Da Plane, Boss! Da Plane!

Ok so, it's not a plane...but it is a tattoo!

So, yesterday's tattoo excursion went on until shortly after one this morning, long after the place had closed and long after I had originally expected to be home...especially since we started with appointments for seven o' clock.

We got there, early, no less to find Steph (tattoo artist extraordiare) just starting a tattoo for a walk-in. It was the girl's eighteenth birthday...and her first tattoo, so there was slack cut. This slack quickly began to wear when various members of her family and random friends began popping in and out of the tattoo place to check in on her/harass her and she was whining about the pain and just generallly being a total wuss about the entire ordeal.

We sat there (Chris was looking through the design books searching for her perfect new soon-to-be tattoo) poking fun at said 18 year old girl. For quite some time we thought she might actually vomit, but no dice. After about an hour, Steph told us she was still gonna be a while, but that she had no problem staying late for us if we didn't mind the wait. She said at least another hour, so we booked to The 'Ho to get a drink since Chris hasn't been there since she was pregnant and put on bed rest.

At The 'Ho, I completely fascinated a pair of out-of-towners with tales of my possibly haunted house. This was me talking to Chris and Bob and the O-o-Ts eavesdropping and then finally getting involved. They were drunk as hell so screwing with them was fun since they at that point would have believed just about anything. I, myself, only half-heartedly believe the house is haunted and just generally try to ignore it.

We got back to the tattoo place at like ten after nine to find annoying girl still in the chair and still whining, not to mention once again looking like she was about to throw up. Poor stupid girl.

First off, one's first tattoo probably shouldn't be the most gigantic angel wings to be found across one's very tan (tight) back. This girl had no clue what she was in for and in the end had been sitting in the chair for nearly four hours. Also, when getting gigantic tattoo across one's back, one should not be allowed to whine when she literally had to sit in front of gigantic windows wearing nothing more than a bra (and this girl had some big boobs on her) to have enough space to accomodate everyone who came in to see her. And finally, I don't think one gets to bitch about the pain when there was four hours put in for really beautiful art for which the artist requested a fee of only $150.

Finally, it was our turn. Chris had at this point changed her mind several times about her tattoo design bouncing from 'something non-girly' to a fairy to a pin-up angel with giant breasts (this for some strange reason a request from Lil' Miss Maddy) and then back to a very non-girly giant black dragon which would take up her whole forearm and have her wearing long sleeves to work for the rest of her life, but at that point I wasn't about to argue.

Then, because I think Chris was being a big wuss, she declared I needed to go first. I hadn't had a tattoo for like three years, so I got brave and got in the chair. It was a cakewalk and I love my tattoo for which Steph only wanted $60. I told her she was being robbed blind considering I paid $100 for my last one and in comparison the last one was a little nothing tattoo that took less than an hour. There was some declaration that at her prices I would be getting tattoos every other day.

With me done and wrapped, Chris, friggin' exhausted since it was pretty late and she has that new baby and all, finally got in the chair, ready to pass out and got her gigantic black dragon. I also somewhere along the way (probably with the liquor and late hour) lost all concept of depth perception and tripped on a step taking a nose dive into Chris' knee...no damage. And then it was like ten after one and we were in a bad neighborhood so we got the hell out of there.

Tattoo is on my right back shoulder. The pic was the best I could do by myself. I will try to get hubby to take a better pic later...when he calms down enough from my going out and getting a tattoo without his prior knowledge and then coming home way late and waking him up so I could get in...and then keeping him awake with my insomniac with a new tattoo babbling when he had to be up at 4 am...but hey, I was starving and clearly I never sleep. I don't know what else he expected.

Insomnia - Part 1

So, I'm still not sleeping...big surprise. Now, I've basically decided to just bypass the notion of even laying down especially since the headache that I've had coming and going for the last six days only seems to want to kill me when I slow down and try to relax. Said headache has had me chowing down ibuprofen like it's candy and that's basically tearing apart my stomach.

I keep suggesting in a very 'Arnold' kind of manner that it may be a tumor and BEG keeps reminding me that it probably isn't. She's probably right seeing as how it's more likely the result of my ever continuing sleeplessness, which I can only imagine is a result of stress (this last week has not been very easy on me with the 12 day old washer breaking and being replaced, the flood in my office due to a strangely leaking radiator, etc.) and anxiety.

Hubby suggested that turning the ceiling fan off in the bedroom may help me to sleep. It's not very likely since I'm used to the noise both it and the left-on-by-hubby TV make. He's been lulling himself to sleep with the same 10 documentaries for the last nearly eight years. I'm used to them, know them and could probably repeat all narration verbatim if I had to.

