Tattoos and Me...

I don't have any tattoos, and I never will. I don't dislike tattoos on other people, I just can't see myself with one. It does not "fit" my personality or lifestyle. I have several friends with tattoos, and I like their tattoos and think they look good--on THEM. But, me getting a tattoo? Too weird!

Tattoos have come a long way in the last few decades. They used to represent either jail-time, Biker-Gang membership, or military service. Nowadays they are far more mainstream. But, for uptight, prissy people such as myself, there is still that stigma of "trashiness" that first pops into my head when I see a tattoo. I try to be open-minded and non-preachy, and I have learned to set aside my biases, particularly when people I know and like display tattoos. How can I say tattoos are "bad" when this person, who I really respect and like hanging out with, has several?

I try not to judge.

But, I DO judge people who complain about "being poor" and not having enough money to buy school supplies for their kids or school lunches for their kids, yet they are sporting new and expensive tattoos every time I see them. The most heavily-tattooed people I know happen to be "Welfare-to-Work Mothers" who have received subsidized housing, childcare, and healthcare. That kind of BUGS me. They can drop $500 on a new tattoo, but can't pay $200 for after-school care for their kid? How is that possible? Their kids get "scholarships" to attend Boy Scout Camp while I have to write a check and forego a haircut and cut back on groceries for two weeks so the check will clear.

I would like my checkbook to reflect my values, so dropping hundreds of dollars on "inking" myself (or buying expensive jewelry for myself) seems selfish and shallow. I also know that I cannot drop hundreds of dollars "marking" myself in a permanent way that I can't take back (at least expensive jewelry can be pawned...) I sort of like the idea of always having an "undo" button for my life. I lecture my kids all the time about consequences. You get a tattoo and BAM there is no going back! When you are 85 and in a nursing home with sagging skin and back fat, those "cool" angel wings adorning your lower back, just above the waistline of the low-rise skinny jeans you had when you were 22 are going to look rather ridiculous.

I understand that people tattoo themselves as a form of "self expression" and put lots of thought into their design choices. I understand that tattoos are a form of artwork and can even have cultural origins and significance. They just aren't a form of artwork I want to own. Quite frankly, I'd rather buy new furniture, a cordless drill, or a palm sander. Oh, look! It's my Christmas Wish List!

When I look back on my life, I can see how I have morphed and changed so much during the last 2 decades. I can't commit to a tattoo because 5 years from now, I may have morphed and changed some more and could regret it. Nothing feels more hopeless and chastising than regret, so I choose to avoid things that might lead me to that state.

I work for a conservative agency. I have serious "self-esteem issues" when it comes to my body parts. The LAST thing I would want to do is call any sort of attention to my body parts, which, from my perspective, is something tattoos tend to do. I would rather be recognized for my writing or my public speaking skills and not for my ankles or my cleavage. Judge me on my brain, not on my looks. And, yeah, I know, it's "narrow-minded" and "snooty," but if you are going to tattoo yourself, you are just going to have to face the fact that a certain segment of the population is going to think that makes you look like "trash." I prefer to avoid such a label. Call me a coward, but I am struggling through this life with a limited support system. I am not "tough enough" to repel such backlash, when I already feel burdened repelling all the backlash I get (real or imagined) for being a) divorced, b) a working mother, c) a Civil Servant, and d) a Conservative. I get PLENTY of darts thrown in my direction already--I certainly don't want to be a target for any more.

So, that being said, let me talk about how I spend Quality Time with my kids. I have no problem finding opportunities to spend Quality Time with my daughter--after all, she is my little "Mini-Me," so we find all kinds of hobbies and interests we can share together. We garden, we sew, we compost, we bead bracelets, etc. But, I also have a 12-year-old son going through puberty whose interests are largely limited to football and computer and video games. Lately, he has expressed a lot of interest in learning how to cook, so that has been a good way for me to spend Quality Time with him. But, it is really hard for me to feign interest in his video games and movie choices because he loves Fantasy and Sci-Fi--two genres I LOATHE. But, he does like a lot of the same music that I like, so lately we have "bonded" over bouts of RockBand on the Wii system he got for Christmas. He plays the guitar, and I play the Drums (badly, I should add...) Every once in awhile, we will stay up on a Friday night until the wee hours of the morning playing RockBand. Recently, he had us go "On Tour," which was upsetting because it required me to play up to six songs in a row with no break (not good for an Old Lady with Carpal Tunnel Symptoms in her hands). He told me we had to go on Tour, because you make more money that way. He then showed me how to go to the Rock Shop and SPEND that money on my character. And that's how I got hooked!

