Wednesday, June 10, 2015

A Quick Trip to Tatooine

I have to rethink tattoos. I really, truly don't like them, but I don't dislike them as much as I used to. That is an opinion which arises from the times and generation in which I was raised. I was born just seven years after the end of World War II.  My grandparents told me not to stare at anyone who had numbers tattooed on their arm, and why.  I think you get it.

Of course I am hopelessly behind the times. Ink is becoming very acceptable even among professionals, who for the most part are discreet as to placement and display.  However, I absolutely loathe seeing a chef with tattoos all over his arms and hands.  It looks, to me anyway, like his hands are always dirty.  Unfortunately I've seen quite a few overly-inked chefs on Food Network.

Yes you, Aaron Sanchez
I also dislike excessive ink on basketball players, but I'm not going to argue the point with Lebron James or Chris Andersen, AKA Birdman. They're very tall, I'm sort of small, whatever, dudes, that's never going to be my battle.  The Birdman is doing some sort of PETA promotion that proclaims "Ink, Not Mink."  I guess that makes tattooing a worthy cause.  It doesn't help me figure out what to do with my mother's mink coat.  I'm still not getting a tattoo, and I'm definitely not wearing the damn coat.

A couple of years ago, I actually considered getting a tattoo on my left wrist.  I envisioned it being very thin and delicate, somehow incorporating the names or initials of my husband and son in our individual birthstone colors. I got over that, and about that time, I started making and wearing my own Pandora bracelet knock-offs.  Chicken, I am.  Afraid of pain, I be.

I admit to being traumatized by a tramp stamp that I saw while waiting for my lunch at a fast food restaurant some months back.   With my appetite the way it is, this tattoo was the absolute last thing I needed to see.  Not only did I lose what little appetite I did have, I haven't gone back to Zaxby's since then.

I still have nightmares

Having said all that, I am humbled and impressed by those women who have had to have mastectomies but somehow find the strength to have beautiful tattoos over that part of their chest that has been ravaged by surgery, radiation, and chemo.  Here is the link to the article - warning: while the artwork is beautiful, some people may find the pictures disturbing or even inappropriate (women's bare chests, you know. I could tell you to grow up, but that would be pointless).

I will post this picture - it went viral a while ago, and for all you prudes, there is nothing to see but beautifully crafted ink.  This woman had a double mastectomy, and I am learning that not everyone wants breast reconstruction.  This kind of ink would not have been my choice if my results had come back differently, but I can see the physical and emotional beauty.

Today is already a lousy day.  I have to shlep to SODO to chat with my psychiatrist, to tell her that after 6 weeks, the new medication is not working.  This is not likely to be a happy conversation.  And then there are the lasagna roulades.  Two days ago, I shopped for the ingredients. Yesterday, I prepared the meat sauce.  I would like to be able to finish the dish today, but as I've been feeling lately, I doubt I have the energy to make the cheese filling, much less boil the noodles.  But hope springs eternal.  At this rate the lasagna will be done in time for Christmas.  And I don't celebrate Christmas.

The last few days have been about pain and fatigue.  I am eternally grateful that Robert was available yesterday to drive me to the Dr. Phillips area so I could pick up a prescription.  Today, however, I am on my own. The head is not working too well, but I'm not going to press the issue.

"Good psychiatry only happens when the patient gets to the point of deciding to take responsibility for their own choices."  Hmm.  That's what it says on the framed and matted sign above the receptionist's window in my doctor's office.  I always look at it, and it always means something different to me.  Today it means I have to be truthful, about important stuff.  That may explain the panic attack that keeps spiking.

National Examiner headline: "Who's Gay. Who's Not?" (Who Cares???)  I went to a Publix in SODO, I found the miniature pepperoni slices and shredded mozzarella that I needed, and bought myself a good-looking candy bar.  Even in the express lane, I had time to scan the headlines. Mirabile visu, there was NOTHING about Caitlyn Jenner, and "the Duggars are going to the penitentiary." I wonder if the local prosecutor is aware of this.

At the end of a long day, I have two new prescriptions, a whole lot of new concerns about side effects, and no lasagna rolls.  I did however grate a lot of fresh parm and made decisions regarding things like bechamel sauce and basil leaves.  I have another medical-type appointment tomorrow, and I only hope I can stand long enough to finish the lasagna rolls.  I also hope today's rainstorm did not wash out my herb garden, yet again.

Fear is still the mind-killer.  Crap.

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