I'm also pretty used to the sounds of the ghetto...gunshots, bastard children riding power wheels from sun up til...geez it's nearly midnight and I don't think they've even slowed down yet, not to mention the schrill screams of angry baby mommas. This is mostly exaggeration. I really only live in like ghetto lite...but we do still live close enough to hear the occasional gunfire. Regardless, I'm accustomed to the general craziness of my 'hood.

In the past few hours I have uttered such memorable things as "I was going to put baby heads in the oven but my wooden balls are too big." (this actually does make sense) and numerous hilarious remarks about Suri Cruise (wherever she may be). Also, I reminded BEG that she hadn't watched Morley Safer (I have no idea if this is spelled correctly, but then again, I also don't really care).

Hubby made me watch the movie 'Marci X'...the edited for TV version on WE no less. Sometimes, I just don't understand him at all. I guess it was better than him forcing me to watch some fucking retarded documentary about that Japanese airport that I've seen like twenty seven million times already. But then again, I do actually own 'Marci X' on DVD.

I'm supposed to go get tattooed with Miss Maddy's momma tomorrow. I agreed to it earlier today, or now yesterday as it were and we supposed to go yesterday, but the tattoo bitch didn't call back in time. Now, as I'm sitting here, plotting said tattoo, I'm losing interest and having second thoughts. Tattoos are expensive (not that I can't afford it) and time consuming (not that I don't have the time...clearly, since my wooden balls are too big, I will not be puttng baby heads in the oven later today either) and I'm certainly lacking patience at the moment.

Paris Hilton Sings...

Someone Snatch Tinkerbell Before She Records A Song!

So, I'm awake...and it's awfully friggin' early. Problematic? Why, yes, especially if you take into consideration that I am once again not getting enough sleep thanks to the ever rising temperatures and humidity and the fact that I'll need to at least be awake until like 10pm (current time...5:23 am) after having already been awake most of last night thanks to hubby sleep-ranting and thrashing about (he is also not sleeping well thanks to the weather) but ultimately not my biggest issue at the moment.

I turned on VH1, which is generally the course of things even when my eyes weren't pried open by the blinding light of my hubby turning on every switch he could find, madly searching the house for his Treo. His entire existence is in this device and he cannot function without it..or me. It's one of these things where I remind him to breath and the Treo reminds him to call me. There's a system in place folks and it's not to be tampered with. Regardless, I was basically aggravated awake to begin with.

I turned on VH1, for some reason with Fort Minor's 'Where'd You Go' (very nearly the most depressing song one can expect to hear first thing in the morning...Thank you VH1 for single handedly raising the suicide rate by usually playing this song back to back with Blue October's 'Hate Me' which is now as I like to call it the suicide anthem of 2006) already in my head, but alas, there was no Mike Shinoda/Holly Brook assault combo lulling me to tears. There wasn't even any sign of them, nor was there a whored out Nelly Furtado singing when instead she should have just spread her legs and filmed that for three or for minutes with the 1812 Overture playing in the background.

Instead, the very first thing I see is Paris Hilton, in black and white covered in sand and rolling around on a half naked man. At first I thought she had another porn video floating around and then for a moment wondered when VH1 started playing porn (I had this very same reaction last night when I saw Sci-Fi playing ECW wrestling). I gave this up around the time Nelly Furtado came to mind again. Alas, it was a music video...Paris Hilton's music video...and now, my brain hurts.

If you overlook the fact that Ms. Hilton is well, quite frankly, more suited for porn and on a good day, the mere act of her speaking is reminiscent of a chihuahua caught in a vaccum...with it's nostrils stapled shut...and the fact that her about to be a one-hit-wonder video is so clearly a blatant rip-off of Chris Isaak's 'Wicked Game' video, the song was just not that bad. It's sort of catching in the same way as famous hits of yor, like 'The Macarena' or The Children of the Damned's, er, Hanson's 'Mmm Bop' or even Pat Boone covering 'Crazy Train'.

So, Paris Hilton sings...or at least went into a recording studio and made some kind of noise they were able to clean up enough to call singing. If I had to guess, I'd say it was possible that it was actually Paris in the studio squeezing poor, little Tinkerbell forcing her to make squealing sounds into the microphone which were then fed into one of those SETI computers and turned into what sounds like singing. Either that or Ms. Hilton paid some loser who used to be on The MMC (someone who's daily life involves acts if voodoo against people like Justin & Britney) to sing for her in a Milli Vanilli sort of scenario.

This just goes to show that if you have enough money, a good engineer and have seen at least one music video from the early 90's, you too can record a song and find one-hit wonder fame (not that she needed it). Quick! Somebody get Jack Wagner to record another album!