Wrong Way

Once upon a time, less than a week ago, I had this line bunny on my wrist. You can see it below, peeking out at the bottom of the picture. Feel free to marvel over the sheer size of that apple while you're at it.

This bunny I used to love so much has now been covered up. Gone. Finished. I said my sorrowful goodbyes. You might be wondering, why I got it covered with the bigger more badass bunny and the answer is simple.

It was the wrong way.

Many, many moons ago, when I first got this tattoo, no one told me how sleeves were built. My artist didn't sit me down and explain what upside-down meant. Or would mean later on in life. Okay, I am not a complete idiot, I know what upside-down is, but I didn't understand how it could be applicable to a silly line drawing on my wrist. Then the Sidekick came along. It took all of two minutes for me to understand why my wrist tattoos were upside-down and needed to be covered. And I have spent nearly two years brooding over this. For my obsessive compulsive brain, these 180 degrees have been most annoying, not only because I now understand why it should be facing the other direction, but because no one ever told me! Not the first artist who did the bunny. Or the second one who did my cat.

Bullshit.

All it took from my Sidekick was one simple question, when are you going to stop? Let's say you went and paid for a tattoo artist to put the word 'love' on your wrist and you insist is has to be facing you. Maybe you even have a good reason, like it's 'just for you' and you 'don't care if other people won't be able to read it', or because you 'want to see/read it'. Well, are you going to stop with that one tattoo? What if you want a feather under the first one? Will that be upside-down too? And the next? Are you going to have a bunch of upside-down tattoos all the way up your arm? Won't that look ridiculous? Eventually you are going to want to turn it around, but when? Halfway up your forearm? At your elbow? The armpit? Sure, you might be sitting there thinking 'but I only want the one tattoo' and sleeves aren't for you.

Well, take it from me. Don't risk it. Because one day, you might want a super cool sleeve and have a stupid tree facing the wrong direction on your forearm. Save you tattoo artist the pain of trying to explain to you why it's wrong. Go ahead and sit there and tell me it isn't 'wrong', that this is all just a matter of preference, but before you do, answer me this one simple question. When you look at someone who has a sleeve, what way are their tattoos facing? The right way. So, that makes any other way, the WRONG way.

With my Sidekick's simple knowledge, I saw the light. Unfortunately, it was way too late. So, I needed a cover-up. Let's just hope you won't need one too. Maybe I can save you the annoyance of having to look at an upside-down tattoo and kicking yourself because you're kind of a dummy. Trust me, you'll still be able to see/read it, even if it is pointing away from you. Besides, you already know what it says and looks like, right?

I mean, if you got it on your back you'd never see it anyhow.

It Means Something To me

Not all my tattoos mean something. Sure, in the beginning, I dreamed of having all these meaningful pieces of art on my body. Images with stories behind them. Now, I just want some really badass tattoos. Colourful. Bold. Eye-catching. Beautiful. That's what I am looking for.

Still, it's nice to sneak a bit if meaning into a tattoo. 

For instance, my cabbage. When I first broached the subject to my Sidekick he was a little resistant. He'd never tattooed one before and there weren't a lot of examples out there. In the end, it worked well for the cover-up, turned out beautiful, and makes me smile. Who could ask for anything more? 

But how the hell does it mean something to me? Am I that obsessed with green leafy vegetables? Well, no. Not really. The thing is, it's for my father. Let me explain. My dad has a rose tattooed on his forearm. Over the years, the colour has all but faded, leaving behind black lines and shading. When I was younger than I am now, I used to call it a cabbage. Sure, he probably wasn't all that stoked about me calling it such, but over time, he started referring to it as a cabbage as well. 

So, when I decided to cover up my bunny, I thought to myself ... I need a cabbage. It pays homage to my father and reminds me of those moments. You know the ones. The good times. 

Growing up, I spent a lot of time with my dad. He worked afternoon shifts and I remember waking up when he got home and sitting with him as he ate his supper. We used to watch David Letterman. Then I would toddle back to bed. I used to get up on the weekends and go to garage sales with him. Flea Markets too. He used to always try to get me to haggle for things. I hated doing it. To this day, I refuse to haggle. I spent a lot of time with my dad. Fixing things. Working in the yard. Driving around in his Tercel or Mazda, listening to the Good Morning Vietnam soundtrack and eating licorice allsorts (which I don't think I ever really even liked). One birthday, he took me to Value Village and bought me like twenty different coloured polo-shirts, and I loved it.  

I am my father's daughter. Yeah, my teenage years were harder between us, but I think that's expected, right? I love my dad. He makes me laugh. And sometimes I just wish I knew him better as a person, you know? 

Anyhow, I have a cabbage and I will never forget why it's there. 

 Papa Smurf

Tattoos Still Hurt

I've decided to dedicate the week to talking about tattoos. Why? Because this is my blog and I can do whatever I want. Sounds kind of childish, but it's the truth. 

Today, I am going to talk about why tattoos still hurt. Because it's the day after and when I woke up my arm was terribly swollen and tender. This is about thirteen hours after I got my lazy ass out of bed, and it's still fairly swollen. This is expected. After all, I had a bunch of needles jabbed into my arm. 

