Trying to get work done and I keep typing on the wrong keyboard for the screen I’m using. Just locked myself out of the bank account. #AsIfINeededThatComplication #TooMuchGoingOn #ADDIsFun

from Instagram:

to ink or not to ink


I am 47 years old. I have a full sleeve on my right arm, a full back piece and my right calf is tatted.  There are a few other small tattoos scattered (tastefully) in various places.  I love my ink.  The answer to the question, “To ink or not to ink?” is ALWAYS “YES!”  Or is it?

People always ask about my tattoos.  Where, when, why did I get them?  What’s the story behind each one? Did they hurt?  Do I regret them?  How am I going to feel about them when I am older?  So many questions, to which I have answers.  My favorite question has always been, “What are you going to do when your kids ask if they can get a tattoo?”  My reply has always been the same.  Yes, my children may have tattoos.  How could I say no?  Why would I?

My son has always said he would only get ink if it was a memorial tattoo for his sister or me.  A little on the dark side, but it makes sense.  A cousin of his got a tattoo for his younger brother who passed.  They were both in their teens.  The younger brother was diagnosed with cancer and was given the honor of inking the outline of the tattoo on his big brother.  It’s a beautiful piece with more meaning than any other tattoo I’ve ever seen.  This tells me my son would not get a tattoo unless it really moved him.

My daughter, for years, has said she wanted a stick figure on the inside of her right wrist.  No story. No reason. It’s just what she wanted. Truthfully, I’ve been looking at stick figure tattoos getting ready for when she is ready.  Maybe a mother daughter tattoo??  Then, this year, she said she still wants a tattoo, but probably not the stick figure. Damn, I was kinda excited about this idea! Madi is a free spirit.  I can see her getting a few.  Maybe she will want a matching one with me as one of them.

These are the rules I’ve had in my head:

  1. You must be 18.
  2. You have to tell me repeatedly you want the same image/design in the same place.
  3. There should be story/reason behind what you want.
  4. Do not sneak off and get a crappy tattoo.
  5. Let me take you.  I love and trust my artist.

Until now.

Recently, my son has come to me and asked for a tattoo.  My son, the cautious one.  The boy who takes no risks.  My first born and still very much the baby at 16 years old.  I was shocked and intrigued.  So, I asked what he wanted, where he wanted it and why?  While, I’m not exactly thrilled with the origination of the concept, I must say I was pretty moved by his story.  It’s well thought out and it means a lot to him on an emotional and artistic level.  I won’t share the what or the why.  That’s his story to tell.

For the purpose of this blog the simple details are this: He wants in on his left forearm.  The image would be about 2.5″x5″ish.   He’s a large kid (6’4″, 275 pounds) so it’s proportionate.  It is tasteful and simple.  He says he eventually wants a full sleeve of all music related images.  Who’da thought??

So, here I sit, questioning my rules.  I know I’m right, but I think maybe I’m not.  This mom stuff isn’t easy.

Music has always moved me.  To this day, my most favoritest (I know that isn’t a real word.  It’s my word.) music is the music I listened to when I was 16-21! Tastes change. The world changes. I get it.  I’m trying to apply logic and have a rational argument against this.  That is what a normal, good mom would do, right?  But, I end up arguing with myself. I still LOVE the same music.  It moves me.  Hmmm… This is really tough.  Both of my children are headstrong and they want what they want.  I know this isn’t a rash decision.  His story was quite moving, really.

I have a n appointment on the 20th of this month.  More ink for mom. Do I take him with me?

To ink or not to ink?  That really is the question.


One Bad Apple


In every bunch, no matter the bunch, there’s always one.  Today, the “bunch” is teachers.  Some of them make kids love school.  Some of them make kids hate their lives.  This one is for you Ms. SnottyPants.  My kid thinks you’re a bitch.  So do I.

In my small town school with my big mouth, I butted heads with a few teachers.  Neither of my children have been cursed with this affliction.  They don’t rock the boat. LJ and Madi prefer the company of adults to their peers.  Teachers love them. Hell, they’ve both been “teacher’s pet” in more than one  class.  If only I had held my tongue, I might not have gotten suspended.

Madi is in the 8th grade.  She is beautiful, witty, intelligent, extraordinarily sarcastic, in all advanced placement classes with a GPA of 3.4. and is the president of the Student Council. By all accounts, Madi is a GREAT kid and model student.

Last week, allergies had her home in bed for a few days.  She was an itchy, drippy, snotty, coughing, sneezing mess.  While out, she emailed her teachers to let them know she was sick and got most of her assignments. Unfortunately, she missed a test or two.  Those had to me made up after school. Apparently, in the new age where every kid gets a trophy, you may also stay after and retake a test if you are not satisfied with the grade you got on the first attempt.

Day 2 back, Madi stayed to make up a test.  While sitting at her desk, she was joking with the teacher.  Madi made a comment; something to the effect that math or tests are “stupid”.  She has a great relationship with the teacher who knew she was joking.  A teacher in the hall overheard the comment and decided to add her two cents worth.  Ms. SnottyPants said to my daughter, “If you had gotten it right the first time you wouldn’t have to be here.”  Madi bit her sarcastic, little tongue.  The math teacher quickly advised this was a make up test not a re-take.  The bitch in the peanut gallery just shrugged.  What a rude, condescending, disrespectful bitch.  Really?!  That is acceptable??

