weird, wavy hair and bad feet from my Dad’s side. My small boobs must have come from Dad since Mom is endowed and, well, Dad isn’t. My chicken legs came from Dad and my pasty skin came from Mom. But the eyes? Well, they both have bad eyesight so I’m sure that in this case they’ll be willing to share the blame. It’s only fair.

But, I guess I won’t get all worked up about it. I mean, you can’t tell from this picture that my right cornea is all screwy can you?

Bathroom Etiquette #4

To the woman who does her stretching exercises in a bathroom stall: stop. Your grunting and audible exhaling makes me uncomfortable.

How do I know she is exercising/stretching? Because when I wash my hands in the sink all I see in the mirror are her hands reaching for the ceiling and then touching her toes.

Seriously, why, oh why, can’t you do it at your desk, in your cubicle, office or AT HOME? Why must you do it in a tiny stall in the bathroom (not even the handicapped stall!)? Are you embarrassed by your exercising? Embarassed that you grunt? Well you should be because I don’t want to hear it, ESPECIALLY in the bathroom.

Hallmark just doesn’t make a card for this

My bestest, oldest friend who knows ALL my secrets and who I love dearly is getting a hysterectomy on Wednesday. This is not a sad day for her nor is this a sad blog entry. In fact, one might say she is thrilled.

OK, thrilled may be a strong word. She’s not so crazy about the surgery part (hell, who would be?) but she is thrilled with, what will be, the end result: no more uterus and no more serious medical problems. In fact, I went to get her a card and didn’t know if a Congratulations card was in order or a Get Well card, so I got both.
My dearest friend doesn’t want kids. She never has and she never will. She has known ever since I knew her back in my teenage years. She has married a wonderful man who also does not want children so for them this will be a lovely solution. The surgery is medically necessary so this really is killing two birds with one stone.

I talked to her on Sunday morning as I have every Sunday morning for the past 8 years since she moved away and asked her if she was nervous or scared. She said she was nervous about the surgery but the scariest part for her was if they make her recuperate in the maternity ward. Apparently a family member asked her if it was because being around all those babies would just be a painful reminder that she could no longer have children and she replied with (and I’m paraphrasing here – but probably not by much), “Hell, no. I just don’t want to hear the whining of babies when I should be resting.” Ahh, yup, that’s my girl.

I did have to ask her if I could post about this because one day she said, and I quote, “I do NOT want to be in your blog” but she gave me her blessing. She’s a shy one but boy, oh boy, do I have some stories I could tell you about the times we had in college. In fact, when I was writing the speech/toast I was going to give at her wedding I had all these great stories but none I could repeat in front of her family or new husband. Screw what they say about Vegas, what happened in Philly, stays in Philly.

So dearest friend who now lives WAY too far away, good luck, congratulations, bon voyage and Happy Hysterectomy day. I’ll be thinking of you and yes, I PROMISE not to make you laugh for a few weeks because it will apparently make you hurt like hell.