what was I inking?

Saturday, apr. 26, 2008   |   0 comments

When I turned 30 (way back in 2000 eek!), I decided to permanently mark the occasion with a tattoo. I thought long and hard about what to get, and finally settled on a knife and fork, crossed just like Liz Dunn’s racing flags. And just like Liz Dunn, and actually Jill too, I decided on a lower-back placement. No, a little lower that that…a little lower…exactly: right there at the top of the ass crack, the tender real estate that has since come to be know as the land of the “tramp stamp,” something that many people over the years have taken great delights in pointing out to me. Titillated Giggler to me: “You know what people call that, don’t you?” Me to Titillated Giggler: “I sure do.”

I reverse-engineered a whole bunch of meaningful excuses for why I needed this knife and fork, like how it was nod to my family (I chose the silver pattern I’d grown with) and also lady-power (the hearty, steak-knife eating it represents being the antithesis of bird-like, weight-watching Cosmo girls, take that society, POW!) and even practicality (I already had a piece of cake tattooed on my middle, halfway between my stomach and my heart, and now here was a way to finally eat said cake!). But like many people who get tattoos, the real and true reason I got it was that I just kinda liked the way it looked.

So I went back to the same nice man in LA who did my first tattoo (you know you’re old when you forget the name of your tattooist), and just as he was snapping off his gloves after putting the last finishing touches on my tattoo, the other tattooist in the shop came over to admire (the new tattoo on) my ass. “What’s that,” she said to me, “like, ‘Eat Shit’ or something?” Me, suddenly picturing a life full of fending off ass-eaters stretching out before me, weakly: “Nooo…?”

Not only did I not really think that tattoo through beforehand, but I also idiotically decided to go and get it done as part of the first leg of a long cross-country road trip (with my awesome friend Todd Levin, whom I’d met only once before we decided on a whim to take the trip…man, that was truly the funnest vacation ever, full of BBQ pork and great get-to-know-you stories and also, weirdly, strip clubs). And let my me tell your you: There’s nothing quite like having a healing wound on your ass whilst sitting in a car, day after day, for 10 hours at a stretch…my ending was sad indeed.

And the tattoo just keeps on giving! A few years ago, my glorious friend Sunny joined a band called kNIFE & fORK, what are the chances, and while I was leaning over the bar buying a drink at one of their shows, someone came up behind me and said, “Wow, you must be a REALLy big fan.” And I just just nodded a tired I-give-up nod.

Now whenever someone spots those little tines and the pointy sharpness poking up over the edge of my pants (as happens more often that I ever could have ever imagined, yay) and asks, “Hey, what’s that tattoo of?” I just sigh and say, “Oh, you know…Regret.”

This is a "if you’re close enough to read this, we’re basically having sex" pick of the tattoo, wrapped in an insane, barely there pair of message-able underwear, a gift from the one, only Jill (they came with their own alphabet of beads, which you can string on to formulate whatever message you please). I ordered the photo as a greeting card from Kodak (née ofoto) and sent them out as thank you cards.