No, I’m not ashamed, though perhaps you should be.

ok before I go off into what im sure will be an enlightening and enthralling literary adventure for us all I wanted to simply say a heart felt


I cannot believe you crazy bastards actually donated to my cover up tattoo blog! There will be a blog unto itself upcoming on just waiting for the tattoo to finish healing so I can take some final pics…right now it looks like some form of colorific leprosy….again, sincerely, thank you. Without any further ado:

It seems to me a strange thing that other people feel compelled to tell others what they should be ashamed of…particularly when that something has not a thing in the world to do with them (or any kind of obvious insidious criminal behavior)…and yet I seem to have a beacon that attracts the self entitled to not only pass judgement but verbalize said judgement.  Usually somewhere in the judgement comes the question “Arent you ashamed?”  Case in point:

I had to drop my son off for 9th grade exit exams at his homeschool academy the other day.  As fascinating as it may have been to sit around the office and chat up the many uber fundamentalist moms (think The Duggers on ‘ 19 kids and counting’) sitting waiting for their also testing children, I opted out.  Starbucks. Must have chai.

As im standing in the line to order my magical elixir of sociability, the woman behind me taps me on the shoulder.  She is a small, petit, fastidiously groomed 30ish woman in a perfectly tailored raincoat and burburry short she is the anti-me.  I turn and smile and she says “Excuse me, but aren’t you embarrassed?”  I am taken of guard…do I have a boogie hanging from my nose? Is that stupid paper toilet cover thingy stuck to my shoe?  afet a brief assessment I realize I have no clue what the hell she is talking about.  Thankfully she continues on her own. ” Your tattoos..i mean…aren’t you embarrassed by them?”  The jusdgement in her voice is very clear.  I respond with  a slow “Noooooo….do they bother you?” She ponders this for a moment. “No they don’t bother me…I would just be embarrassed if I was you.”  I quell the urge to correct her grammer, and offer instead, “Then you probably shouldn’t get them.”  I order my chai and leave.  This has been settling on my shoulders like specks of dust from a freshly shaken blanket, and I have concluded that this does in fact piss me off.

It isn’t the specific question, it is the assessment by another that I should somehow be embarrassed or ashamed of who I am for based on their comfort level.  Ya..eff that shit.  So in response here is a list of thing about myself that I am not ashamed of. It will save time for those bothered by that nagging question “isn’t she ashamed?”  That is just how considerate I am.

I am an intelligent, educated woman with a voice. – I know you are all shocked by this, but I assure you it is in fact true.  Please do not assign me to your vision or version of what that should look like.  Playing dumb makes my ears bleed.  This is not a good look for me.

I am not straight.- Though I frequently play one on TV. My descriptor of choice is queer (because I don’t much care for boxes) but will settle for pretty much anything other than straight.  I have NOTHING against straight people…I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for them…I am just not one of them. Please recognize that this is not a choice.  I didn’t go to ‘gay camp’ as a kid to hone my dyke skills. I wasn’t bitten by a rabid lesbian and then proceeded to catch the gay.  I am a wife. I am a mother. I am not straight…and I am not ashamed.

I am polyamorous. – I know its wrong.  no word should have a greek prefix with a latin root.  im sorry. I didn’t invent the word.  I will not apologize however for being in a poly (the short and sassy version of polyamorous) relationship.  If you are unfamiliar with what poly is I will attempt to give the short answer. Polyamoroury is being in more than one commited, loving relationship at one time. It is the idea that love is not a finite resource and can be given exponentially.  I know… really enlightened and shit, right?!

I am, and have been for many years, in  a poly triad…what I like to call a ‘thruple’. Its like a couple, only there are three of us.

We are a family. (its much more boring than you think people, simmer down).  We have kids, grandkids, parents, siblings, go to Wal-Mart, just like everyone else.  No…we aren’t swingers (we call that polyf@#kery). I am blessed enough to have 2 people who love me very much and who I love.  How lucky am I! and look at all you’re learning! no? hrumph.

I am passionate. – Ok this is like saying the Grand Canyon is a pretty big hole.  I am pretty much an ‘ass over tea kettles’ kind of gal. I know this. It gets me into trouble…often…and yet it is who I am and I wouldn’t change it.  I will always be don Quixote. An often just a little too loud don Quixote, with many windmills left to joust.