Being the president of student council, Madi knew she had to be nice.  She said nothing and stewed until she got home.  Madi did not hold back when telling me the story.  She started with, “Mama, let me tell you what happened today…  and then this bitch said…” She was, rightfully, very angry.  I asked if she wanted an apology.  With the teacher on one knee.  Holding flowers.  That can be arranged.  I will enjoy that meeting.  My kids know I will go to the ends of the Earth, hell-bent to beat the devil for them.  The kid says, “No Mama, she’s a bitch, everyone thinks so. Just let it go.  She isn’t worth it.”  Madi saved Ms. SnottyPants from me.  I don’t know why.  That was flat-out rude.  I want an apology.

Teachers like her are the reason I hated school.  They are the reason I hate school now.  I’ve had more than one meeting with a teacher, counselor, Vice Principal, Principal and/or a member of the school board.

You may be able to treat other kids with disrespect, but not mine.  You’re lucky, Ms. SnottyPants. Just know you are on my radar.  That was one.  You don’t get two.


Mom is crazy. Love her anyway.

One of the duties of being a mom is embarrassing your children.  My mom embarrassed me as often as she could and generally in an EPIC fashion.  

When I was little, I was the cutest little boy anyone had ever seen, until I was 13. Seems like overnight I went from boy status to a set of B’s. Yay boobs! This was a big deal. We had to go bra shopping immediately. 

Back in the day, your mom would drag you to Macy’s and have the bra lady measure you for the right fit.  Why do they call them “training” bras? What are they being trained to do? Hell, I skipped that stage.  There was so much discussion about and measuring of my boobs.  Urgh!  I thought this was the most embarrassing thing EVER.  It wasn’t.

What’s more embarrassing than your mom discovering you have boobs and taking you to a store where a random stranger measures your chest, picks out a bra and helps into it?

This is…  

We were visiting my grandparents at the time of this little adventure. My father, both grandparents, aunt, uncle and two male, teen aged cousins were all seated at the dining room table when we walked in the door from shopping.  My father asked about our  trip to the mall.  My bat shit crazy mother grabbed my shirt at the waist and promptly pulled it up over my head for everyone to see  and announced, “She’s got boobs now. How do you like her new bra?”

Mortified. Thanks Mom.

Now, I’ve got a lot of D’s and I don’t care who sees them. If you haven’t seen boobs by now, please look at mine. They are my two best assets. And a great source of embarrassment for my kids.

It’s not just the boobs, it’s everything about me that embarrasses my kids.  They say other mom’s don’t act like me.  Apparently, it’s embarrassing to inform your son about “man scaping” or to tell your daughter you’re jealous of her ass because its “PA-DOW!”.  Both of my kids have great asses.  It’s a fact.

My son played JV high school football for one season. I was so proud. I loved watching him walk out onto the field, get to the line and squat down ready to plow through the kid before him. Apparently yelling, “That ass, tho!” is embarrassing to my son.  Who knew?

Perhaps I am bat shit crazy.

To my mom, thank you!

To my kids, you’re welcome.

Can I touch them?

Can I touch them?

So this happened today…

I’m tending bar at a country music festival that’s here for the weekend.  We were told to wear all black.  My super low black tank top and a cowboy hat are on point.

It’s break time and I’m walking from my bar to go get food.  There is a couple walking in front of me.  The girl turns to look back at her husband and notices me; not just notices, but spins around, wide-eyed, steps in front of me with both hands out grabs my boobs and exclaims, “Holy shit! You have great tits!  Can I touch them?”  Mind you, she’s already got both hands full of me, honking away and clearly drunk so I said, “Sure. Be my guest.”  What else was there to say?

Giddy with drunken excitement, she slurs out, “Seriously, shit, they are fucking amazing.”  and pokes them each a few times.  She then turns to her husband who is completely embarrassed and instructs him to touch my “amazing tits”.  He jumps back with both hands in the air and tells her they shouldn’t be touching me.  Ms. Drunky Pants then grabs her husbands hands and plants them on my chest.  The poor guy is apologizing, but does agree with her my “tits” are “amazing”.  I can’t stop laughing.

Random shit like this happens to me all the time.  People, usually complete strangers, feel the need to touch me.  I’m used to it.  She was drunk and harmless.  He was embarrassed and apologetic.  It was pretty damn funny.  Ms. Drunky Pants was still amazed as she let go and danced away, yelling over her shoulder, “Baby, I need to get me some tits like those.”

Hey Chuck! What did you do today?

Well, I opened a lot of beer, had my boobs groped by a drunk chick and her man, made some money…


First blog post

First blog post

Staring at a blank page trying to think of something clever to write for my first blog post and this song started playing in my head.  “Looking out a dirty old window…”  I started singing the song, then I remembered it was on the sound track for Reckless.  Great movie set in a high school. My son is in high school. There’s school tomorrow. He wanted to wear a white shirt so I had to wash whites. Damn, laundry is in the washer and I have to get out the shirt he wants. It’s 2:05 am.  I’ve been working on creating this blog for a few hours.  It’s not a simple as they said it would be. Damn, the laundry.  I’ve gotta go…

My brain is a blender. Welcome to my world.