Effing Cursing Genius

I accidentally created my new favorite curse today: jackasshole. To replace my old favorite, cocksucker, when referring to a dickhead who's being an ass in traffic.

Meg, who is probably deserving of a mouthful of Ivory soap at the moment

Tattoos and no money

Those two things don’t mix well, do they?

So here’s the thing. While I’ve always had an affinity for alt style—my childhood idols included multi-hued, partially shaved-headed Cindy Lauper and Jem, her Holograms, and The Misfits (I totally <3 you, Stormer, btw)—fears of disappointing others, especially my ultraconservative grandmother, have kept me, sadly, in a state of relative normalcy. Sure, I have black hair (it’s also been bright-ass red), and there was that one aforementioned time that I pierced my own eyebrow (hair still won’t grow there—oops!), but I never did get to use the bleach and purple Manic Panic I bought in 10^th grade. After a friend was suspended for his aquamarine tresses, me and my perfect Permanent Record (do those exist in real life or just in cheesy high school sitcoms?) thought the better of it. I also never got the tattoo I had always wanted. Probably for the best, of course, as I don’t think I’d wear a 311 logo so well these days, but I’ve been yearning all the same. Yearning and planning. And delaying, unfortunately, as money is pretty hard to come by in this six-person household.

And what has all this delaying done, but led to browsing, and the browsing has led to wanting. So now, from two, maybe three tattoos on my wish list, I’ve now got nine. Since I haven’t even gotten started yet, and at at least $125/hour, I figure I’ll be forty before I get all of this accomplished. Maybe there’ll be a Suicide/God’s Girls for cougars by that point. Sigh.

So here it is, in all of it’s glory—the Definitive List of Tattoo Work I Want Done As Soon As Humanly Possible, Pretty Please and Thank You. I may edit with pics somewhere down the line, if I feel like it.

1-3. I have had a bird thing since before every black-eyeliner-wearing pale chick had a bird thing. It’s quite annoying now that it’s trendy, of course, but fuck it, I want some damn birds anyway. Namely, I want swallows. Firstly, swallows are a pretty traditional tattoo theme. They commonly represent home/family/roots/etc. Secondly, I have some lovely memories of swallows that nested near my home during a particularly difficult time of my childhood. Yes, yes, we’ve already established that I’m moody, whiny, and just crazy in general. So let me have my tattoos that remind me of my childhood heartaches. Thank you.

Initially, I just wanted an old-school, small blue swallow on my wrist. But I came across a lovely fairytale illustration from “Thumbelina” that I just couldn’t get out of my head. And this sparked an idea—three swallows, in different styles, for each of my children. For the baby, the small, cutesy old school swallow on either the left wrist or the back of my right shoulder. Because she is small and sweet and adorable and it seemed fitting. The pretty fairytale-esque swallow on my neck for my very princessy middle child. And a field guide illustration-style swallow on the back of my left shoulder for my son, a smart, practical, science nerd.

4. For my dad, who has terminal colon cancer, I want a fairly realistic dragonfly on a water lily on my right shoulder. Dad’s a science man, too, and has always had a particular interest in entomology. His doctoral thesis had something or other to do with dragonflies, and my mom, then his student (I know, gross…) assisted him with his research for it, so in a roundabout way, dragonflies are kind of significant to my existence.

The water lily is both his and my youngest child’s birth flower and has other significance that I won’t explain for privacy’s sake. I plan to surround that image with the birth flowers of other individuals of importance to me. A daffodil for my son (also my favorite flower), a violet for my older daughter, a poppy for The Mister, lilies of the valley (another favorite) for Mom, and a sweet pea for me, since I’m a part of the family, too. So, yeah, a bouquet on my shoulder, lol.

5. A blackbird on my left side. Yes, the bird thing, but also, for the Beatles song. One of my favorites.

6. The word “Release” in this font somewhere on my body. From the Pearl Jam song, but also because it’s something I need to remember to do.

7. A quote from one of my favorite poems, the oft-studied “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” by T.S. Eliot: “And time yet for a hundred indecisions/And for a hundred visions and revisions/Before the taking of a toast and tea”. On my right side.

8. Two swallows, embracing lovebird-style, for TM and me. Yes, again with the swallows. Either on the low back or low, erm…front. Nothing indecent, now!