I GOT TO GO SHOPPING WITH FAKE MONEY!

My "alter ego" (or "Evil Twin Sister," as I like to call her), has a Barbie doll figure (of course--RockBand--like all Video Games--only allows for Female Characters that are painfully skinny yet still manage to have Big Boobs), and I dressed her up in a ridiculously-expensive, low-cut Goth top with fishnet stockings and a mini-skirt and Sexy Boots (also ridiculously-expensive). My son got all indignant and said, "Mom! You are a DRUMMER! You can't play drums in that skirt!"

I rolled my eyes and reminded him, "it's just a GAME, and that's not ME, it's my Evil Twin Sister!"

And then I learned that tattoos are FREE in the Rock Shop, so I headed over there and got upper arm and chest tattoos (some sort of scrolly-hearts and angel wing things), and my son got all mad and said, "Now THAT'S just DISTURBING..." and refused to play RockBand with me for the rest of the night.

So, now you see why I can't get a tattoo--it would just be "too disturbing."

But, if I ever did get a tattoo, I would probably get some sort of flowering vine that wrapped around my ankle, or maybe a tiny little intricate heart design somewhere the sun doesn't shine...(not that I've actually put any thought into it or anything...)

Not Your Ordinary "Bad Hair" Day...

My kids came back from a week at their dad’s on Saturday afternoon. We goofed off, stayed up late, etc. They didn’t have to go back to school until Tuesday, so I figured it was “okay” to allow them to “maximize” their Winter Break. Sunday night rolls around, though, and I ordered them both to take baths or showers (silly, because with a jetted tub in the new house, they ALWAYS opt for a bath over a shower—I don’t know why I even still offer them an option!)

Sunday afternoon my daughter told me she wanted me to take her to see Greta (our long-time Hair Stylist) for a haircut. My daughter has always FOUGHT getting haircuts. She hates to brush her hair and has a very sensitive scalp, but she also wants to have long hair. Her hair is like mine—baby fine and “naturally wavy.” It is like her dad’s because she has TONS of it.
Her hair is beautiful. Women all over America would pay Top Dollar to have her hair color. I suppose the best way to classify her hair color is to call it “light brown with golden highlights.”
And when I say “golden,” I mean GOLDEN. Her hair changes color every time the light hits it. She could be called a Blonde or a Brunette, even a Redhead, depending on the angle of the light. Upon close examination, her hair strands probably come in 16 different colors. My Girl should, in all honesty, have a contract for shampoo commercials, except for one small detail: she hates to brush her hair.

The Dog Bite from two weeks ago did not help this issue. Besides 14 stitches on the side of her face (from her ear down to her lip-line), the Girl had 4 staples—yes, staples(!) placed in her scalp for puncture wounds. The ER staff was so caring and gracious to place those staples without shaving a single hair on her head. But that means the staples (now removed), and the lingering scabs (still there) were all tangled up in her lovely locks. Not to mention the fact that having Rottweiler teeth imbedded in your scalp for a bit leaves a certain painful tenderness that makes hair brushing even more traumatic than it was before.

Poor R could not wash (or brush) her hair for a couple of days after the Dog Bite Attack. Even once she was cleared to wash her hair, the staples and dried blood in her hair made it difficult to brush out her beautiful golden brown locks.

We resorted to the "Classic Ponytail," only brushing the ends of her hair, to prevent “pulling” on the hair that was entangled in staples.

She was well on the mend when she left my household the day after Christmas—stitches and staples had been removed. She returned on January 3rd, still sporting her Classic Ponytail. On Sunday, she asked me to make an appointment for her with Greta to get a “Pixie Cut,” just like I had when I was her age.

I immediately knew something was wrong.

A Pixie Cut? In 2009?

