Tats

I’ve occasionally entertained the idea of getting a tattoo. It’s a short-lived debate because I’m too much of a pre-pubescent girl to actually go through with it. A tattoo is sort of like a bumper sticker: something you get for yourself, but it also serves as a badge to show off to all around you. It’s also stuck there forever. We’ve all seen those cars with bumper stickers for something that’s completely out of date. Ones like, “Ross Perot for President”, or “I Heart Women Suffrage”. Sorry to tell you but these aren’t really relevant today. Yet, there they sit on your tired vehicle. If you try to remove ‘em you can never quite get it all. Every person approaches an outdated bumper sticker the same way:

"Okay. All I have to do is pull up on this one protruding corner. Look sticker… my track record of removing you cleanly is spotty at best. But this time it’s going to be different. Today is the day that I get ALL of you. I can see your weaknesses clearly now. OK, world… await my victory!

(riiiiiip) “Shit! It happened again! Okay, this isn’t terrible. I think I got a third of it off now. Just gotta dig under it a little more… and… I’ll… have it. . . (riiiiiiiiip) Shit! It’s ok. Keep your calm, Tim. Everything will work out in the end. Half… way… there.” . . (Riiii Riiiiiii Riiiiiiiiiiip Rip)

“HA!! HA HAAA! VICTORY! You were a stubborn little bastard but I got you now. I laugh in your pathetic little sticky face. HA HA HA.--- Now what the hell is this sticky residue you left behind? “

Truth be told, you can never remove a bad bumper sticker completely. Tattoos are permanent in the same way. Sure, you may be able to get them removed somewhere down the road, but who in their right mind wants to be left with a sticky residue (or in this case: sticky residue = a puss filled skin sac).

Going hand-in-hand with a tattoo is tattoo regret. All kinds of thoughts fly through your brain. “Maybe I shouldn’t have gotten my dogs name tattooed on my scalp.” Or, “Maybe it isn’t the brightest idea to tattoo my bank account under my wrist watch”. Twenty years from now I don’t want to be staring at my kickass Blue’s Clue’s tat seeing the word, “loser”, instead of an innocent blue paw print. That and the fact that having a plethora of kids pointing at my leg shouting, “A CLUE! A CLUE!” is plain creepy.

There’s a long list of things that I’m afraid of. It’s a list so extensive that it rivals anything that Schindler could ever dream of compiling. Tattoo regret makes that list. BUT!.... here is my proposal for a totally awesome tattoo that would make everyone around you jealous. This idea was born from the fact that if I were to tattoo my body, I would want something Irish. I’ve thought about a Celtic cross, an Irish flag, or hell, maybe even a box of Lucky Charms cereal- all amateur compared to what I came up with:

Ready for this? Located on your left wrist is a tattoo of a leprechaun. Travelling up your entire arm to your shoulder is a rainbow. This rainbow continues the entire way across your chest until it reaches your other shoulder, then travels down your right arm. Waiting at your right wrist will be a tattoo of a pot of gold. BOOM! Genius, I know.

Upon telling this to a co-worker, I was notified that it “sounded sort of gay”. That person is a fool. What, it’s gay just because there’s a rainbow involved!? Screw that. I have zero problems with gay people, but who do they think they are for hijacking the rainbow and making it theirs? They had no right to do that. Rainbow’s are totally badass, right? Gay people need to seriously consider a different symbol. Richard Simmons could be a possibility.

FREE THE RAINBOW!

Scars... Sexy, right?

Chicks dig scars. At least that's what I've heard. If you ask me, I don't particularly understand the obsession. Are girls really sitting around going, "Tommy has a nice body, but ya know what... it's really missing some sort of disfigurement to make it a GREAT body!" ? If they are (they are), there are some serious fetish problems prevalent in todays youth (there are). After all, R & B singer Seal has it working for him.

Ladies, you're in luck... for concealed beneath my polyester exterior lie not one, but two scars! Woooo two for the price of one! Driving you wild, isn't it? They are located flush on my hairless, egg white, chest. By now, you're no doubt wondering how it was that I obtained such manly medallions. Before I continue, I must warn you that some of these details are disturbing. Continue reading at your own risk... for the manner in which I obtained these scars may shock you. I guarantee, you're opinion on me will change by the end of reading this (it won't).

SCAR NUMBER ONE

I must have been no older than six or seven. Each and every summer, my family would vacation in Cape Cod at our families getaway house. Located in my bedroom sat an antique rocking horse. Made of wood and standing about four feet by two feet, this rocking horse was a cornerstone of the bedroom. When I was little, I would delight in spending countless hours (minutes) on this horse. But now I was six (or seven) and the horse was too small for me. Instead of climbing on top of it, I melancholically pushed the empty apparatus from the front. I would start out slow, then increase the rate and speed at which I pushed and shoved. That was until it kicked back. The tip of the nose caught my flat chest square, and out poured blood. Before you knew it there was a pool of blood all over the carpet. I would eventually pass out from losing so much blood only to awake at Cape Cod General Hospital -----

Okay, okay... that really isn't true. I tried to juice that up a bit for ratings... and sympathy. Truth is, there wasn't too much blood at all... but there was a gash (more of a scrape, really). In actuality, it really didn't hurt. Yet, to this day there remains a one inch scar from this fateful incident. (Remember... I warned you to stop reading).