9. And, lastly, either a Union Jack mid-back or a few small battleships on my hips. From the lyrics to “Tattooed Lady”, a Kingston Trio song my dad used to sing to me every night as a lullaby.

We came to town to see that old tattooed lady.

She was a sight to see, tattooed from head to knee.

My uncle Ned was there. He came to gape and stare.

"I've never!" he declared, "Seen such a freak so fair."

And on her jaw was the Royal Flying Corp,

And on her back was the Union Jack, now could you ask for more?

All up and down her spine marched the Queen's own guards in line,

And all around her hips sailed a fleet of battleships.

And over her left kidney was a bird's eye view of Sidney,

But what we liked best was upon her chest
My little home in Waikiki! (What did you say?)

So that’s it! I’m hoping to get started on it next weekend, if everything falls perfectly in to place, which I know is asking a lot. I’m planning on getting the fairytale and old school swallows first. What do you think?

Meg, who really should be saving for college rather than paying someone to play paint-by-number on her body, but then, she's never claimed to have her priorities in line

Eff you, Autocorrect

My dumb phone avoids shit like the freaking plague but chooses Wang (yes, capitalized) over want every damn time. WTF?

Meg, who had to edit this most glorious o posts because she initially forgot to sign off

Where I've been, because you care

Okay. After a two-month hiatus during which you pined for new content—I know, not really, but it’s a lovely thought—I am back, and I actually have something on my mind. Yay! Actually, I have lots of somethings on my mind, but I will try to spare you from a manic manifesto and focus on one particular something for this particular post. Well, you know what? That’s not going to be entirely possible. So much going on lately…..all these feelings……yeah. If the promise of lots of feelings doesn’t entice you to keep reading, I don’t know what will.

I feel like this is a church business meeting. I should’ve baked a green bean casserole or fudge-something-nut-something bars.

First order of business: Mrs. Ida is still recovering from hip surgery. We will need your wives to sign up to bring meals for the next two weeks, but remember—she doesn’t like collards.

Ha, ha, ha. I’m so funny…

Yeah, whatever. I’m already totally off track. Remember that time I went to church camp and my friends decided to abandon me because they couldn’t handle my anorexia and they kicked me out of their dorm and I had to room with one of the chaperones and I couldn’t fall during the trust exercise because I couldn’t allow myself to let go and trust because they’d just hurt me? Ah…..fun times.

Now that you’re nice and uncomfortable, let’s talk about what I’ve been doing while I was away and you were left pining. Yes, you were pining. Humor me.

Well, first, I was getting along with my husband. Yays! If you know me, you understand that this is not a revolutionary thing. Me and The Mister are literally peas & carrots. (Assuming you ascribe to the Rachel Zoe usage of the word ‘literally’.) Trite, sure, but we really are best friends/soulmates/joined-at-the-hip/etc., etc., etc. BUT these last couple of months have been DIFFERENT! Lately, we’re not just peas & carrots, we’re baby food peas & carrots—all blended together and stuffed in a jar. I personally did not think that there was a need for improvement in our relationship. And my husband, being a man and all, surely does not think about our relationship at all and was probably pretty damn satisfied as long as a. I wasn’t yelling at him; and b. well….you know. But as it just so happens, there WAS room for improvement. I know, because now, we’re even BETTER! And you are so excited for us, as you should be.

It all started like this: The Mister and I (is this gonna be what I call him? If so, does that beg for a TM? Can I create one of those annoying Brangelina-style celebrity-couple-name abominations? I can refer to us as TMI…) had a chat. If you have been married for more than a few months, and especially if you have children, you know that, for even the very bestest of couples, chats can be rare. All too frequently, our daily communication consisted of  Can you…? Will you…? Why didn’t you…? and Why are you such a goddamn moron? (Just kidding about that last part. Mostly.) So we chatted. And chatted. And chatted. And stayed up into the wee hours of the morn chatting. And we did it again the next night. And we smiled. And we laughed. And, in my case, we cackled. And we for sure cried. Because I like to ask questions I don’t want to know the answer to. But, most importantly, we were honest. We said things we had held back for weeks, months, years. And all of this is making for excellent reading, since I’m leaving out all the juicy details, right?

