In Honor of the
SPLENDID Haiku Tradition
My students wrote these:
If you like Haikus
you will also adore these
genius comic strips: [x]via
It’s been a few years since I decided to get a tattoo. As a confirmed wuss, my initial qualms were all about the pain-factor, but as time went on and I had more adult experiences with pain, I realized that tatttoo-ing wasn’t so daunting after all. I mean, getting a tattoo (a) has a built-in time limit (it can only last so long) and (b) results in a desired effect – you get something you wanted at the end of the pain! I’ve experienced physical pain in my adult life without either benefit. The pain-factor dealt with (at least mentally), and a simple idea in mind, I set out to find a skilled artist that would be able to give me a white tattoo. This was easier said than done. Most places I looked into seemed to be reluctant to work exclusively with white ink (for lots of reasons, which I encourage you to read up on if you are considering getting one).
So glad you’re curious.
First, I’m the epitome of pale. Imagine the palest person you know and then imagine one shade of outrageous pale lighter than that . . . if I didn’t have pigment in my skin or hair, I could probably pass as Albino. I’m the kind of pale where I get a sunburn just so that I can be normal-people-pale. Almost every year without fail, during midsummer, somebody will say: “Wow, you’re so pale!” when I’m actually feeling fairly tan. What does pale-ness have to do with anything? Well, Being this pale, I think that a dark tattoo would be EXTREMELY eye-catching. As a distractible person, I would probably see it out of the corner of my eye and constantly be distracted. Seriously, if I got a black tattoo on my arm (the location of choice) I’d probably wind up compulsively checking it out . . . I might even develop an awkward twitch.
Second, I think they are pretty, yet subtle. I maintain that I see no point in getting a tattoo where I cannot actually see it with my own two eyes. Point of personal preference, I know, but I want to get a tattoo for myself. Quite frankly, I could care less if other people can see it because it’s something I’m doing for me. Since I consider it somewhat personal, I like that white tattoos play into a more understated style.
There are other little reasons/thoughts I’ve had on the subject, but those are the two main lines of thought.
Finally, a few weeks ago when I was visiting a dear friend in the greater Los Angeles area, the opportunity to get some ink from a skilled professional finally arose. After reading dozens upon dozens of reviews, I wound up booking an evening appointment with Todd Sorensen at his tattoo studio The Velvet Grip Family in West Hollywood.
The Hollywood Examiner has a nice article all about Velvet Grip Family and the author, Jeremy Meyer, describes the whole place perfectly. “A simple way to understand the dynamic of this place is imagining the assembly of a Justice League of superhero’s but instead of fighting off villains they are piercing and tatting to your own desire.“
My own personal “superhero” of this particular league, as the owner, might be the Nick Fury of the team. Or maybe he’s Iron Man. Regardless, Todd (who goes by “The Todd” according to many internet resources) was great. Very chill, very nice, very good at artistic input, and I honestly appreciated that he encouraged me to only get a tattoo if I was 100% confident that I wanted one. He clearly knew what he was doing and my simple line of text was a piece of cake for him, but he still took his time and did a nice job. . . even when I got a little woozy from the blood-sugar plummet after a few minutes. For somebody who has been around & tattooing people as much as he has, I’m sure it would have be easy to see somebody like me and chuckle or roll your eyes, but there was none of that at all – he was great!
My appointment was at 10:30 pm, which is tantamount to the middle of the night when you’re a high school teacher. To pass the time before leaving, my dear friend Jen and I engaged in your typical, rebellious pre-tattoo activities.
When the time came, Jen gallantly drove me into West Hollywood, where I signed waivers and wrote out the phrase “à Dieu soit la gloire” for the bajillionth, and final, time. (“à Dieu soit la gloire” translates to “to God be the glory”, in case you’re wondering!)
Then the short-lived, yet remarkably uncomfortable, inking process began. I was nervous. I had a lolly-pop (from See’s candies, by the way, a SCRUMPTIOUS west coast place). Jen held my hand and we talked about how, two years previously, she was in labour and giving birth to her son; a fact which rendered the whole tattoo thing quite minor by pain-comparison. Todd photo-bombed one of our goofy “Abby’s nervous” pictures, rendering it even goofier, and far awesome-er.
In retrospect, I should’ve gotten a real picture with Todd, even if only for posterity, but both Jen and I forgot.
Barely an hour later, Jen and I headed back home to bed, and I was the proud owner of the quite-irritated forearm bearing my very first tattoo.
