Upgrading the luxuries

Back in June, my Haute Mama cohort, Richie revealed that her family was forgoing TV once the digital transition occurred.

We're basic cable people ourselves so we didn't have to contemplate whether to let our TV die or not.

We watch some TV, but it's not that important to us. OK, I should rephrase that. It's not that important to Bill and I. It's very important to Margaret and my mom.

Bill and I like watching some really crappy reality shows, but we also really like the smart stuff that's out there, too. Last night on Discovery was a very good program about Cleopatra that I couldn't stop watching. I was supposed to be playing my guitar, working on some new songs, but I couldn't turn away from the idea that researchers had found the skeleton of Cleopatra's sister. Sometimes my nerdy side thwarts my attempts at being cool.

Bill loves Conan O'Brien in a way that is just not natural. But who am I to judge, I was irritated that VH-1 killed "Megan wants a millionaire" after one of the contestants hideously murdered his ex-wife. I am, after all, not a good person.

But we could live without TV.

Mar might "die" of tween angst if she couldn't watch iCarly or those other tweeny shows on those kid channels that I skip over religiously. But she, too, would recover as she's very good at keeping herself entertained with crafts and books and music.

My mom gets a pass allowing her to watch as much as she wants because her cancer is pretty much keeping her in bed for now.

She enjoys watching shows about people buying real estate and cooking shows. Recently she admitted to wishing we had better channels. She misses the DIY network and some other specialty channels that cater to crafty folks like herself.

Because mama gets whatever mama wants, we're in the market for more channels. We're looking at getting some kind of satellite programming or maybe just upgrading our current cable plan.

I don't care which, I just want the most channels for the least money. Any recommendations?

Markel Farkel Friday

Hurray Markel Farkel Friday is back! Long live Markel Farkel Friday!

First day of 4th grade

My kid is 9 years old, starting the fourth grade.

This is impossible because (sing it with me fellows mamas) I just brought her home from the hospital yesterday.

We walked her to school today, reassuring her that it was going to be fine. She already knows her school. She already knew some of the kids in her class. She already knows her teacher (she had Mrs. Kopp for 2nd grade — we are all big fans of Mrs. Kopp. Hurray for great teachers!).

But the nerves of "something new" (even if it wasn't that new) were getting to her.

As we walked to school, she stopped and said, "Where did the summer go?" I chuckled at the seriousness of her tone and then we talked about all the good things about school.

When we walked up to the school yard, Margaret was immediately engulfed in a crowd of friends and just like that, she was gone.

I yelled, "Have a good day" as she scurried off with her friends, but I don't think she heard me.

And I'm OK with that.

For the most part.

Maybe.

Half-century Bill

Last Monday was Bill's 50th birthday.

Yeah, yeah. I know, he doesn't look 50. He looks younger than me, despite being more than a decade older.

I've heard it all before. So has Bill and he loves it.

To celebrate his oldness, our awesomely awesome friends, Boom Boom and La La threw him a shindig.

Just for the record this is what a punk-rock legend looks like when he turns 50:

My date with Obama

I have so many things to blog about and very little time anymore. I'm hoping to get back into the swing of things, but like I told my mom this morning: When I get a free moment, I'm lying my ass down.

Having blabbered about that, now you can click over here to read my take on the town hall I attended with President Obama Saturday.

And if you'd like to hear some local gossip, I'll privately share the story of my altercation with a conservative rabble-rouser who pushed me a tad too far.

Oh the pain? I asked — and paid — for it

For my birthday in June I told Bill wanted to get a tattoo.

I knew what I wanted and knew who I wanted to do it. Unfortunately, it seems everyone else in town wants to get tattooed by Erik at The Raw Canvas because I had to wait two months to get an appointment.

Well, if I had wanted a kanji or a Smurf or something, I probably could have gotten in sooner. But I had bigger plans.

And those plans now seem completely idiotic.

Why?

Because there is one thing about tattoos ... they hurt. Like hell. A lot. Imeanreally!

I decided to get a rather large back piece that would require more than one 4-5 hour sitting. No problem, I thought. It's all good. I'm a good sitter.

Then Tuesday came and we started my giant tattoo. After the first 10 minutes I wanted to be all, "Yeah, I was just joking. Hey, Bill, let's go to Bed, Bath and Beyond instead of staying here while this guy carves me with inky needles."

But I didn't. I sat (actually laid on my belly) like a champ for over four hours. Yes, people, I was tattooed for more than four hours. That was twice as long as my labor when I had Margaret.

And the glorious part?

We're not even close to being done.

But what is done is so awesome, it makes me want to cry a little.

So without further ado, here's a brief photo essay of of this first sitting:

The stencil showing my existing tattoos. In the end, there will be flower work that will integrate my existing tattoos with my new one.
Getting inked:
Making progress:

Here it is with the line work completed:
Then we started on the color:
And this is where we stopped more than four hours after starting:
The only way I'd be more pleased was if it was all done.

Ah tattoos, they are so much fun.