Every Tattoo Tells a Story

I remember when I first decided to get a tattoo. A real tattoo. It was New Year's Eve 1996. I worked at a place where you had to go into work on New Year's Eve but you got to leave early. Some co-workers of mine were planning on grabbing an early drink before heading to various parties. I figured the place they were going was on the way to the 'el' so I tagged along. Well one pitcher of beer led to a few more and before I knew it, it was 8pm and they were planning on hitting another bar. I was out of money but wanted to wait until 9 when the CTA offered penny rides home. One of the women I worked with stopped for a bathroom break and brought us all temporary tattoos that you could buy from a vending machine in the ladies room. She had chosen a tiger for me, since I had gone to the University of Missouri. I placed the tiger on the upper portion of my left breast. I thought it looked good at the time, but again, my judgement might have been a little off. 9:00 came and I hopped on the 'el' with balloons tied to my head, and the tiger still on my chest.

The next day I took a shower and as I looked at the temporary tattoo before I washed it off I thought it looked good. I decided not to wash it off and to live with it for a few days to see if this was something I really wanted. When it finally started to peel about 3 days later, I reluctantly washed it clean. After the shower and looking in the mirror, I missed having something there.

At this time I was dating a guy who was a biker, and happened to have a large panther tattoo on his arm. He had gotten that tattoo at Lyle Tuttle's tattoo shop in San Francisco. For those of you who don't know, Lyle Tuttle is one of the tattooing Gods. His store has been around long before the boys of Miami Ink or Kat Von D were even born. It just so happened that the company I worked for was having their Annual Meeting in San Francisco in August. I knew that's where I would get my first tattoo.

August finally arrived and I was still determined to get my tattoo. I would be at the meeting for 5 days and even though I would have to work days, I would have one afternoon and most of my evenings free. I told some, ok, most of the people I was traveling with that I was going to get a tattoo and they didn't believe me. My co-worker and good friend Jackie said she would go with me. I already knew what I was going to get. A Native American bear fetish with a heartline running through it on my left breast. (Right where the tiger had been). The bear fetish represents strength and wisdom which I thought was appropriate for everything I had been through in my life up until that point. I decided to get it on my breast so I could still hide it at work. So Jackie and I hopped on a cable car and ended up at Lyle Tuttle's. Lyle wasn't there that night but a very nice woman was. She asked if she could help us. Jackie turned and said "her...not me." I told her what I wanted and she looked through some of her books to find it. She found a design that I liked and she told me to sit down. She asked if this was my first tattoo. I said yes. She said, "Well, I'm sure people have told you that it hurts." I nodded. "It doesn't really. Feels more like a bee sting and you get used to it." I was nervous, but tried to relax. She put paper towels around my shirt so as not to get ink on it, and placed the template on my chest. She asked if that position was ok. I told her yes and we got started. She was very gentle. She explained that the closer to bone, the more it would hurt. That was true. As she got near my sternum, it hurt more than when she was around the fleshy part of my breast. In about 30 to 45 minutes she was finished. Jackie said she liked it. I said I liked it...probably still dizzy from the excitement of actually getting something permanent on my body. The tattoo got bandaged, I got my little card explaining the after-care procedures and Jackie and I went to dinner. It was a little sore, but not too bad. When I got back to the hotel, I took off the bandage, and washed the tattoo gently with soap and water. I still have the t-shirt that I wore to bed that night, which still has the ink impression of my bear on it.

The next day people at the meeting asked why I got it where I did. Someone even said "Why didn't you get it on your ass so no one will see it?" I told her "Well then I wouldn't be able to see it." Some people thought it was neat. Some people thought I was crazy. I was still in love. When I got back to work, the story of my tattoo had spread and I told everyone it was fun, didn't really hurt, and that it was the only one I was going to get.

I was wrong.

