This Is Going To Hurt Me More Than It Hurts You

When my boys were little, pre video games, pre going to the park with friends, when it was just them and me and a lifetime of time, we used to play this little game my mother played with us when we were little.  I'd take my shirt off, lay on the floor, and have them write letters on my back with their fingers.  I'd try to guess the letters, and even when I knew I always guessed wrong because there is no greater feeling in the world than outsmarting your mom.

Not only did they learn to write the alphabet really fast, but I got a little baby massage out of the deal.  Win tothefucking win, yo.

When they started to bore with that game, we upped the ante.  I'd get down to my chonies, lay on the floor and give them ball point pens or sharpies.  They'd give me tattoos.  They'd usually start with my fish and "finish" them, and then they'd go out from there.  By the end, I had a full body tattoo, I'd blown at least an hour,  if not two, and my kids had sugarplum wishes and ice cream dreams of being tattoo artists when they grow up.  Because there is no greater feeling than having your kids understand that there's something more to art than painting or sculpting, that it comes in all shapes and sizes and needle gauges.

And damn it, that shit felt awesome.  And it annoyed the holy fuck out of my husband.  Win tothemotherfucking win, yo.

Downside? Kind of hard to explain at work the next day.

So when I asked them last night to come mark and measure my back for my tattoo at BlogHer, I thought nothing at all of it.  Seems par for the course, right?  Funny how you forget that what seems like exactly just yesterday with your kids can actually be fairly close to a decade ago and they've got Pokemon cheat codes and Green Day lyrics and french grocery lists to store in their brains...they can't be bothered to remember some totally endearing childhood moments or anything.  They about died when I told them what I needed them to do. I reminded them that they used to do this all the time with me and they both looked at me like I was an insane person.  

Like they're the first or something. Pshaw.

So I bribed them.  They accepted my terms and I started to take my shirt off.  My 11 years old's eyeballs turned and began to claw their way back into his skull.  My 9 year old lept, LEPT backwards.  I said look, dudes.  You see my in my chonies all the time and they said ohmygod ewwwww mom! and I said you know what?  It's the exact same thing as a swimsuit exactly and the 11 year old said okay, I'll keep telling myself that.

{Note for Future 1of3 and 2of3: The reason it is so frightening to see me in a swimsuit or my chonies is that YOU DID THIS TO ME.  I looked like a blond Megan Fox before I opted to give you life, and you made me gain 105 pounds and they you made me gain 80 pounds, and it was totally worth it, so shut up.  Momma loves you.}

Once the measuring tapes and the ink pens and the schematics came out, they were fine.  They got right down to business and did a fantastic job making and marking all the right measurements, and then I made them take pictures of said back to send to my designer. They have never been so happy in their whole lives, partly because they got to use the big, new camera and partly because there is no greater way to humiliate their mother than taking photographs of her almost totally naked.  Because you know she's just going to plaster them all over the freaking internet.

If you need the number of a good therapist in your area, email me.  It's the least I can do.

Trying to lose some weight for summer, but don't have the right motivation?  Have my boys come take pictures of you in all your saggy-backed glory under halogen track lights.  You'll go throw up right that second and start the hardest diet and exercise routine of your life the next morning.  Or drown your sorrows in cheesecake.  Either way, win tothe win, yo.

PS: if you need a tattoo designer say, oh, for a tattoo you want to get at BlogHer, leave a comment and I'll send you his email.  You wouldn't believe how good he is.

PPS: If even one of you tells me I look hot, or you'd kill for a back like that, I will punch you square in the teeth.  I am 5'4".  And I cropped the ass out.

PPPS: Grab the badge.  Just sayin'.

I'll Be Getting Inked

So I'm Sayin' You Have A Chance

My husband hates tattoos.

Correction: My husband loathes tattoos.

So naturally, one day I left what was at the time our 1of1 with his godmother and scampered off to the tattoo parlor up the street from me, and walked out an hour later with a couple o' fish in the middle of my back. Because I'm a thoughtful and considerate wife.