I reminded her that my Mother-induced/Mia Farrow-inspired Pixie Cut warped me for life—I was in the 3rd grade, buck-toothed, and nowhere near puberty, and I was often mistaken for a…gasp…BOY…in public places. It scarred me for life! To this day, I do not wear pants ever—only skirts/dresses as a result of the trauma I suffered when I walked into a restaurant bathroom only to be greeted by a little old lady with, “I’m sorry, LITTLE BOY, but aren’t you in the wrong room?” (Horrifying—truly horrifying!)

There just HAD to be something wrong—this was soooo not like her! While she hates to brush her hair, we seemed to have reached a reasonable compromise—to keep her hair shoulder-length and utilize the “ponytail” during the day to keep it pulled back and “neat,” which helps to minimize the snarling.

Just in case, I indulged her with internet searches for cute “short” haircuts for girls and convinced her that a Kicky Little Bob would be sooooo much more delightful than a Pixie Cut.

And then bathtime came. I told her I would “help her” brush out her hair—being extra gentle and careful, in case her scalp was still sore.

She spent over an hour in the tub, turning all wrinkly and pruny, not wanting to get out. When she finally did get out, she tried to lock herself in my bathroom because she was dreading the Hair Brushing Exercise so much.

I finally coerced her into sitting on my bed and letting me take a look.

And when I did?

Oh. My. Goodness.

She had washed her hair, not brushed it at all, stuck it into a ponytail, slept on it while still wet, repeat, a few times, for over a week.

Her beautiful, golden mane was nothing but a snarly, rat’s nest from one side to the next. It was like one short, but GIANT dreadlock.

R cried.

THIS is why she mentioned the Pixie Cut—she had tried to brush her hair, but the snarls were so bad—and so deep—that she believed the only solution was to cut off all her hair!
And, to tell you the truth, at first I was thinking the same thing! But I just couldn’t give up without trying! Her hair! Her beautiful, BEAUTIFUL hair!

I slathered up my hands with Dove “Leave-In” Conditioner. I gently—so very gently—began to brush out what I could—at first just the ends of her hair, but then I started working on the top layer of the snarly mess. (I was crying, too, by now.) I had to use my fingers to pry apart the knots, but gradually—very gradually—as strand after golden strand of loose hair wound around her hairbrush, the snarly mess began to “give way.”

One hour (and 3 hairbrushes full of Spun Gold) later, darling R’s hair was a sleek, soft, silken waterfall of glory!

She cried, and she laughed, and she HUGGED me, and she SWORE she would brush her hair twice a day—every day—from here on out.

Poor girl.

She was so afraid that the snarly mess she KNEW existed on the back of her head was completely “unfixable,” she was willing to “fall on her sword” and cut it all off.

Quite frankly, I’m a bit amazed myself—I felt the density of the knots with my own hands, and contemplated “the scissors” myself, initially, but I persevered—kept trying, plying my daughter with perky, pleasant, distracting conversation. And, as we chatted, those snarls and knots seemed to “melt away.” I couldn’t help but notice that many of those clumps of hair came away with pieces of dried blood and discarded scalp (effing Rottweiler!), yet my daughter only winced a few times.

I have witnessed her brushing her hair several times today, and she still mentions the “Kicky Little Bob” as a future alternative, but she thinks it is important to grow her hair out another couple of inches, so that when she goes to see Greta for the “Kicky Little Bob” someday, she can donate what is cut off to “Locks of Love.”

Isn’t she great?

Oh, by the way, today is her BIRTHDAY. She is 10, and my Gift to the World!



And I just LOVE that my Pressed-Back chairs created little Devil Horns in this picture!

Grateful

As I was thinking about what to write for this post, I was reminded of my favorite Ann Lander's Column that ran sometime around Thanksgiving:


Things to Be Thankful For

Be thankful for the clothes that fit a little too snug, because it means you have enough to eat.

Be thankful for the mess you clean up after a party, because it means you have been surrounded by friends.

Be thankful for the taxes you pay, because it means you're employed.

Be thankful that your lawn needs mowing and your windows need fixing, because it means you have a home.

Be thankful for your heating bill, because it means you are warm.

Be thankful for the laundry, because it means you have clothes to wear.

Be thankful for the space you find at the far end of the parking lot, because it means you can walk.

Be thankful for the lady who sings off-key behind you in church, because it means you can hear.

