I Need Some Boots

Last night, I was folding the last of the laundry, watching LA Ink. You know, Kat Von D? That girl is awesome. She would kick my arse, but she is awesome. I'm not a regular watcher of the show, but I hit on it sometimes. I'm fascinated. These people are cool. I can't get over what they can do.

I'm not one to get my whole body covered in tattoos (or am I?), but every time I see someone that has done that, I just want to make them stop and let me look at their stuff. There is a story there and I'm all over the story. I never do stop them though, cuz they would kick my arse. I'm sure of it. But I want to.

Did you know I have a tattoo? I know, me. The Innocent One. It's true. It happened years ago, on a whim. When I was young and reckless. And fun. It's just a little one. A little rose on the left ankle. My best girlfriend and I match. We were roommates in Tucson, and we had made friends with a neighbor of ours (he and his roommates left poems taped to our door--to break the ice--a good blog post some day). He had tattoos. After hours of manipulation, his history on the good, bad and ugly of ink, and maybe other things with ice cubes in them, he managed to persuade us to get tattoos--his treat (which was the only way, cuz we were poor). So I've got one. Forever. It's not bad. It's little. I can cover it with a sock. And it reminds me of an exciting, careless time of youth.



But that was a long time ago. I'm all grown now. Responsible. The Mom. Which got me thinking last night. I could never step foot in Kat Von D's shop. Let alone any other tattoo shop. Could you imagine? I would be sO ouT OF pLaCe. I would totally stick out like a...like a...mom. Wearing the mom clothes. The mom hair. My big mom purse. I'd probably have a kid or two with me. They would be like, "No, you cannot use our bathroom." Cuz that would be the ONLY reason they could imagine me coming in there.

If I were to ever, ever, ever go into her shop, it would be like some of us (not mentioning any names), before we start going to the gym after years and years and years of not going to the gym--we have to get in shape before we go to the gym, you know, to get in shape.

I would totally have to prepare if I were to go get a tattoo. Google. I'd have to go black bra and see through, ripped up, black top shopping. Black pants or skirt (no Capri's allowed). There might be black boots (though I'd have my flip flops in the car to change into afterwards). I'd have to dye my hair jet black, with a stripe of fiRe red throughout, maybe one huge, chunk of a strand hanging down in front of my left, heavily blackened-with-jumbo-eyeliner-ed eye. I'd paint my nails black and wear chunky, threatening rings. And I'd have attitude. 5'4" (maybe two inches higher with the boots) of pure attitude walking into that shop. I'd go up to Kat Von D and in a gritty voice (practiced for weeks), ask for a lady bug tattoo--What'chu got, giiiirl?



That's right. Imagine that kick arse scenario (she would be kicking my arse, cuz my cellphone would probably ring just then with my Matt Nathanson ring tone just a singing away).




See, I do want a ladybug tattoo. I do, I do, I do. There really is a story behind my ladybug love that goes way back to my childhood--my mom. There's some stuff attached to it. But that's a story for another time. I just wanted you to know that I didn't just pull the ladybug out of thin air. There's been some thought put into it.

The tattoo would have to be good. Very lifelike. Tiny--just like a ladybug. I want one on my right, big toe. Like it just landed there. Found a good spot. People would see it, point, and in jubilation, tell me I have a ladybug on my toe--really thinking it was a real one. They'd bend down and try to pick it up--Ohhh, it looked so real. I'm always barefoot or in flip flops, so it would happen a lot. I would get a big kick out of it every time. I would laugh.

I'm sure it happens. The group of moms going into the tattoo shop. Without the weeks of Google research. Not having a clue what kind of tattoo they'd get (I'll just look through the books). The 36th birthday party. The girl's night out. The moms shoving in, laughing, tipsy on happy hour margaritas and embarrassment. The mom purses, the Capri's. The cellphones ringing with their 10-year-old asking if he can buy that xbox game, the hubbs saying to pick up some milk. I'm sure it happens. I haven't seen that episode on LA Ink though (I don't know, maybe you have?--I might need to fold laundry at 11:00 at night more).