I have tattoos – I love ink.. LOVE IT. LOVE LOVE LOVE.i have several..i want more. No I am not embarrassed by my ink.  Clearly I’m not, or I would have stopped at 1. Are you embarrassed by stupid questions?

I am fat. – Please stop acting like I’m not aware that I’m fat. please stop acting like I should apologize for being fat.  If you find me sexually unappealing then perhaps don’t consider asking me to bump uglies with you.  My dance card is already full anyway (please see point number 3).

Tell you what, you don’t make it your mission to ensure I know what a grotesque vision of unappealingness I am and I wont make it my mission to tell you what a misogynistic cretin you are. Deal? Your issues with my weight are on you. Stop trying to make me wear your shame or I will sit on you.

I am a Pagan/Christian hybrid. – This bothers both sides immensely, which I confess amuses me a little.  God gets me; you don’t have to.

I am bodaciously me. – I am free spirited and quirky.  I am aggressive and tender hearted.  I don’t tend to evoke a middle of the road reaction from people…and I’m ok with that. I’m not a middle of the road kind of gal.  I am a would be philosopher and an occasional gamer girl.  I am not a vegetarian, but I can spell the word.

I own my bodacious selfitude, and I am not ashamed. If you choose to spend your time projecting shame onto another just to sate your own comfort level, then perhaps you should be…just sayin’.


Captain Ugly Boot’s Tale of Minor Urinary Incontinence

So this Is the tragic tale of an injured foot, a lackadaisical bladder, a hideous boot and my incredible and inspiring genius.

A couple of weeks ago a sustained a foot injury while sailing. This isn’t quite as impressive as it sounds.  In actuality, someone dropped a wooden folding deck chair across the top my foot; I merely happened to be on a sailboat at the time.  AHYWHOOO

So this foot injury hurts a lot, and I say many swear words (woven into a rich and wry literary tapestry, of course.) By the time we are back on dry land, I am fairly certain that previously aforementioned foot is broken.  This is a bad thing because massage therapists tend to work standing on their feet.  ( I have found that  it unnerves the clients if you lie down beside them…but I digress.)  I begin to debate whether or not I will haul my gimpy self into urgent care.  Being that I currently live in the land of the chronically underinsured, I opt to wait.

I was pleased to notice that as the week progressed my foot was less of a perpetual self torture device and more of a mildly irritating attention whore.  UNTIL…until I opted to wear that pair of boots that is just a wee tad snug.  After a few hours I removed said boot, with help.  I needed help because my foot had decided that swelling while still in the boot would be a fun and glorious idea!  Let’s play can Tina get this boot off of her foot!  Why no Alex, no she cant!…would she like to phone a friend? Why yes, yes she would.  Thankfully,  Carla saw me struggling and offered to help release my foot from its black leather prison.  She is strong like ox and has an amazing onion booty.  ( she hates that term, so of course  I had to use it.)

While setting my foot free I heard a snap.  I am of the mind that at no time should any part of my body opt to simply audibly snap.  Snapping is not a happy sound.  Snapping does not instill confidence.  In no time at all my foot looked like something that would make John Merrick say “Damn girl!  What’s up with that foot?!”  Fine. Emergency Room it is.

The emergency room is filled with the usual suspects – Wackadoos, people who are convinced they are dying of minor colds, the legitimately sick, and those with injuries to various sundry dangling body parts. I was very pleased to see that most people fell into the first two categories, as I have learned, over the years, that dangling body part injuries are ranked just one step below the legitimately ill, and thus I might be out of there in time to see my grandchildren graduate high school.  And it really didn’t take that long…but it was long enough to be too long.  It was long enough to provide time for what will hereto forth be known as the ‘shameful liquid incident’.

Here is a little fascinating tidbit about me.  I have given birth to 4 children, vaginally…two of which were over 9 lbs.  How bodacious is that?! I know, right! And my reward? What my grandmother referred to in charming colloquialism as “spending a penny”.  For those not in the know, this endearing phrase refers to the fact that once you bear young, your bladder develops this kind of laissez-faire indifference to the rest of your bodily functions and totally goes rogue on you.  Laughing, coughing, straining can all cause you to pee yourself a little…hence spending a penny.