And it only goes to say that a few years later, when we were officially done having kids because two was plenty for anyone, I'd leave a little early on my way to go see my kids in their Christmas play, at church, and stop at the other tattoo shop up the street and get a big ass arm band with my whole family tree on it. Because it's not like God's going to forgive me at this point anyway.

And just for the record, when you do shit like that, God smites thee and he smites thee hard. By fucking up your whole family tree tattoo with a shiny little new branch two weeks later. Which, ironically enough, turned out to be pretty fucking awesome, so suck on that, God.

But I still can't find anyone who'll add her or her godfather to it. Bygones.

And then, having been glared at and mumbled about under my husband's breath for a few years, I wised up and took the kids out to "run errands" one day and that is when they got the distinct pleasure of passing out when they saw the needle the lady pulled out to stick a hoop through my nose. But at least it wasn't a tattoo.

Turns out, he hates nose-rings even more than tattoos. Who'da thunk it?

A few weeks ago he gave me an extended sigh and a demonstrative eye roll when he asked, "You're getting another fucking tattoo in Chicago, aren't you?" And I told him I wasn't. And I'm not getting a tattoo at BlogHer; I'm getting three. So if you were ever thinking of asking me out, I'd wager that by the first week of August he'll have kicked me to the curb, and your window may just open.

Or he'll still love me just the way I am, and we'll live happily, and doodily, ever after.

Either way, since a whole mess of us have been talking about getting tattoos in Chicago, I made a few phone calls and I sent a few emails and I managed to pull together a little sumpin' sumpin' for those of us who like to tempt fate and there's a little something for the rest of you who would nevereverever or who aren't going to make it to BlogHer in July.

And due to the contract that comes with my ads, you've got to follow this link to my dumb review blog for the juicy details, which involve cheap booze and a whole mess of free stuff....


I have two tattoos and 19 piercings.  My husband hates them, every one.  Most of the piercings happened before I met him and involved me, a safety pin, a bathroom sink and a heavy dose of neurosis.  The rest of it involved some very sneaky dealings.

One evening, many years ago, baby 1of3's' godmother watched him for a few hours for me while The Donor was at work, and when he came home, I had a tattoo on my back.  He was less than thrilled.

I know it's a crap picture. You try taking a picture of your own back.

One Sunday afternoon, the boys and I piled into the car and went out "to run errands."  We came home that afternoon with two cases of post-traumatic-stress-disorder and one nose ring.  He didn't look at me for a week.


One night many years ago, we decided after long negotiation that we weren't having any more children and The Donor gave me the okay to get my tubes tied.  The following Saturday night, while the two boys were at Gramma's for an overnight, I snuck out and got my family tree tattooed on my right arm.

Family Tree
It's not the whole family, just the ones I'm willing to admit I'm related to.

Two weeks later I was pregnant with 3of3.  Karma's a bitch.

Odds are pretty good that while I'm in Chicago for BlogHer, I'll be getting a new tattoo.  Odds are I'm not the only one.  It's my one weekend away from my kids this year, and a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.  Luckily for me, for all of us, I found someone willing to accommodate a sea of women of questionable levels of sobriety for the weekend and humour us while we relive our youth, just with much better shoes.

tattoo factory

The Tattoo Factory in Uptown Chicago has agreed to hook us all up that weekend.  They've offered everyone attending BlogHer a 20% discount over the entire weekend on tattoos or piercings and have arranged to provide us a free drink after our work, and then some drink or dinner special after.  (We're not quite there yet with the details).  They are Chicago's oldest continually running tattoo studio, they have something like 24 different artists, and best of all, they aren't scared of a bunch of cougars conventioneers descending on them for a weekend.

More details to come (we're still hammering out the details) but if you're heading to BlogHer this summer and thinking of getting some blog ink, go see what they have to offer.  I'll let everyone know when this thing goes live so we can start in with the reservations.

And honey?  Consider yourself forewarned this time.