Becoming a tattooed lady

When my mother was a little girl growing up in the 1950s south, there was a working girl in their small resort town who habitually wore dangle earrings. Since the 1950s were possibly the most uptight era of American history, those dangling bobs stood out aggressively amongst all the trim pin curls and clip-ons of the general female population. As a result, my mother deemed such earrings as “trashy.”

For years I believed fervently in the trashiness of dangle earrings.

However, as I matured into young womanhood I began to feel their sirens’ call. Away at college I would sneak and wear dangle earrings as part of my wild new individualism. (Clearly I needed to get out more.)

Eventually I came to realize that perfectly respectable women wore dangle earrings – that it was a personal taste preference – and that my mother was, um, wrong in her absolute prejudice.

All this said, I have to confess that I grew up in an era that was not tattoo-friendly and it affected my opinion of them. Men with tattoos were merchant marines, and tattooed women were… well, either circus freaks or biker chicks.

But God, He loves a good laugh. So what happens but my teenage daughter goes out and gets a rather large tattoo (see above).

Despite heroic efforts to NOT turn into my mother, I struggled with the whole judgment thing and ardently fought that tattoo for a couple of years. She would mention her desire to acquire one and I would thunder about Biblical inferences or point out they were “trashy.”

Then I came across this octogenarian woman – her skin mottled with tats and still proudly displayed courtesy of a rather skimpy sundress. I did not think of this woman as trashy. Instead, I saw a person who was probably a WAVES vet from WWII (based on some of the body art) – and clearly someone of intense personality and spunk. I personally didn’t want her tats, but then, they were her tats. They were part of her style and personality.

And all of a sudden I realize cultural things like that are perspective-based. There’s no objective connection between “goodness/badness” and a tattoo. As it turns out, it’s personal style like dying your hair or getting a tummy tuck or dieting. My perspective of tattoos was based on the culture trends of my youth, as was my mother’s unfortunate opinion of dangle earrings.

But trends change. That’s why they’re called trends. And it’s important to accept the outer accoutrements as just that – outer accoutrements. They do intentionally signal something personal about you, but it’s a wise and loving person who tries to see past the lens of their own limited experience to see the unique and beautiful package of each individual.

As it turns out, I rather like my daughter’s tattoo. On her. I’m still a “no-go” for a proposed mother-daughter matching set, but that’s because mine would not be authentic. (That is, I am so not cool enough to wear one.)

But then, you should see my kick-ass collection of dangle earrings.

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Initial appellation

I’ve decided that if I’m ever to be a famous author I’ll have to ditch my name. Not for a nom de plume, mind you, but for initials.

The thing is, initials are mysterious. They make you sound important. And they’re good camouflage for a really awful name. Just ask P.G. Wodehouse, or Pelham Grenville, as his mother used to call him.

My own mother gave me a weird name, and then called me by my middle name – which is nomenclature double indemnity (or NDI). In grade school I rebelled with a code name: ALN (for my three initials). And my best friend had one: SKF (for her three initials). Yet we evidently blew our chance for literary greatness by making complete words out of our initials and calling each other “Alan” and “Skiff.”

Initials are the way to go, though. Look what they’ve done for J.K. Rowling. J.R.R. Tolkein went so far as to have four of ’em. (He took one from E. Nesbit.) A.A. Milne, T.S. Eliot and S.E. Hinton are in the club. So are G.K. Chesterton, C.S. Lewis and e e cummings.

The blame for my absence on the NYT Bestsellers list must surely lie in my failure to go by initials. I do the A. Lynnell thing sometimes, but readily confess people don't usually notice the “A” in their rush to mispronounce the “Lynnell.”

Still, partial initialization just may be the ticket to fame and glory. It’s either that or I'll just have to entreat the great and powerful Oz. (Thank you L. Frank Baum.)

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Days of Whine and Poses

Tips to fight “recession weight gain.” Yeah, that was a real article. I sort of read part of it, but got bored because I was thinking, “Exactly how is this different from the ‘Eating Häagen-Dazs at 10:30 p.m. while watching Stargate Atlantis re-runs’ weight gain?”

Newsflash: There is no difference. Weight gain is no respecter of economy or metabolism. So to the thinker it becomes immediately obvious – such a ridiculous story must be the unholy offspring of the ‘slow news day.’

Slow news days are responsible for most of the mischief in the history of the world. Off the top of my head I can think of (1) Octo-Mom doing anything, (2) Oprah finding out about Twitter a good six months after everyone else, and (3) OMG! There’s a swine flu pandemic.

Hmmm. Pandemic is a rather serious word, and it’s making people just nuts. Some fear it’s the apocalypse. Others say a terrorist plot. Personally… well, let’s just say that if there are any black helicopters circling, they’re dropping “socialized medicine” leaflets.

For now, I’d rather not have one thing more to worry about. I mean, geez, this recession is already killing my waistline.

Howling at all the doggerel

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My sister just bought a free dog.

You know what I mean – the dog someone gives you that you end up spending untold millions on, getting it shots, bedding, collars, invisible fencing, pet insurance, an air-conditioned dog house, out-of-state tuition for the best obedience school, and full benefits (including two weeks off for mating season).

But things have changed. Dogs have it a lot better now that we’re civilized.