Few things elicit this quite as certainly as the sneeze.  This dreaded, involuntary convulsion is pretty much the most direct route to assuring your imminent need for dry undergarments.  If you have warning; if you know its coming, you can try crossing your legs or clenching ever muscle in your body until your face is all scrunchy… and that might help.  Might.  But probably not.  If you don’t know its coming, you’re screwed.  I was screwed.  It goes a little something like this:


I was sitting in my chair in the corner with my foot elevated, desperately trying not to touch anything. (germ phoebe + emergency room = extreme anxiety.)  I never saw it coming.  It hit me like a freight train. ENORMOUS effing sneeze.  Really?  REALLY? I didn’t spend a penny.  I spent more like $0.37.  This was followed rapidly by the realization that there was most defiantly going to be a very noticeable wet spot on the back of my pants.  S#@T! The bathroom is clear on the other side of the very large waiting area!  DOUBLE S#@T!

I finally get the courage to stand up and prepare to start my hobble across the room.  I glance down at the chair only to notice the happy glistening tide pool of my own urine.  Are you kidding me? My brain is at a fever pitch trying to figure out how to get out of this and still retain some semblance of personal dignity. I begin my trek. The distance to the bathroom keeps increasing exponentially like that hallway in ‘The Shining’, but I press onward.  I finally reach the bathroom and am able to reduce some of the damage by fashioning a crude ‘depends’ like garment from paper towels with the hopes that this will absorb the offending moisture from my pants. But this does not resolve my bigger dilemma.  In the waiting room sits a chair with an unceremonious pool of my now cooling urine.  Going out and sopping up the chair would be obvious. nope.  That will not work.  This requires thought and cunning – a plan.  Just when I had nearly given up I am struck by a bolt of sheer genius!

So simple!  So brilliant! So efficient!

On my way back to the swampy waiting room chair, I pause at the counter to chat up the check in guy (who was very cute, I might add.)  I am, frequently,  very good at that whole chatting people up thing.  This night was no exception.  During the course of the conversation I asked if I could have a paper cup so I could get a drink of water.  He was reluctant.  Apparently hospitals like to ensure you are adequately dehydrated before taking your vitals.  I assured him that I would take all responsibility for the fugitive cup, and would, if necessary, tell his supervisor that I had wrestled him to the ground for it.  He laughed and handed me the cup.  My plan was coming together beautifully.

I limped over to the water fountain and filled the cup about  1/3 of  the way, then took a nice big pretend sip, just to be convincing.  I then hobbled unceremoniously back to where my still moist chair sat, still glistening in the florescent illumination.  About a foot away from the chair I tripped!  The water in my cup spilled all over my chair!  Oh clumsy, clumsy me!  Thank goodness I have these paper towels in my purse to clean this up!  Id better sit on a couple just for good measure now, because this silly chair is wet. Oh me oh my!

Scan eyes to the left….scan eyes to the right….everything looks copasetic.  Success!  Now, I will state for the record, that I am generally very straight forward and not prone to elaborate ruses, but this was embarrassing; really embarrassing. And I had no one on hand to help me handle it discreetly.  So while I spent the remainder of my wait in a wet chair, at least I was not forced to sit and stew in my own juices.

In the end, I ended up with a chipped bone and a sprung tendon.  Apparently this particular combination results in being  awarded one hideously ugly piece of orthopedic equipment I fondly refer to as Captain Ugly Boot.  See Below:


Fabulous isn’t it?  The Doctor tells me to wear the boot until my pain is significantly decreased to avoid permanent damage.  She insists that it is a great reminder to go easy on that foot ( oh and shame…don’t forget the shame.)  I ask her if I can have two, so at least it looks like I wore it with intent.  She just chuckled.  Apparently she thought I was joking.

I drive myself home with moist pants and a singular piece of horrific footwear.  I tell my tale of woe to Captain Ugly Boot. He is ultimately, unsympathetic.  He just sits there clinging to my foot like a misshapen Birkenstock experiment gone awry. i pity him a little. I suppose if I was that ugly, I wouldn’t be sympathetic either.

We are still required to keep each other’s company for at least another couple days.  We do not discuss the ‘shameful liquid incident’.


The campaign for landmark beautification (ie my tattoo cover up) is going swimmingly!