I think it would be best if, you know, Kat Von D just came to my house. House call. Nobody would have to know, Kat. Your kick arse rep is safe with me. And I don't have to wear those dang boots.

Just A Bunch Of Sunshine And Rainbows

**This post is dedicated to my neighbor who gave me the old kick in the backside region to get back over here. I appreciate it.

If you've perused this blog for two minutes, or maybe two pages worth, you might have noticed I'm a picture taking fool. It's true. I like to document, to capture moments, because someday, I'm gonna wanna remember this.

Think the pics are a-plenty over here? You should see Facebook. That's where a good chunk of them go, now that we are in the digital age. It's a good way to keep the friends and family in the know of what's going on in my life, share my girls, the vacay's, my new hair do's--literal snap shots into our life over here.

Well, lately, I've had the comments on the Facebook pics of how beautiful my family looks. How "together" and "happy" we look. How "lucky" I am. I love these comments, but always cringe just a little when people say that, because #1 it makes me think you think you're not, compared to me (which is just not true), and #2, it's a lot to live up to. I do have a beautiful family. We are happy. And yes, I do feel lucky, a lot of the time, undeserving of it all. But we are real too. We yell, we fall down, we lose. You never show the blurry pictures, or the frowns and the cellulite.

This week, I've been showing a bunch of vacation pics. For the last five months, my hubby has been living in Idaho and the girls and I here. Drama. No, not really. He's in the Air Force Reserves and has been fulfilling an assignment in Mt. Home, Idaho. The girls and I just spent the last two weeks with him to end up his stint there, submerged back into the military life.

I'm very used to the hubbs being "away". We've done this before. Though with all of the various forms of technology we have now, unless you live in the Appalachian Mountains or are walking through Albertson's, it's pretty easy to "stay close" when you're not close distance-wise. Plus, he was in Idaho, not Albertson's. I would say that this was a pretty smooth five months--comparatively.

Well, now he's out of uniform, back in the civilian world with us and I gotta say, it's been an adjustment. I totally forgot about this adjustment phase. I was imagining more of a honeymoon phase. And this is how it ties into the above...the reference to the "you look so happy" comments. He could have been gone 18 months, to a desert, very far away. So you know, I AM happy. I've got the boy back full time. It's good. But it's also strange. We have both been on our own, so to speak, for the last five months (I can't imagine the adjustment after 18 months!). And now we are immediately together. Like all together--the four of us. Just a big pile of together.

He's basically been a bachelor for five months and the girls and I have settled into the groove of just the three of us. I can see that he has forgotten about all the constant noise we make. The schedule. He's not used to having a lawn, a dog, recycling and a wife. I can see it's a little foreign to him.

Me too. He's just in my way right now. He's everywhere. Leaving little man piles. Snoring. And playing entirely too much Guitar Hero. I'm nagging again too. I flipping hate nagging. He's already "Yes, dear"-ing me. I'm not the only one "in charge" now. Apparently I like being in charge.

Now don't get me wrong, there are good things to being back together. Of course, of course. It is nice to be the four of us again. There is a balance back that was greatly missed--the weight of someone sleeping next to you (snoring or not). The equal distribution, sitting in booths at restaurants. The fact that I can leave the children with their father if I want to leave the house, not having to make plans days in advance. Adult conversation, every day, at precisely 4:30 p.m. Someone of the opposite sex telling me I look good in that bikini. And yes, someone else to water the lawn and take the recycling out. And despite my affinity for being in charge, I do like to remain stretched out on the couch, watching Tivo'ed Drop Dead Diva, telling the girls to, "go ask your father." Bonus.

I just felt the need to point out that See?!--it's not *always* sunshine and rainbows. Even when the hubbs doesn't leave for five months straight, we're just like you--very married with children. Even pre-kiddos we were just like you--very married with dog. We're happy. But also, we're blurry. We frown and yes, we have cellulite.