When I was growing up we had a dog, Biscuit, but things were a lot different. My mother was not a sentimental woman and that poor little mutt never saw the inside of our house in all his born days. He ate scraps from the table every night, smelled horrible from chasing God-knows-what through the nearby fields, and never had more medical care than an occasional heart worm pill shoved down his throat once or twice a year. Still, Biscuit loved and was loved. We had him for 11 years and were deeply grieved when he died.

Nowadays, as I said, things are quite different. Dogs have a much cushier life.

But is it better? I wonder what they think.

There may be a way to find out. A South Korean mobile phone operator is offering a new service to its dog-owning customers: status reports on your dog’s feelings.

I kid you not.

It works like this: you register your pet, then the dog’s bark is recorded periodically and the service ‘translates’ the bark into a text message which will inform you as to how your pet is feeling, e.g. “I’m happy,” or “I’m frustrated.”

Is it just me, or is this being more gullible than falling for the ol’ phantom Frisbee trick a hundred times in row?

Okay, okay, okay. I had my Biscuit. I like dogs as much as the next person – maybe not as much as some people, but enough. Still, is it sane to pay someone to tell you how your dog is feeling?

And more importantly, since when can people actually translate dog barks?

It used to be we didn’t expect any more out of our dogs than to love us unconditionally forever and ever, and to fetch a few Frisbees (phantom or otherwise). Now we’re sending them to day care, grooming them regularly and analyzing them. If we don’t quit, we’re going to make them as neurotic as we are.

It’s my opinion that dogs don’t need to be understood. They’re dogs. They’re generally either happy or asleep. It’s not that complicated.

But then, who am I to talk? I once paid good money for two prairie dogs.

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Ham on the Lam

Okay – I stole that title. It’s intriguing, though, isn’t it? Once I saw that “news” headline I knew nothing would keep me from reading that story.

The tail, er tale, went like this: a pig got loose on a Greenbay, Wis. highway for more than an hour, wreaking porcine havoc and eluding escape despite being tasered twice. (This pork was not easily fried.) He was evidently hogging both lanes, and turned out to be harder to catch than, well, a greased pig.

His owner was described as an “attorney/farmer” (he was bringing home the bacon in more ways than one) and apparently stopped at a Starbucks at which time his swine gave him the slip. I don’t know if there was any damage or injury (except to the animal which was eventually shot with a tranquilizer, covered with a blanket and carried away –making, perhaps, the ultimate pig-in-blanket). If any angry motorists (or PETA members) decide to press charges, at least the guy will be able to defend himself.

I’ve heard that pigs are some of the smartest animals going, and this attorney/farmer/pig owner evidently has one that’s even smarter than usual. He commented that he “might have to sit in the back and play gin rummy with her.”

All I can say is he’d better not be a betting man.

He added that “the pig humiliated me, but I don’t hold it against her.” I’m not sure if I believe him, though. The proof will be in the pudding: that is, will this little piggy go to market??

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April 15 Tea Party

We’ve been reading lately about all the little “Tea Parties” going on in various state capitols (TEA being an acronym for Taxed Enough Already). People are gathering to protest, carrying signs, and making clever remarks to the media such as, “My daughter’s piggy bank is not the government’s ATM.”

It’s all very thrillingly American, what with a history that includes the Boston Tea Party and our limited capacity to accept an expensive monarchy. I'm rather excited by it.

Regardless of where one stands on the political spectrum, this is some bona fide American spirit at its most elemental. Gets my dander up! Piques my interest! And not only that, but I’m a bit of a tea connoisseur as well and couldn’t resist taking a peek at what was going to be on the menu. Here’s an advance copy:

Green Tea
Ground up from the huge wad of dollar bills that were wrested out of our cold, stiff, taxpaying fingers.

Black Tea
What we would drink if we could ever get out of the red.

Decaffeinated Tea
The empty rhetoric Congress always wants to pass off as relevant (seems like the real thing, but they’re only shooting blanks).

Iced Tea
Goes well with a slice of “pie in the sky.”

Peppermint Tea
Bought in bulk to help stave off the forthcoming national ulcer crisis.

“Camo”mile Tea
New taxes brewing you can’t see coming.

White Tea
The politically incorrect drink of middle America and Czarist Russia.

“Suite” Tea
A special dispensation available only to bailed out executives. (Comes a bonus pot, private jet, and 18k strainer.)

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To Bay or Not to Bay

One of the most misunderstood windows of all time has to be the oriel. Itself a type of bay window, it is not just a bay window. Although the term is generally (but incorrectly) applied to any bay window, oriels are a bit like the upper crust – literally – in that they are found exclusively on upper floors, supported from below by a corbel or bracket, while a bay or bowed window may occur at all levels.

These windows were most characteristic in the late medieval and early Renaissance period in England, although found in France and Germany as well. A favorite in civic and domestic buildings, they often adorned structures of the Tudor Revival and Gothic Revival styles.

One must deduce that Oriel College of Oxford, one of the oldest English-language universities in the world, derived its moniker from oriel-enhanced architecture. The notable faces of famous alums Roger Bacon, Duns Scotus and John Wycif must’ve peered out thoughtfully from these elegant glass panes – no doubt hoping future generations would not mistake them for bays.

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