We are only $40.00 from our goal!

thank you to all you kooky kids who donated – i promise when this goes down there will be a badass/tattoo in progress photo set with much cleavage involved.  If you haven’t donated yet, don’t miss your chance to be part of this revolutionary event!


Keep America (and my clevage) Beautiful or Why I Need a Coverup Tattoo for Mother’s Day

A long long time ago (about 18 yrs ago) in a galaxy far far away ( Bremerton, WA) i had a brilliant idea. I decided that i would surprise my then husband Scott and immortalize my relationship with him by getting  a rose tattoo with an “S” in the leaves.  Now i know what you’re thinking here:  ah, they got divorced…classic tattoo regret.  But you are wrong.  HA!

I don’t regret getting a tattoo to honor that love.  He has been my bestest friend since we were 10 yrs old, and were it not for his proclivity to prefer sexual partners that have penises, we would still be married today.   But my stubborn refusal to grow a penis and his obstinate need to be himself made that a mildly insurmountable marriage obstacle.  The good news is that we still adore each other, and he and my husband adore each other (not like that you freaks) and so its happy endings all around …except for this effing tattoo.

What’s the problem you ask?  Simply this: its ugly…. and by ugly i mean bat shit ugly.  Felony ugly.  “Welcome to Jim’s Crackhouse and Tattoo Parlor” ugly. It is a bugbear.  A canker…a…well you get the idea.

It was supposed to be a lovely old-school sailor jerry style rose (i said sailor jerry – i now have The Duke’s undivided attention) with an “S” subltly formed in the leaves on my left breast…sounds sexy right…kinda pinup-y right?  Except its not. Its VERY not.

NOTHING about this tattoo is what it was supposed to be.  It is weird and ghetto. (and not in a ghetto fabulous sort of way; in a ghetto ghetto sort of way.)  The lines are crappy, the colors are horrid and the placement is completely bizarre. I have disliked it since the day I got it, and as time goes on I have grown to loathe it.

so without further ado…here it is, in 2 stunning panoramic views.  One to give perspective and one close up so that you can truly appreciate its splendiferous horridness.

hot mess tattoo

Really?  WTFC!!!

Tiny little rose with enormous stalk? Sideways? Cuz when I think roses, I think green…lots and lots of green.  monotone unyielding green …and maybe a tiny flower, ya, that’s it. And why in the name of all that’s holy does it have a foot.  It looked like its wearing a wee victorian slipper!

This lopsided gangrenous slipper footed abomination taunts me.  It is an anathema, and it is tainting an otherwise awesome rack.  Let’s face it people, I DO have an awesome rack. It is bodacious and unapologetic.  This tattoo is like bad graffiti on the taj mahal.  Its like roasting weenies in the Sistine Chapel.  Its profane.  Scott deserves better. I deserve better.  America deserves better!

I can feel you wringing your hands in frustration…tears of woe streaming from somber eyes.  “How can this be?”  “why does God let things like this happen?” ” I feel so helpless…what can I do?”  I understand.  It is a sad reality that even today bad tattoos happen to good people.  But You can help!  You can make a difference for one pathetic and misguided tattoo.  With your small contribution of just the price of a cup of coffee (if that coffee is a Starbucks grande loaded Frappuccino with extra shots, hazelnut and whip) you can make America a more beautiful place.


Your contribution can mean new life for a piece of tragic ink, and make my cleavage a safer place for all of us .  Your can transform this:


Into this:

rose and lock tattoo


It’s beautiful, its lush (its vintage!).  Its everything it is (and was) supposed to be.  It will be a glorious adornment for my amazing rack; Like a sexy, custom paintjob on a classic custom car!

Tattoos make a great gift for mom! Nothing says I love you quite like several hours of excruciating pain under a buzzing needle while ink is being forced into your skin! What could be more all American then giving mom a tattoo for mothers day!

Its the American thing to do.  Beautiful cleavage should be beautiful! Beautiful cleavage should be displayed proudly!  Tattoos and cleavage are as American as tuna and hot dogs!  ..And you want to be a good American, right?  Well don’t you? (Unless you are Nathan, in which case you should think of it as a ‘Hands Across the Water’ brotherhood between nations kind of thing…)

Its in your hands now, people.  Don’t let America down.

Only you have the power to prevent the continuation of ugly tattoos.