I know that tattoos have become more mainstream and less "outlaw" these days. I can still look professional and hide all my tattoos. I never told my mother that I got the tattoo because I was afraid of her reaction, and now I have a memorial tattoo for her. I have gotten tattoos in Chicago and at a party in Northbrook. Most of my tattoos have come from trips to London, England, where I have been tattooed by a lanky teenager from Manchester, who spent the whole time with his tongue hanging out, a chain smoking Italian and a Dane. I have been tattooed by women and men. I have been watched while I have been tattooed and been photographed for an artists portfolio.

What shocks me is that some people get tattoos for the wrong reason. My best friend used to threaten to get a tattoo just because her fiance' said she wouldn't. That is not a reason to get something etched onto your body permanently. Each and every one of my tattoos mean something. The bear on my breast represents my life, the flowers tattooed on my right foot represent beauty. The horse on my right outside ankle, and on my right bicep represent my love for horses. The horse on my lower back is more of a spiritual horse. The bear claw on my left shoulder along with the ring of bears around my left ankle continue my life story of strength and wisdom. The cat on my left ankle represents my love for cats.

My memorial tattoos include angel cats by one of my mother's favorite artists, B. Klieban. They are on my right shoulder because I have a birthmark there from pressing against her body while in the womb. The elk (no it's not a moose), on my left bicep is for my step-father because we had a long-going joke that elk don't exist. It's on my left arm because he was left handed. There are 11 points on his antlers because his birthday was December 11. The owl on my left thigh is for my father. My father was very wise and passed it down to me. He also had a collection of owls for many years. It is a snowy owl due to "Hedwig" in "Harry Potter" because my father introduced me to the "Harry Potter" novels. It's on my left thigh because he used to call me thunder thighs when I was younger. It's on the left side because the left side is where my heart is.

I have two other tattoos. I have a disgruntled bunny on the inside of my right ankle...just because I liked it when I saw it on the wall of "flash" in a tattoo parlor in London. It is also because I am often disgruntled and have the same face and blue eyes the bunny does.

The final tattoo might be the only one I am not too proud of. It was sort of a joke, which I agree is the wrong reason to get a tattoo. But that one is on my ass and is hidden and only a few special people get to see it. But it still means something. Still is part of the "story" written on my body.

Twelve years and twelve more tattoos later I still love my first tattoo. I will admit, that over the years, the bear has sagged a bit and sometimes looks more like a giraffe. (I'll let you figure out the visual on that). I am planning on getting another tattoo. I don't know when, but I do know where and what it is going to be. It will have deep, personal meaning to me and it will, like all the others, tell a story.

A Couple of Poems

Here are a couple of poems I have written. I'm not too sure about my poetry. I like it, but it is usually pretty dark. (except for the humorous poems I write for friends and loved ones for birthdays). I also think a lot of my poems are really personal and won't make sense to anyone else. Please let me know what you think. If they get positive feedback, I'll post more.

These are untitled poems.

Sometimes I curse the ocean between us,

but yelling into something that large makes no sense...

Neptune can't hear me.

Not even if I jump in the water

and let him listen to the beating of my heart.

Would it send angry waves pounding against the rocks?

Or are the waters calm,

gently whispering waves,

lapping questions among the shore?

He's hidden in the depths,

and I'm not a mermaid daughter.

Although all of us are more sea than earth.

Perhaps a teardrop plea

will be enough for him to shorten the distance,

Or speed along the message of love

contained within.

This next one is one of my favorites I have ever written, and also one of my earliest

I woke up this morning with the sound of the sun

Melting the vision of my partner

Into a dark pool of plaid to match the sheets.

As I reached over to touch someone

Who had never been there

My body made a small groan--as if

It too was missing who, or what, had been lying next to me night after night.

The morning rolled on, and I rolled along with it,

Eating breakfast, getting dressed, going to work.

While at work, the vision gained a voice as it reappeared with the rising sun.

But the sun was burning the voice away,

Causing it to grow dimmer with each degree.

By high noon the voice was gone,

Not to reappear until the next morning when it replaced the vision.

I would wait for both the vision and the voice…

And pray for a cloudy day.