So, I found out that The Mister isn’t the perfect man I thought he was, but that he is pretty damn close, and that he wants to be closer. I found out that every sweet, lovely thing he has ever said to me is 100% true. Which, you’re saying, is him BSing me, but I know him, and you don’t, so I’m right, and you’re wrong. And holy hell, all the damn commas.

And I told him things, too. Let my guard down. Answered questions honestly. Was vulnerable. Which, if you know me, is totally me but also not. I am the squishiest, softest, most-likely-to-volunteer-to-be-trampled-on-and-like-it little punk-ass girl in the world. I will say crazy things to you and give you the crazy eyes and you will think I am crazy. Especially because of the run-ons. But if you ask me something real, and you are not the 0.000001% of the population that I trust when I’m totally sober, then you won’t get anything out of me. I am passionate and moody, and sometimes outright tempestuous, but you know what? I am also a fortress. While I wear my superficial emotions on my sleeve, the other, realer, shittier ones go into a deep, dark, deep, twisty, dark, rotting, awful cave (see—I really AM all fucked up ;) ) and stay in there, alone, for eternity. And there were some things in there I wouldn’t let even TM see. But I let go, and he has seen them, and he’s still here. He’s still here, and we’re better. Who woulda thunk it?

Another yucky thing I realized is that I often react to him on default settings. Say no just because it’s the first word I think of or freak out over things I can totally handle. I find I especially go into Bitch Mode all too easily. Because I can with him and not with anyone else. Because he will take it. Because he loves me. But that SUCKS! Why should the person I love the most get the shittiest side of me? Not all of the time, sure, because I’m generally a damn cool chick. But too often all the same.

So now, we are open and honest. About everything. I mean, I don’t particularly want The Mister to tell me that he thinks of Big Momma’s House every time he’s sees my ass. But, “You are so hot that you make that huge-breasted Victoria’s Secret model look like a steaming pile of dog shit,” is a bit much. I like my compliments to be believable: “Yeah, that chick is way hot, but I love you more than anything. Even if you do have a bit of cellulite.” Well, he could spare me and leave out that last thing. But you get the point.

And I’m trying to say yes more and get rid of the ugly-bulldozer-sitcom-mom shit that TV thinks wives should be. My husband is not a fuck-up dunce. He is capable of stuff and would not, in fact, starve or wallow in his own filth without me. For very long. Just because TM does things differently than I do doesn’t mean that he’s a retard and that I have to come along and save him every time. My household needs me, sure, but it would not implode if I let go of the hand-controls for a bit.

And I can survive without him as well. If he wants to go hang out with a friend for a bit after work? Cool. If he’s running a bit late because of super shitty awful fucking traffic? Cool. Not his fault. If he wants to spend money to go watch some chick twirl around with her tits hanging out? Ok. Not cool. He’s got free tits at home, and we have bills to pay. And I am not that cool. But still.

You get my point, though. Open, honest, chill…that’s what we have become more of in the past couple months. I can shrug things off. Some things might totally suck. But to hell with it. I can get over it. I can move on. I can change my mind to be different, feel differently, and react differently. And I did. And I will. I take immense comfort in knowing that there’s nothing I could say that would scare him off. There’s nothing he could say that would make me love him less. It’s great not having that unacknowledged fear of the unknown there anymore. No more secrets. It’s been incredible.

So what I’ve been doing for the past couple months is enjoying my husband. I have been spending every available moment with him and have saved time for little else, as the mountain range of clean-but-unfolded laundry in my bedroom will prove. If, for some reason, you have missed the incredible word vomit that I spew here and call blogging, blame The Mister and our Super Mega Awesome Make-You-Wanna-Punch-Us-In-The-Teeth Relationship. Rest assured, however, that, somehow, I still have more to say ( I only talked about ONE THING! SO PROUD!)  and will get around to it just as soon as our marriage goes back down the shitter. (Just kidding.)

Yours,

Meg, who’s verbal diarrhea is rivaled only by that of Charlie Sheen. (Yeah, I know. A couple weeks late to the party…)

Oops!

Oops! I forgot about blogging for almost two months. So........times flies. Yes, been having fun. Anyway, I'm working on something, but I don't think I can bang it out tonight. Work is slow-ish, so I'll try to wrap it up tomorrow. Stay tuned, all zero of you.

Yours, 


Meg, who really hopes that whatever it is she ends up posting tomorrow will be at least half worth-a-fuck