It took about a week before it looked fully normal/not-red, but it didn’t really hurt after the actual-tattooing-process was finished, despite the initial angry-red hue you can see in the “before” half of the photo above.
The very next morning after my tattoo adventure, I got on an airplane and flew back to Massachusetts, where I was greeted by the only people back home who I had told about my concrete CA tattoo plans. My sisters’ mini-van door slid open to pick me up from the Logan Terminal for Virgin America, and I was immediately greeted by the excited exclamation from my four-year-old niece, “We – We’re THE SAME!!!” Confused, I turned . . . and discovered that my sisters had, in solidarity, “tattooed” themselves and all of the kids with a variety of French phrases on their left arms!
All-in-all, quite the daring adventure for this hum-drum teacher-girl!
I am not a runner. Not naturally, not even a little bit. I used to make myself run sometimes back in high school . . . I think I even ran a few miles once or twice. I hated it. Let’s just say I’ve always been one of those people that was never very likely to live long in the event of a Zombie apocalypse. I’ve also been militantly ANTI-signing-up-for-road-races . . . partially because EVERYBODY seems to do it once they graduate from college. It’s like some misguided masochistic rite of passage. College graduation seems to perpetually be followed by road races and the eventual adoption/purchasing of a dog. And I wanted none of it. I’ve always found other fulfilling pursuits.
HOWEVER, after a LONG period of being sick (like 18 months, give or take a few), I decided that I needed a little extra motivation to get in shape, and I had seen a couple of FUN looking 5k races (you know, the color run, runs involving costumes, silly runs you can do with friends. . . you get the idea), so on New Years I told my sister that I wanted to run a 5k sometime during this new year. 5k = 3.12 miles, and I supposed I should probably be able to run 3.12 miles. I’m not big on new year’s resolutions, but it seemed like a good plan in general, SO I told her she was in charge of making sure I signed up/ran a 5k with her at some point during 2014. She agreed to make sure I followed through.
to a moment when I am suddenly added to a text-message strand with an abundance of unread messages. . .
Can we talk about this? I get added to this devious message strand by my super-scheming-yet-seemingly-oblivious siblings, the punks! I saw it, laughed really hard because I figured that I’d be in “the know” and ahead of their game . . . I would never give in to running a race longer than a 5k! Laughing at the lack of guile in my wonderful family, I posted the above picture on my facebook page, letting them know I was aware of their machinations. It was then that I learned the terrifying truth.
That’s right. My sister, who I love and trust, signed me up for a ten mile road race. Not only that, but our team name is STAR WARS, in tribute the the fact that the Broad Street Run will be taking place on May the Fourth (as in: “May the fourth be with you”). Reality began to set in as the messages continued. . .
I finally weighed in on the conversation, my own dubious opinions evident (at least, I thought so).
My initial feelings of fear and dread have now passed (mostly), and I have since decided to throw myself into the planning/preparation with dedication. I am currently in Week 4 of the following training plan, and have only missed one two-mile run so far (everybody gets sick sometimes, right?).
With a few weeks of perspective under my belt, I have to admit something. I am kind of proud of myself. I mean, don’t get me wrong, running in New England in the Winter is not exactly making it to my top 10 favorite activities in life. In fact, running in general will probably never make the favorite activities list, no matter what season we’re talking about . . . but it is kind of fulfilling and empowering to see myself get better at this miserable process as I go. I can (begrudgingly) admit that I am glad I am doing this (despite the fact that it makes me HUGELY nervous that I still have yet to run even half of what I will need to run come May)!
SO, with that small bit of perspective firmly in mind, I’ll keep training. Any tips from more veteran runners are hugely welcome, and once May 4th has come and gone, I’ll let you all know how the race goes down!
Lots of people have now read Veronica Roth‘s rapidly circulating trio of novels: The Divergent Series. They are a gripping trilogy that follow in the footsteps of The Hunger Games Trilogy (by Suzanne Collins) as worldwide bestsellers in the realm of Young Adult Fiction. Like Collins’ trilogy, I’ve heard a lot of people poo-poo-ing book 3 of this series, but I recommend them regardless of what you may hear/read. The full trilogy snagged my attention, built well-developed characters, and mesmerized me from start to finish. There’s also a Divergent movie coming out, which looks pretty awesome. So, if you haven’t read them, close this window and go do so, you’re not going to get any of the jokes I’m about to make anyways!
