Tu-tu Tattoosday!

After my earlier post about spoons and learning to evaluate reality before agreeing to every offer of fun times that comes my way, I decided that the spoon tattoo was definitely happening. I got a quick shower, put on a fun outfit, decided makeup was unnecessary, and got the hell out.

So, we got to Diabolik Ink and I discovered that Bob, my usual artist, wasn't working today. However, Erik, who did Jenny's tattoo about a month ago, was available. This sort of caught me off guard. Bob's been there every time I've been in since the first time he tattooed me. I sort of stammered out "Well. Uhh. You're good, right? Duh, what am I thinking, of course you're good, Jenny's tattoos look awesome." GOD ALMIGHTY AT THE FLAVOR OF SHOE LEATHER. He seemed unfazed by my unintentional rudeness, and we talked about what I wanted. He got the initial drawing done, and Brandell and I left to go grab a burger since we'd barely eaten and I'd hate to pass out, and when I got back, I decided to be a mega-dork and email myself with some content for this post. LOL

Currently sitting at the shop waiting for Erik to prep everything. I'm getting a spoon on the inside of my left wrist. Told him why, and the drawing came back with some red liquid in the spoon. Spoon with meds? Fuck yes, even better. So yes, I am tattoo-cheating on Bob today, but this...this just had to happen. I feel like it's important to cement my new reality in my head in a very real, permanent way. It will be a reminder to consider how I actually feel and my current mental and physical state before over committing. That sometimes, it's ok to put my needs first. And I'll always have an extra spoon when I'm running low.

Right about then, Erik bee-lined for the door to smoke a cig, so I followed him out for "Smoke 'em if you've got 'em" time. We went back to his booth, and I saw he'd added a red and orange sun behind the spoon. Oh sweet lord, yes.

See, all I'd told him earlier was that I'd recently been diagnosed with fibromyalgia and wanted a tattoo of a spoon. He didn't know what fibromyalgia is, or about the whole "spoons" concept, or that being diagnosed after three years of misery really is like the dawn of a whole new life for me. As he worked, I explained all of this to him, and we both thought it was definitely...interesting that he'd come up with that without any input from me.

What I'd requested as a simple line drawing just grew and grew in complexity and color and depth. This is by far one of my most beautiful tattoos, hands down. It's number 10 for me, and I hate to say this because it almost always jinxes me (the artist moves to a bigger city), but I think I've found MY artist.

There's just no words for how much I love it. The detail is impeccable. The treatment of transparent and reflective surfaces is unlike anything I've ever seen. Holy balls, Batman, this guy is GOOD.

(Never mind the mirror images, I was screwing with FXCamera on my Droid and wound up getting a better picture than the previous one. LOL)

After a trip to Big Lots in which we purchased everything but what we meant to purchase, we stopped by Captain D's to pick up some dinner. We were both beat.

After we ate, Brandell used the cat as a pillow while I took my meds and changed into my pajamas.

...I gotta say, it was a good day.

<3

Alarm fail.

Well, suffice to say, my ass is NOT in Tallahassee right now.  I set three alarms.  All of them were within two feet of my head.  I also had Jenny call me twice, and did not hear the phone right next to my head, either.  Fail, fail, fail. 

I guess part of my problem is that the post I made last night got me thinking.  I thought about what's mandatory, what's obligatory,  what's optional, and what I really, truly, legitimately want to spend my spoons on. 

Time, effort, and energy are precious commodities to anyone, but doubly so when one runs smack into the reality that it's not a matter of laziness or being antisocial...the mind is willing but the body says FUCK THAT.

For example:  Can I comfortably sit on a bar stool or stand for 4-5 hours?  Hell no.  Can I drink with everyone else?  LOL, no.  Do I enjoy being sober around drunk people?  Do I even have to answer that question?  Do I really think I'll be able to spend quality time with the person I came to see?  Yeahhhh no.  Will I be relaxed and comfortable in a loud, unfamiliar place?  Not at all.  Logical conclusion?  Send regrets and possibly a thoughtful gift.

Today, I'm going to Diabolik Ink to set an appointment to have the Tree of Life I had outlined over a year ago filled in.  It's effing huge.  It goes from the ankle to the knee on the back of my left calf, and is wrapped in a banner that says "I have seen in a forest of myself little books from tall trees", a quote from Release, my favorite Blackalicious song.  I'm going to have the artist add in some wisteria to the branches, too.  And if there's an artist free today, I'm going to have a wee spoon tattooed on my left wrist.  It just seems like the thing to do.

I suppose it's time to break free from my mentality that I'm a shitty friend if I can't make it to all the things I say I will.  I get so excited, so very very excited, when I hear about fun things to do.  I don't consider my limitations.  I don't think about the realities that said situation will entail.  I need to learn to say "That sounds like fun.  Let me get back to you on that." and stop agreeing because the annoying-ass idealist who lives in my brain forgets my current reality.