I Am So Popular: Inking Things Over

In truth, I’d actually taken a seven year break—completely, totally, no dating, no sex, no nothing—prior to that guy. I thought seven years was long enough to have contemplated past errors, do a little self-growth, and come out on the other side at least a hint wiser in the man department. You know, just like Sisyphus knew for damn sure that rock was finally there this time, at the top, not going anywhere.

Curiously though, I was not in a hurry to part with my tattoo for a couple of reasons. For starters, even after he split, I couldn’t help thinking that the Pandora’s box of that godawful marriage still held a little hope. Maybe I could fix it. Maybe we could reunite. Maybe hell really would freeze over and I would wake up to find his apology and an invitation to try again gently scratched into my frozen little heart because, though I am a quick study in many areas, in others I am less than a slow learner.

Warren arrived a couple of months after my divorce. He was young and hot and kind and inviting. I was hesitant and confused and still not convinced my marriage was over, never mind the legal documents that clearly stated this to be true.

Warren took me out one night, and then he took me home, and then he showed me his etchings and then I showed him my etchings and when he saw this tattoo of mine, he touched it so gently, stuck out his lower lip, and uttered, Oops, like I’d merely forgotten to tie my shoe. This was the first blessing of that tattoo for through his attitude toward it, in that single funny moment, Warren proved himself to be a worthy partner. So we got it on. Immediately. And we’ve been together ever since.

Time marched on and though I do have some respect for the idea that each tattoo we get is a part of us and helps to tell a story, the thing is, I’m a writer, and I also understand the value of editing, getting rid of excessive ink that tells the story wrong.

Karen Slafter had done that bad-husband tattoo for me and I ran into her at a Dharma Punx meeting while I was in the throes of my divorce. We talked about a plan to fix things and I decided I would undergo laser treatment to have the tat eradicated, or at least greatly faded, at which point she would put something new there. I was thinking a ball of yarn and knitting needles with the caption: Strength, Truth, Courage and Yarn.

I wrote about the pleasures of laser tattoo removal in that other piece about tattoos I mentioned above. The nurse predicted four or five sessions, at $200 a pop, would get it where I needed it to be. But after the third session, my cash and Vicodin both running low, and no real signs of fading, a couple of things happened.

First of all, they changed their estimation at the removal place, saying I would actually need between nine and sixteen treatments which could wind up costing me a total of $3200, more than ten times what the tattoo itself cost. Second, I was at a dinner party lamenting my ink stupidity when my friend Crystal suggested I go for a cover up.

You can’t cover up something this huge, I said. So Crystal pulled up her shirt and showed me a gorgeous tattoo.

Cover up, she said.

No way, I said.

But it was true. Bart Willis at Southside Tattoo had worked a miracle upon Crystal’s skin. So I emailed him and explained my asininity and he invited me in so he could have a look. I felt a pang of guilt—is switching tattoo artists like switching hairdressers or psychologists? What do you do when you run into your old hairdresser and you’re sporting a new ‘do?

All I knew was, I’d seen Bart’s work and I wanted me some of that. He asked me for a list of things I like, elements he might incorporate into the fix. I told him this: my son Henry, Boston Terriers, morning glories, passion flowers, knitting. I think I listed ten other things, too. He sent me away and said he’d mull it over.

A week turned to two and then a little more time passed and finally he called. He and his comrades at the shop had thought about it and thought about it and…

Did I stump the panel, Bart? I asked.

Bart didn’t want to go that far, but he did admit that the long, straight, very black lines that comprised the washboard upon which my ex’s name was writ were causing problems. I wasn’t surprised. When I fuck up, I really fuck up good. Bart wanted more time.

And then the call came. He had it. I went in and he sketched out the solution, bunches of clouds and peonies and leaves that would run from over my shoulder down about to my elbow and around the back of my arm. Nearly a half-sleeve. And then he asked where I was from.

I cautiously ponied up the answer—New Jersey. And he suggested adding in the state bird, which, though it should be, is not a middle finger, it’s an Eastern Goldfinch. I was sold.

(Warren made me swear not to get his name involved. Easy promise. I’m just going to keep it written in my heart.)

And so three days prior to what would have been my second wedding anniversary, at long last I sat down to have the Oops un-oopsed. It took four hours to do the outline and, until the shading is finished—we’re looking at another seven or eight hours under the needle enduring a level of discomfort that falls somewhere between a Brazilian wax and childbirth—I still have to look at that name. But soon enough it will be gone.

In the meanwhile, Bart gets to be my new best friend. I spent more time with him for the first sitting than I’ve spent with most of my friends in the past month or so. We talked about raising teenagers (we’ve got three between us) and beekeeping (Bart does this on the side, an avocation that also involves buzzing and stinging) and knitting and quilting and inking and music and that unavoidable flab that happens on the backs of the upper arms of women in their forties. (I call it French bread, he calls it knockwurst.)

At some point, Charlie Sexton wandered in and plopped down and told a long involved story involving a pump organ and I’m just going to leave the details to your imagination. I got an added boost to my endorphin high when CS arrived but not for the star struck reason you might guess.

His presence triggered two immediate instances of gratitude for me, both revolving around living in Austin. The first is this: in a city crawling with people talented beyond talented, there is such a delightful lack of pretension, such a good chance you could run into a brilliant artist who’s as pleasant to be around as the next guy, that it just feels good.

The second was a sort of a mom pride. The Sexton brothers both worked hard and hit their guitar paces young in this city that recognized and embraced their talent. My kid is—I know, I know I sound like his mom—an astounding guitarist in his own right. Growing up in a city listening to, and meeting, and waiting on, and even sometimes hanging out with the likes of the Sextons and Jon Dee Graham and James McMurtry has inspired him and moved him to practice constantly. He started gigging out in clubs when he was, I think, thirteen. I really hope you get to hear him play sometime.

So yeah, the endorphin high, the Austin love, it was all flowing pretty damn hard when I walked out of that shop. And my mind wandered to that theory about beauty springing from pain—all that emotional pain that old tattoo signified, and all the pain of those needles in my skin yielding to big blooming flowers, a pretty little bird, and a permanent reminder of hard lessons, long in the learning but learned at last.

The embarrassingly popular Spike Gillespie also has two cow tattoos. She blogs regularly at LaunchPad Coworking and www.spikeg.com. She is also head mistress of The Dick Monologues, and the next show is coming up real quick, May 28th, so email her for ticket info at spike@spikeg.com.