Now, washing a tattoo the morning after doesn't tickle. The best way to describe the sensation is burning. If you have ever had to wash out an open wound, then you know the feeling. Except instead of just rinsing it out, you are scrubbing it with soap and water to get all the blood, plasma and Vaseline off. Even the water hitting it can be excruciating. This is why tattoos still hurt. And they will continue to hurt for at least a week. Whenever you bump it or brush it, or roll over onto it when you're sleeping, it's going to twinge, throb, ache and pulse. 

Yeah, I'm starting to wonder why I did this to myself. 

Here's the thing about healing a tattoo - most artists have their own aftercare instructions. As long as you aren't getting your body art done in prison or in some scratchers basement, then you have probably been given a piece of paper with steps on how to best heal your new piece of art. For the most part, the instructions cover the same bases: 

• No swimming
• No sun
• Don't let it rub on anything (like clothing, or your desk at work)
• Never scratch or pick at your tattoo

Other than these steadfast rules, aftercare instructions can vary immensely. This seems weird, right? Like why can't all tattoo artists decide on one steadfast set of healing instructions for us clueless folk to follow? I can't answer this. I even asked the Sidekick and he didn't have a good reasons either. He basically said something about everyone being different. Yes, yes, you're all unique flowers, but how are we supposed to know what's best for our tattoo? I actually headed over to Dr. Google's house and asked him all about tattoo aftercare. You wouldn't believe the crap the intersnacks spat out. I am seriously worried people might actually be taking some of these yahoos at their word. 

One website said to put baby powder on your tattoo to prevent it from sticking to your bed sheets at night. Why is your tattoo weeping so bad you're sticking to your bed sheets? This is a sign the bandage should have been kept on longer. Using Neosporin on it? Why would you need an infection fighting ointment? The key is to heal your tattoo so damn well an infection doesn't happen, then you'd never need a product like this. Putting rubbing alcohol or Listerine on your tattoo to stop it from itching? Um, yeah, anything with alcohol will only dry it out more and make it that much itchier. 

So, there is a lot of bad information on the internet. Surprise, surprise. If you are confused about your healing instructions, then you should contact your artist. I did. I rolled over and said, "Honey, should I put lotion on this thing now?" Okay, I have an advantage. 

But seriously, though, I hope you do your research and pick a good artist. One who wears gloves. One who doesn't eat a sandwich while tattooing. Someone who doesn't have his cat's litter box in the same room as his machines. An artist who doesn't call his tattoo machine a gun. An establishment that doesn't have a ridiculous spin on their name - like the Mad Tatter or Rat-a-tat-tats. An artist that doesn't refer to himself as an ink-slinger. 

My one piece of advice to you apart for choosing a good artist? Keep it clean. That means no touchy-touchy with those germy little digits you pick your nose with. Pretty simple, right? Well, that's me. A simple girl with a swollen arm.  

Tattoos Hurt - FYI

For some reason, whenever you get a tattoo, people feel the need to ask if it hurts. Just so everyone is on the same page about this form of art. Yes, tattoos hurt. Quite a bit, in fact. It isn't always the same pain all the way through, though. It's varying degrees of ouch. Oh, and some areas hurt more than others.

Pain is a tricky creature.

In the tattooing world, it is known that the top of the foot and the neck hurt the most. Since I have both of my feet done, I will have to get a neck tattoo to tell you which one hurts more. Right now, though, I have to say the wrist hurts more, especially if you are doing more than a stupid line drawing.

Today, my Sidekick tattooed a beautiful cover-up on me. It took about three hours and thirty-seven of those minutes were this needling, burning, terrible pain I was certain I wasn't going to live through. I tried to not whine or writhe, but there were these tender spots I seriously regretted having done. Most of the other minutes were uncomfortable, but bearable. And about twenty-four of those minutes I was in very little pain. Regardless, the whole time there was hurting going on. 

Some people deal with pain better than others. Some people love pain. Thrive off it. Enjoy it. I am not one of those creature. That being said, I have a fairly high threshold for pain and just because I sat for three hours, doesn't mean someone else can. To be honest, I mostly did it to prove my Sidekick wrong. And also, I like finishing what is started on the spot, so there is no need to go back to it in the future. 

While I am sad to say goodbye to my adorable line bunny, I am happy to say hello to my new, bigger, more badass bunny. And also, I love my cabbage. So, I am very happy. Now I have come down from my adrenaline high and need to go to bed. Goodnight. 

My Mom Hates My Piercing

Isn't it funny how some situations never change.

I remember when I got my tongue pierced. My mom hated it.

She told me it was disgusting and asked, "Why would anyone do that to themselves?"  

In all fairness, it was a venom piercing and quite swollen when I showed her. And, from an outsider's point of view, I can see how it might not be the most attractive of all piercings. After all, you can't talk right, due to a swollen tongue, and the barbells are too long. Still, I can't blame the double tongue piercing for her dislike because I distinctly remember her not being keen on my labret either.