I am a Mafia Wars widow

In about a month from now you will notice a change to the roadways, shopping malls, and restaurants near where you live, especially on Sunday afternoons. Football season begins and in many households the women will have to find somewhere else to go. The men in their lives will sit down beginning around noon (depending on your time zone) and be fully engaged for the next 8 to 12 hours... completely ignoring their significant others. Women, short of standing in front of the television naked, will not be seen or heard. In fact, they will basically cease to exist. These women have been named by popular culture at "Football Widows." I am lucky however. In my household, very early on, I learned that if I wanted to spend time with my family, I had better learn to love watching football. I am now, some 30 plus years later, a football fanatic. So you will not find me out shopping/dining/commiserating with other women on Sundays. You will find me in front of the TV, cheering on my favorite team, watching games I'm not particularly interested in and betting in pools on ESPN.

No, I am a widow of the Facebook generation. More specifically a Mafia Wars widow. About 6 months ago when I joined Facebook in order to catch up with old friends and search for a job, I asked my boyfriend if he wanted to join. He said "no, I'm not really interested," so I let it go. I logged onto Facebook daily, posted pictures, made comments to my friends and on occasion I would play a game. It started out innocently with Bejeweled Blitz and Farkle. Then one day I got a request to join "Mafia Wars" from one of my friends in Florida. I joined his Mafia and for about 10 to 20 minutes a day, would go do my jobs, bank my money and be happy.

Two months ago my boyfriend decided to join Facebook. He started out slowly with 6 friends and didn't get what the big deal of Facebook was. So, I thought since he's a "guy's guy" that he might want to join my mafia, do a few jobs, whack a few mobsters and so forth. I sent him an invitation and never realized that I was going to create a monster. We had a mafia of 7 people, 2 of whom didn't play past level 2. As he began to play more, he began to read the forums, the rules. He told me about jobs on different levels (I had been doing all the jobs on the first level again and again). He told me that fighting would increase my experience points. He taught me about collections that I could vault. This was all well and good and we were both having a good time. We both decided that we needed to increase our mafia. I went to the "add me" forum as did he. I posted my link and gained about 10 members. He went through all 132 pages of "add me" links and gained 150 members. After about a week of playing, I was at level 42 and he was at level 18. He would sit, almost dejectedly, reading the forums about how to improve in the game and say "I'm never going to catch up to you."

Famous last words. He started buying properties like there was no tomorrow so he could bank over $2,000,000 each hour. He would buy Mafia Mike's so he could gain income without any upkeep. When he needed more Mafia members to own more Mafia Mike's, he would again go through the forums and use the "add me" links. About 2 weeks ago I started a new job and when I would get home he would say "how many mafia do you have?" I would say "175 or something," and he would get this devilish grin on his face. "I'm up to 501 now." So it didn't take very long for him to grow his mafia to over 1,000 members and when I came home on Friday he said "I joined another family." So he's now in 2 mafias of over 1,000 members apiece. He has surpassed my level by 8 levels or so, has more hitlist kills, and the other day banked 1,000,000.000 (which I am still trying to do). When he asks for something off of his wishlist he gets them tenfold.

Now, I am very happy that he enjoys this game and is flourishing and has become one of the most respected players in the game. I get a little jealous over the other women that send him gifts and tell him how funny he is, but I am secure in our relationship an know that he won't leave me for one of them and that his "flirting" is one of his mafia characteristics.

My boyfriend is highly competitive and I like that about him. He wants to succeed in everything he does and I love that about him. This makes me know that he is passionate about his life and especially about me.