My enjoyment of these books now established, I have decided that they definitely call for a GENIUS parody, which clearly, I plan on writing myself (not). I’m calling it:
In a dysfunctional, post-apocalyptic society that bears the seemingly permanent stains of human failings, young adults are sorted into factions that determine their futures. Obviously, these factions will have really cool names like: Tide, Bounty, Cheer, Hypoallergenic, and Store Brand.
Living in an oppressive society, rife with societal limitations as a result of the high-efficiency cycles they are born into, our young protagonists find themselves tossed into a machine where they have no choice but to react. Thrown into a spin-cycle which lathers them into full-scale rebellion, our heroes must work outside the parameters of the system settings to uncover the hidden stains on the seemingly-pristine government. Will they succeed, or will their efforts all just be a wash?
I am an ENORMOUS fan of Disney’s newly released film, Frozen. I have officially seen it four times in theaters, and have it pre-ordered on DVD. Some of this might have to do with a certain little 3 year old niece of mine and her deep love of the film. . . but only a small part. This is one of the best animated movies I have ever seen. It goes right up there with The Emperor’s New Groove, which I’m fairly certain is my favorite animated film of all time. Frozen is 100% on-par with the greats. The music is incredible, the characters are endearing and surprising, the animation is beautiful, the humor unbeatable.
My adorable 3 year old (almost 4!) niece has been with me three of the four times I’ve had the pleasure of viewing the film in question. Unsurprisingly, she loves to dress up in a princess dress and pretend to be Elsa. Her favorite song?
I hope you watched that, because it will help you fully and truly appreciate what comes next. Without further ado, here is the REAL must-see video of 2014:
Some of you may have read or seen the somewhat-recently popularized newsstory of young Virginia O’Hanlon. There’s a movie and book that came out not too long ago documenting the story in an endearingly artistic way. As I’ve mentioned before, the 2009 movie Yes, Virginia is the story of a young girl questioning the existence of Santa Claus. As a pragmatic young lady, Virginia wrote a letter to the New York Sun and the ensuing response has been a legacy for Christmas ever since. Check it out! This is a copy of what has, apparently, become the most re-printed newspaper article of all time.
What I really like about the story of young 8-year-old Virginia is the idea that, by simply setting a few lines of type for an editorial, Francis P. (Pharcellus!) Church, the journalist who wrote the response, shared a brightness and positivity that I wish there was more of in the media today.
I stumbled upon a blogpost recently from a site called The Dignified Devil and I loved the way the author, Gregory Smith, describes Francis Church’s response to Virginia. “His example stands against the cynicism of every era, a caution against the magnetic pull of strict logic and constant serious-mindedness . . .”
If you hadn’t heard this story, I hope you find it as sweet and heartening as I did. Although I never believed in Santa as a kid (or as an adult, for that matter!), there is something beautiful in an established Army journalist and serious newspaper editor taking time and ink to perpetuate the magic and beauty that is so often lost as childhood becomes adulthood. Remember that “The most real things in the world that neither children nor men can see . . . Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world.“
This was written in 2007, when I was living in the South of France.
Sometimes the air is so cold, it shocks. Like a scary movie, it crept up. And now, in beautiful Aix-en-Provence, where the earth is brick red and the sky is always blue, the Mistral has arrived. That northerly whimsical wind that picks odd sequences of days on which it will blow. It’s basically the bingo of weather systems. Sometimes it’s almost balmy and warm and then BOOM! The evening comes and the wind picks up and before you know it you’re watching your breath contribute to the texture of the icy air that cocoons you. Welcome to winter in Provence.
Walking through the streets yesterday, it struck me that Christmastime had finally arrived. All the roads were full to brimming with a myriad of people. Some were taking their toddlers to see the live animals that make up the nativity. Others were out to get big sugary clouds of “Santa’s beard” (aka. Cotton candy – apparently a Christmas-thing here). Still more were carrying dozens of bags, looking well-laden with all sorts of colorfully wrapped packages and bags. Screw Santa, the French can do it better. One woman pushed through the crowd with a huge flowery lamp under her arm and another man hefted an enormous box onto one shoulder to carry it better. You know it’s actually a serious holiday when stores have decided to stay open on the Monday before Christmas. I wasn’t even sure that was legal, but apparently the French pull out all the stops when it comes to Christmas. Literally I guess a smidgen of pure unadulterated commercialism is present in every culture around the holidays.
Despite the jostling that occasionally smacks of commercialism: I still love the hustle and bustle of Christmas!