SORE AND ACHEY: I was able to see a massage therapist on Tuesday, and she was great, but there is still residual neck pain. Add to that the muscle tensing involved in getting a new tattoo Tuesday night, as well as the lingering sting from being poked with needles 80-gazillion times, and you will understand why I’m so looking forward to, say, three days from now. By then, my neck should be healed, my muscles relaxed, and all that will remain will be the freshly itchy, healing skin. Woo. Party time. Big shout out to Nova for bravely baring her ankles to the tattoo artist’s gun. So brave, in fact, in spite of a last-minute swap of artists. Her appointment was originally with Dean, who was called away on an emergency, and Dan filled in (no pun intended) with no notice. Such an unexpected snag would have thrown me for a loop, but she took it in stride. Also, many thanks to Greg for chatting with me the whole time about art school and ’rods. Mostly ’rods. And a few spare thank-yous to Mike (no page link) for repeatedly referring to me as “Miss” instead of “Ma’am.” You are a gentlemen, sir.
CHEAP: A large car show that I mentioned in an earlier post is scheduled for this weekend. I was looking forward to it, until I found out that admission tickets cost $15 $17 dollars. SEVENTEEN doll-hairs. If that admission ticket is good for all three days (and it could very well take three days to admire the rumored 2,500 cars), then it’s not a bad deal. But for those of us who only have one day to spare, it’s a bit steep. Even if I can nose out a coupon, it will likely only knock off a couple of dollars. That show may be a no-go, yo.
Tuesday is the big day. The day of my next tattoo. The one that I’ve been planning in my head for a bit over a year, and planning on “paper” for the last week or so. I had asked two different pros for help with the artwork; but both flaked on me, leaving me to create it on my own. I am now breaking two of my own tattoo rules: nothing on my back where I have to contort to see it, and nothing I’ve drawn myself.
I expect that the final design, as applied, will be imperfect. Tattoos are done by hand, after all. As is the hot-rod pinstriping that this tattoo is based on, so the imperfection is something I can live with. But… I want the art to be as perfect as possible going in, so that the tattoo artist has a good foundation from which to deviate. And I’m obsessing. It will be permanent, after all. I am so glad that I’m putting it on my back, so that I can’t easily see it and be haunted by changes I would make were I to look at it every day. Because every day, I have been moving the lines around. Every. Single. Day. While I’m writing this, in fact. Tuesday evening, the madness has to stop.
I might be on Vicodin during the tattoo after all, because I horked my neck Sunday morning. I’m starting to think that this is some old teenage headbanging injury that I keep aggravating. I few times a year, I am nearly immobilized by making some minor move that winds up royally jacking me up. Sunday, I stretched. Yep, that’s right. I stretched. Your average, everyday, just-got-out-of-bed stretch. PING! Can’t move my head. I spent most of the day on the couch with my microwave heating pad, alternating between Advil and Vicodin. Monday was an improvement, but I still feel pretty beat up. I don’t know if I’ll be able to run over to my massage therapy office on Tuesday, but I hope to get this worked out a bit before I have to sit in the tattoo artist’s chair for an hour. I’ll be tense enough during that, thankyouverymuch, without the additional muscle spasms.
The evil morning stretch preceded a wonderful breakfast prepared by Joe for those of us who spent the night after Nova‘s birthday/Paris party. French toast, of course, and granola and yogurt and berries. Oh my! I would have posted the photos sooner, but really, I was that laid out. Besides, the photos coming from Phoenix are much more interesting! MARS, people. Fekkin’ Mars.
Filed under friends, tattoo
Terminal illness. Family deaths. Looming divorce. The swift and unexpected wreckage left behind by a tornado, which killed at least one person and destroyed crops, homes, and businesses in a community about 60 50 miles north of me on Thursday.
None of it makes my own problems go away, but it sure makes me feel like a heel for getting worked up over them.
David: …well this is thoroughly depressing.
Nigel: It really puts perspective on things, though, doesn’t it?
David: Too much, there’s too much fucking perspective now.
So I’ll take a deep breath, I’ll put on a smile, I’ll enjoy the time I have with my friends. A Friday night showing of Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull. A belated birthday party. A barbecue at a friend’s house. Maybe a barbecue at my house, to celebrate my new patio umbrella (lunatic squirrels finally ate through the old one). A moment remembering my grandfather, who served in the Army during WWII, and thinking about my great uncle Harry, who was killed in service. A lot of time devoted to perfecting the artwork I’ll be having permanently embedded under my epidermis on Tuesday night. Not at all anxious about that, no.
Best wishes for a weekend spent with those you love, and who love you.
There’s a guy who works at the café I frequent at lunchtime who is kind of cutishy. I’ve been going to that café for months, but didn’t care to look close enough to see if he wears a wedding ring until Monday.
Now, this doesn’t actually tell me anything. He’s a chef, working with food and knives all day, and might choose to not wear his ring for safety reasons. Or he could be unmarried, but with a serious girlfriend. Maybe he’s single. Heck, he could prefer men. No matter what, my attempts to flirt with him have been met with indifference. Which I’m okay with, because OMGWTFBBQ WHAT IF HE ASKED ME ON A DATE?!
When was the last First Date I had? working backwards… I cared (care) very much for Jack, but you couldn’t call our “relathingy” dating. Dane and I never actually went out anywhere; our orbits within the circle of friends merely overlapped for a blip. Timber and I were friends for nearly a year before we ever became an item, neatly bypassing any First Date awkwardness. Similar story with Chris, although I’d know him even longer. In fact, I had the dubious “pleasure” of watching him leave on his first date with the gal he wound up dating before me. THAT first date went well. Before Chris was Kevin, and Kevin and I had known each other since high school. I did go on one blind date in between Kevin and Chris. A mutual friend set the two of us up. Me: well, me. Him: an accountant. Yeah, that was brilliant. But it does qualify as a First (and Last) Date. So that was… 11? 12? Years ago. I haven’t been on a First Date in over a decade. And that one was bad. Not pulling-a-hair-from-my-head-and-flossing-with-it bad, but not good. So, as much as I’d like to be making with the hugging and kissing with someone, there’s a pretty big hurdle to leap before getting there. And I’m not looking forward to it.