Be thankful when people complain about the government, because it means we have freedom of speech.

Be thankful for the alarm that goes off in the early morning hours, because it means you're alive.



When I read this column, it sort of slaps me in the face because it reminds me that all of my complaints are petty and small compared to all of the things I have to be thankful for--especially during these times of "gloom and doom," with daily news reports about lay-offs and bank failures and veterans with traumatic brain injuries--all of which are far removed from my own situation.

I joke that I lead a very boring life, but the reality is that I lead a life that is free of hardships, and for that I am thankful. But, I also recognize that I got to live this sort of life not just through luck, but through the choices I made. The choices I made were largely based on certain values that had been instilled in me at a young age. I would not be where I am today, if it weren't for certain people, and I am most grateful for having them in my life.

I am grateful that my grandparents lived through the Depression and valued hard work, responsibility, and financial security through saving your money and living modestly.

I am grateful that my father, whose parents only had high school educations, was raised to value education and encouraged to go further than his own parents had, even if it meant struggling to pay for that college degree.

I am grateful that my parents had high expectations for their daughters and allowed us the independence to succeed or fail based on our own actions and decisions--there were no bailouts in our household. If we chose not to study for a test and failed, there would be no phone calls to the teacher to ask for a grade change. If we failed, it was our own fault. Consequences were always discussed in our household.

I am grateful that my fear of consequences kept me on the "straight and narrow." I did not place myself in risky situations, nor did I engage in behavior that could have negative results. Unlike most of my friends, I was always thinking about the "What Ifs." I still do.

I am grateful that my parents did not hand out compliments and praise for nothing. It made me very recognition-oriented because the only time I got the attention I craved was by achieving something significant, like straight A's or Leadership Awards or a full-tuition scholarship to college.

I am grateful that my mother lectured us in our teens--unabashedly discussing very adult topics like sex and drugs with an attitude that we were mature enough to handle it, even though, at the time, we were horribly embarrassed and uncomfortable with it. She certainly scared us, but that fear kept me a "good girl." She spoke to us and treated us like mature young adults--not like we were stupid teenagers, incapable of having anything intelligent to say. They say children will rise to your level of expectation, and she had very high expectations of us, and we certainly did not want to disappoint her.

I am grateful that my mother spoke to us about her own hopes and dreams--and her regrets. She wanted us to go further--attain all the things that she didn't, and so we did. Her honesty, while sometimes painful, taught us many valuable lessons.

I am grateful that I was the "Main Breadwinner" during my marriage because it kept me from quitting a job that sometimes I did not particularly like. I stuck it out for 10 years because I had to "pay the bills," but during that time, I established a reputation with my co-workers and managers as a hard-working employee, and I volunteered for other assignments--mainly to get out of doing the work I didn't like--which gave me more experiences, new skills, and greater "exposure." It laid the foundation for my career, and I was rewarded with a new job as an analyst that suited me perfectly. And, because I didn't change employers, my pay increased, and my benefits increased, and my retirement plan remained intact because I didn't have to start over somewhere else. Responsibility and patience pay off, and just because you don't like your job, that doesn't mean you should do shitty work. My job may have been shitty, but my work never was.

I am grateful that I have always had managers who cared about my development and encouraged me to take on different assignments. They recommended me for Teams and Special Projects, and allowed me to go on Details that altered the path of my career, even though it made their jobs a little tougher while I was away. I have never, ever had a "bad" boss.

I am grateful that I have two healthy children who are growing up to be interesting and funny people, and that I knew enough about parenting to know it was important to just "be myself" with them. They don't just see me as "Mom," but also as a human being who makes mistakes, laughs at inappropriate things, and isn't afraid to tell them the truth about things. They have seen me cry; they have heard me rant; they have been subjected to my lecturing. There are no surprises in this house--I may not be perfect, but at least I'm consistent because I'm not trying to be a phony.

I am grateful my Dad lives nearby and can still come to "rescue me" when a pipe bursts or my car won't start. (He also buys me tools. Whee!)

Most of all, I am grateful that whenever I am fumbling around, feeling like a helpless failure because I don't know how to do something, I hear my mother telling me, "Nonsense! Don't be ridiculous! You can do anything, you just need to figure it out."

She was right. It may take awhile, but I'll eventually figure it out.