My problem is that I have become a 'widow', meaning that when I get home from work he's on the computer playing mafia wars and will listen to how my day went, but then will play until it's time to go to bed. "Just let me use up my stamina and I'll be right there," is something I hear almost nightly. He gets upset when he gets hitlisted. He gets upset when he loses a fight. He cheers when he scores a hit. He will stay up just to "level up." When he's posting to a Mafia Wars forum, or trying to take someone out, I can't talk to him. I can tell him something, but he doesn't hear it. He will stop to eat for dinner, but I almost have to drop the food on top of the laptop so he'll close it. Mafia Wars is the last thing he does before he goes to bed, and his computer is on and he's waiting for his energy pack before his coffee is ready in the morning. I have had to force him to turn it off for a few hours because he is getting too involved. One minute he'll be happy that he's robbing someone blind, the next he'll be angry that some level 59 dared to try and fight him. By the time I get home from work, we have about 3 hours to spend together and I'd say 2 hours and 40 minutes of those are spent on the computer. He has threatened to hitlist me. And unlike football widows, Mafia Wars is available 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.

Currently he is at level 89 and I am at level 82. He has 1,420 members, I have 255. Today I asked him if he would turn off the computer while we watched the NASCAR race. He agreed, went and got us lunch, and when he walked in the door said "Can I bank my money before the race starts?" I can't win.


I really like Facebook, I really like Mafia Wars. I really love my boyfriend. We spend many quality hours together. But I am really looking forward to football season so we can both sit on the couch and make widows out of each other on Sunday.

Cooking Without An Oven

I have decided to write a blog. Why? I've been writing most of my life and keeping a lot of it to myself. Most of my friends love my writing and say I am good at it. I love writing personal letters, poems for birthdays or other big occasions and I try to write a journal. When the muse hits me I should write it down, but I don't always do that. I've probably lost a lot of good ideas and stories that way. I've been afraid of blogging because I'm not too sure I want to share that much information about myself. But after being on Twitter and Facebook for about 6 months now, I discover that I am sharing things with others anyway so I took the blog plunge.

About the title? I chose this title after rejecting many others because I have many interests... horses, cooking, writing, football, golf, Harley-Davidson motorcycles, movies, music, travel, etc. I couldn't come up with a title that encompasses all those things. I also didn't want to be boring and just use my name. So, as I said in my little info square, I have recently moved in with my boyfriend. This is the first time I have ever lived with a guy or anyone else since my sophomore year in college back in 1989. I moved from a large, two-bedroom, fairly new apartment in the suburbs, to a small, two-bedroom, upper floor of the building his mom owns place in the city. He has a nice kitchen, but it is older and he has a stove, but the oven doesn't work. This, I thought, would be a problem for me. I love to bake... pies, cakes, cookies, cheesecake, meatloaf, shepherd's pie, roasted chicken, pot roast, pizza, etc. When I moved in, I realized I would have to give this up. I thought it was going to be harder than it was. I have learned to make a lot of things on the grill and stovetop. I have gotten used to baking cookies 6 at a time in his convection oven instead of the normal 12 to 16. It takes longer, but they taste just as good. I have used the grill more since I moved here than when I had my own house with a complete kitchen set-up. And to be honest with you, I don't miss it. Sure, I'd like to make my mother's pork chop and rice recipe, and yes, I would love to make large-scale desserts. But it's not the end of the world.

And that's basically how I have tried to live my life. I have had a lot of things happen in my life that when I first looked at it, I thought "How am I ever going to get through this?" "How am I ever going to make it?" Yet I'm still here. I have survived. I have adapted. I have learned to embrace my surroundings and make the best of whatever situation I am in. When my parents got divorced when I was 9 and we moved to New Mexico where I was the only "gringo" in class, I learned Spanish. When my step-father and mother died within 6 months of each other, I quit my job in order to deal with it. When my father moved in with me after his second divorce and then passed away, I dealt with it. When I moved to Florida and wasn't happy, I moved back to Chicago where I was happy. When I travelled all the way to England to meet a guy who then decided I couldn't stay with him for a week, I stayed in London myself and had an amazing time.

One of my best friends and I have a saying: "You can do ANYTHING for a short period of time." You can. When I moved in with Eric in February and was scared and doubtful and thought I might fail...I realized that I've been cooking without an oven for a very long time