And just forget about tattoos. I do believe she said she would cut it out with a knife if I ever got one. Granted, she never did. A clear cut case of no follow through. Still, she's always been fairly vocal about how she feels when it comes to body modifications. What can I say, Mom doesn't sugarcoat things. At least not for me. Because I'm tough, she says. 

But that tongue piercing happened over a decade ago. Surely things have changed since them. After 11 piercings and seven tattoos, she's lightened up a whole heck of a lot. Hell, she's even openly admitted to thinking tattoos are 'cool'. 

And yet, tonight, when I showed her my brand new, only a couple hours old, nose piercing she told me she didn't like it. According to her, it ruins my cute little nose. Evidently, my mom is not now, nor will she ever be a piercing fan.  

When I hung up Skype, I wailed, "My Mom hates my piercing." 

Then I laughed, because I was eighteen years old again, or possibly younger. 

Awesome. 

See, some things never change. I will always be that kid, and that's kind of awesome. Also, I think it's rather wonderful that I have a mother who doesn't feel the need to bite her tongue when it comes to her opinion about my physical appearance. And people wonder where I get it from. 

In other news, my dad liked it. 

Please Tip Your Waitress

I'm a good tipper. Whenever I go out for food or drinks, I always ensure to leave a little something extra behind. Fifteen percent seemed to be the precident for a long time, but I've been noticing eighteen percent cropping up on a few debit terminals lately. Eighteen percent? Really? Some places just tack it right onto your bill, which I find kind of presumptuous. 

Okay, I'm going to put this out there knowing it might get some backlash. I don't agree with mandatory tipping. I know, I'm a terrible person, but if you have crappy service then you shouldn't leave extra money behind. Why? Because you had crappy service. It's really all very simple. And for me, you really have to be a terrible service worker to NOT get a tip. I'm talking snorts of derision and eye rolls. So, if you haven't received a tip from me in the past, it's because you should be exploring other avenues of employment. 

The funny thing is, and I never really thought about until recently, but tipping extends beyond waitresses and waiters. Now that I work at a salon, I see most people tip their stylist. I am dating a tattoo artist, I see a lot of people tip their artist. Then I got to thinking, who else is being tipped? Delivery people because they lift things we don't want to, or at least arrive with hot, cheesy pizza in a timely manner. Bellhops (are they still called bellhops?) because they monitor your bags and ensure they don't get stolen. 

But where does it stop? Or, why does it stop? 

I certainly don't tip my doctor for a gynecological exam or my dentist for a root canal, even though both these people are helping to keep me in my most tiptop shape. Maybe these people make too much money? Or maybe it's just awkward trying to slip an orthodontist a fiver.  

Waiters and waitresses often tip out the kitchen from their gratuities. And tattoo artists frequently tip out their counter staff. So, in some ways, these make sense and can reasonably rationalized. Delivery men do grunt work. And Pizza boys get tips because they risk their lives driving from point A to point B so you don't have to. Maybe that's all this comes down to? We tip people for doing things we should be doing ourselves but just can't be arsed. 

Except, that really doesn't apply to tattoo artists! No one should be doing their own tattoos. Go to a clean, respectable shop and get a clean, respectable artist, with a clean respectable past, and a clean respectable portfolio to give you a clean, respectable tattoo. So you see a pattern, clean and respectable, people. And, while I never thought it prior to a year ago, most people shouldn't be doing their own hair either. 

When I was little, I remember my mother tipping when she used full service at the gas station. Full service is pretty much a thing of the past these days. At least up here in Canada, and more accurately, on Canada Island where I reside, I can't think of a place that even offers full service. Granted, when I drove down to San Francisco, I tried to pump my own gas when a very nice gentleman took the hose from my hand and told me that was his job. 

So, I guess it depends on where you're from. I did tip the man in Frisco who filled my tank, if you know what I mean. It's pretty clear, he took me from empty to all filled up. Made the little arrow rise. None of these sound even remotely appropriate to be writing in this post. 

Today, I tipped the person who changed my oil, air filter and serpentine belt. It felt good doing it, too. Because it wasn't expected. I'm grateful to have had a little extra cash to do so. Why did I tip her? Because she was cute, kind of looked like a gelfling, and is a woman in a male dominated industry. I also told her to split the tip with the guy helping her out, because I am not sexist. And you know what, she was super appreciative for the extra bones. It wasn't going to buy her a new house or Rolex watch, but it might get her a quick bite to eat when she made it to her lunch hour. 

And why not tip these oil change aficionados? I mean, they are at least ensuring my vehicle runs smoothly, letting me know if anything is on the verge of breaking and, possibly, killing me. They've kept me healthy and alive by ensuring my serpentine belt doesn't break while going 110 down the highway. Kilometres, not miles. Canada, remember? 

It makes me think that if anyone does a job well done, goes above and beyond, delivers great customer service, then we should tip them. Go ahead, tip someone who doesn't expect it, it feels kind of awesome. 

Well, I've talked myself into it. The next time I go to the doctor, I'm going to slip a ten in her lab coat pocket. 

For those of you unawares, this is a gelfling. 

Rent Dark Crystal and be prepared to have your mind blown.