I was having dinner at my parents’ house last night when the topic of tattoos came up. I’m not sure why, but I guess we’d exhausted our other go-to conversational topics (the kids, the weather, Einstein’s Theory of Relativity). I announced that I was eager to get “tatted up” as they say in tattoo circles.
(OK, they probably don’t…but it sounds cool, anyway).
I’ve wanted a tattoo for a few years now, and have my choices narrowed down to two: either a heart on my ankle, or this:
OK, kidding about the heart. And no “tramp stamps” either, while we’re at it! But I do think my gravatar – the iconic little peace symbol that has followed me around my blog for a long time now – would make for a pretty cool tattoo. It stands for much that I believe in: peace and the planet earth and the fact that the sun rises every morning. I’m sort of a hippie at heart, if not in practice (I enjoy bathing too much). I’m anti-war, pro-environment, occasionally wear tie-dye, own the Woodstock album on vinyl, and lust after a VW Bus. I’ve been burned by marriage, so free love is looking better and better. Plus, I enjoy the occasional granola bar. Peace symbols have always been my “thing.” Fun fact: did you know that the peace sign is derived from the semaphore (hand-held flag) signals for the letters N and D and stands for Nuclear Disarmament? The fact is, I think this image is perfect. The only problem is, it’s awfully darned intricate, which means A) it’ll probably cost a lot of money, and B) it’ll probably hurt like a bitch.
Maybe I can lose a few of the details. Like the ladybugs. And the leaves. The stars over the ocean. The leaping dolphins. And the souls ascending to heaven (if that’s even what they are…it’s always been my interpretation, anyway).
No, wait…scratch that. I like the ascending souls.
I guess the best thing to do is take it to a tattoo shop and see what suggestions they have.
The most surprising thing about the conversation last night was my dad’s reaction. He said he’d also be willing to get a tattoo, which somehow threw me for a loop. I had no idea he’d go for something like that. Sitting there, listening to him talk about getting inked with an Air Force emblem on his bicep, I had the disquieting notion that somebody else had fashioned a pretty realistic looking dad costume and was pulling a fast one on all of us. How interesting. Maybe I can find a 2-for-1 special.
In other news, I had an interview yesterday. Well, kinda. It was for a job that doesn’t exist. A former coworker has an aunt who works for a communications firm that has an employee roster chock full of writers, and she put in a good word for me, so they agreed to set up an “informational interview.” It was another cool office on the sixth floor of a downtown high rise and had a great view of the Columbia River from the floor-to-ceiling windows. I walked in, and there was a comfy lounge area with a kitchen, cozy chairs, and a Ms. PacMan stand-up arcade game. Awesome! Only I committed a cardinal sin by not having samples of my work with me, and my interviewer called me out on that. I have been including links to my online portfolio when applying for jobs, and that has worked out wonderfully so far, but she told me that not everybody has the time or inclination to click on a computer link. Point taken, and I agree – it was a valuable lesson to learn, and I’m kicking myself for not having hard copy samples of my work with me. It turned out to not be a huge deal (probably because there wasn’t an actual job at stake); she just asked me to describe my recent writing projects and asked me to e-mail her .pdf samples when I got home, which I did. I thought she was pretty friendly and easy to talk to, and while they don’t have any openings at the moment, they are doing quite a bit of work with freelancers lately and she indicated that those sometimes turn into full-time positions, so I’m hopeful that I can somehow end up doing some work for them in the near future, at least on a contract basis. Something is better than nothing, which is what I’ve got currently.
Peace out, kids.