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.