SCAR NUMBER TWO

I... am... ticklish. Very ticklish actually. This has been a constant struggle for my entire life. Take doctor visits for example: When my doctor had to do that test where they lays hands on your abdomen, I would be giggling like a little girl. It was embarrassing. Every time... giggles. Not very manly whatsoever.

As soon as anyone got their hands (no pun intended) on this piece of information, they would not hesitate to use it. I was tickle fodder. An old girlfriend (as in ex, not elderly) used to abuse this knowledge constantly. I would be doubled over on the floor, laughing hysterically, trying to gasp a breath, while praying that it would soon be over. The tickling got so severe that at one point, I obtained a nice scratch on my chest, located kiddie corner to my rocking horse scar. It bled a little... and it hurt... but this girl just kept on scratching me to death. All the while, there I lay, laughing hysterically at my pain. Needless to say this was not a proud moment in the life of me.

There you have it. My two scars: one from a rocking horse. The other from a fight of tickles. Manly, right? No? It would be funny if it wasn't so sad.

:)

My Morning

This morning I had a homeless man dance up to me.

Before I launch into my story of this homely looking individual, let me provide some background information. NOTE: Ironic that homeless people look homely.

For five days a week, my day job requires me to be a Mike Rowe wannabe.

Job title: Fire Extinguisher Technician

Employer: Moore Fire Equipment

Location: The ghetto (Hood would also be acceptable)

Usually, when explaining my job to an interested party, I receive a plethora of confused looks and follow-up questions. When I said that I'm a Mike Rowe wannabe, I meant it. This is because, depending on the day, my work can take me to places I've never been before. Places like this for example:

I work at the family business started by my grandfather. We service, inspect, and sell fire extinguishers for both commercial and private facilities. We also install fire suppression systems in restaurant kitchens. If you ever want to know how clean a restaurant's kitchen is, I'm the guy to ask. (Hint- Don't eat Chinese!) Regardless of where I am on a given day, the work usually incorporates some kind of back-breaking labor. I swear I haven't had smooth or clean hands in over a year. When the job doesn't take us on the road, you can find us working in our shop (located in the gut of Albany. AKA The ghetto).

It goes without saying that the business is located in a rough patch of the city. There have been shootings down the street, stabbings around the block, vandalism on vacant buildings (to which there are several), and enough littering to overwork a Wall-E machine. Case in point, just a few weeks ago, two of our car windows were shot out by BB's:

Check around the nearest corner, and chances are you'll find at least one transient wanderer; most making you extremely uncomfortable at the slightest bit of eye contact. Now to my story:

My morning started just like any other:

-Got to work around 8

-Made Coffee

-Opened garage door to vent the humid shop air out into the wild

-Set up workbench

-Watched a homeless man do jumping jacks-----Hold on, what?

Before the Susanne Summers workout session began, I made a key flaw that drew this man's attention: I made eye contact. All of a sudden, his direction of travel shifted from the sidewalk to our shop's driveway. He then told me to watch what he was doing. Now... inside my head I had already begun saying a "Hail Mary" while I simultaneously scanned the area for the most accessible device to use as a weapon.

Instead of attacking me, the homeless man (dressed in a pink Yankee's jersey nonetheless) began doing jumping jacks in our driveway. He mumbled for the most part but some of what he said was clearly audible:

"This is how you to it bro. This is how it's done. I do this everyday."

Not knowing what to say, my brain just spit out, "Oh. What are you doing, exactly?"

Still flailing his arms and legs about, he replied, "I'm just living life. I do this everyday. I jog in place five miles everyday. This is living. This is the life."

That's right. He jogs five miles a day... in place. So....... he's pretty much a human treadmill. The poor man's treadmill, if you will.

After advising me on living life to the fullest, he proceeded to meander closer to me. The uncomfortable feeling inside of me increased at this point. Instead of approaching me directly, he veered off to some nearby pine bushes. "This is what it's all about," he said. He then took a branch in his hand and breathed in heavy through his nose. Now, I could be wrong, but what I think he was trying to convey was that you have to stop and smell the roses. Only, with no rose bushes located anywhere on the block, he decided a plain pine bush would suffice. However odd his gesture was, his message was clear. A few more lines of dialogue were spoken. He filled me in on how he doesn't understand why people stare at him while he does this all day long. Hmm... I didn't really have an answer for that one.

Eventually he sauntered off never to be seen again. As I went back to work, all I could think about was his odd display of wisdom. "Stop and smell the roses", I thought. Wise words to live by. In today's world, we're all moving a thousand miles an hour to get as much done as we can. In our cars... on the street.... at our jobs... it seems we're always in a hurry. The bottom line: Instead of running all over the place, why not jog right where we stand? We might notice a thing or two about our surroundings that we never took in before... Some new appreciation for life that wasn't there before. Sometimes, we need to take time to stop and smell the roses. That's the lesson I learned from my homeless fortune cookie of a friend.

(Side note: After he left I swiftly closed the garage door to avoid any more contact)

:)