Three out of four of my children have tattoos.
Caitlin has several beautiful Ginkgo leaves falling down her shoulder. This is coincidental because I have been planting trees in my yard to symbolize my children since they moved out. Three years ago I planted a Ginkgo to symbolize Caitlin. And then she came home to show me her thoughtful tattoo. And it is so Caitlin.
Tate has a white tattoo. A perfect circle over her heart. The size of a jelly jar. It peaks out of her shirt and the white line is no larger than a fine point of a Sharpee pen. It is beautiful, too.
John. Oh my Jesus god John. John has horrific tattoos that cover his entire back. I shit Flintstone’s Vitamins when I saw it. Complete with two scary clown heads, a KC Royals insignia and his last name in Roman letters. I about died. All I thought about was, “Try to explain that when you are at the public kiddies pool with your children.” Of course, John at almost 22 hasn’t thought about that. He works as a mason's assistant in construction and is all buff, tan and blond. I'm pretty sure all he is thinking about now are girls.
Only Dustin, the one who is most likely to have a tattoo, doesn’t have one. On Thursday, when Tate and I were hanging out, she called Dustin to inform him that she was going to get another tattoo. And to see if he wanted to get one. Like buying shoes or something.
When I met David, my former husband, I told him I wanted a tiny (less than a half of an inch) tattoo on my rear end. And he said, “Do you want some old greasy fuck to be less than an inch away from your ass for an hour?” So, I chickened out. I did not want to have an old greasy fuck poised over my ass for an hour.
Lately, I’ve been thinking of getting a tattoo. After the rash of crap I’ve given my kids, it would be hilarious. And I would certainly have to hide it. After all, I had an A Number One SHIT FIT each time I found out about my kids’ tattoos.
Tate told me that it was passé to get a tattoo on your ankle. That it wasn’t even the true experience of getting a tattoo because the tattoo artist was not close to your body at all. So if I got one, I'd get a scarab tattoo on my back. I’ve always loved the scarab. As girl, my mother gave me several scarab bracelets, which I love very much to this day. In reality the scarab is also called the dung beetle. A symbol of renewal and used for protection. The emerald green scarab is seen pushing a golden ball of dung in ancient Egyptian depictions. The Egyptians used the scarab as a symbol for the god Khepri, which means to come into being. Khepri was the self-creator. Amulets of scarabs were also buried with the ancient Egyptians as protection. The beetle rolls a ball of fresh dung and buries it. The female will lay her eggs in it, and then later the baby beetles emerge from the ground as if from nowhere.
Anyone who knows me knows I despise bugs. On the other hand, poop is a completely different story. I have friends and acquaintances that keep telling me that poop is not funny.
Oh, but it is.
Poop jokes have been the mainstay of my first family for years. I still love poop jokes. A couple of years ago my mother muttered under her breath “I always thought you kids would grow tired of the Poop jokes. I guess not.”
Lately, since I work form home, most of my communication with my co-workers is through an internal chat tool. When a co-worker does not reply to me in a timely manner, I usually respond with “Were you pooping?”
Or one of my favorites: when you call someone and they answer their phone, just say “Are you done pooping?” Always good for a laugh. Credit to this one goes to Janut. The poop jokes go on and on. My cousin, Bruce, told me about http://www.doodie.com/anger_management.php. While this part of the site isn't about poop, the rest of the site is dedicated to bathroom humor.
The scarab would remind me that as I push my ball of crap along each day just to take the time to create something.