It's pronounced TUH-too, not TAT-oo

About a year and a half ago a Facebook friend posted pictures of her new tattoo. It was/is a modest 206 (the area code for Seattle) on the inside of her wrist in a classy Olde English-type font. She posted how wonderful she felt every time she looked down and saw it. And how proud she was to be from Seattle. I thought to myself, that's pretty hard-core, but wouldn't it be funny if someone got a 360 (area to the north and south of the Seattle-Tacoma area), 253 (Tacoma, and there abouts), or even a 425 (areas to the east, and slightly north of Seattle) tattoo!! Enter my obsession. It's not unlike me to become obsessed with things. Anything from Crock-Pot cooking, to Neil Patrick Harris, to the 1996 Olympic Gold Medal winning gymnastics team (the Magnificent 7). Not obsessed in a freaky way. I just get to liking something so much, that I spend 30-40 hours a week tirelessly preforming internet research. Then after 6 weeks or so, I'm over it. So it was with my tattoo. I couldn't get over how funny I thought it was. Then one day, while assistant directing a summer camp which accommodates approximately 100 children and staff, I wanted to see what it would give my tat a test run. I had my friend Jane (psydomeom)sketch a couple different sizes and locations for my 425. I asked the opinions of the staff, and although most were distracted by the deformity of the 4 (someone startled Jane during her sketch), the popular conclusion was that it was kind of funny. No one had to say another word. Kind of funny is funny enough for me! I stored the results, of the impromptu survey, away in my brain.


Exactly one week later, it was a slow day at aforementioned camp. The campers and staff were off in the forest, catching butterflies and playing with bows and arrows, or something. I turned to Jane, and told her I wanted to get inked. She accepted my idea eagerly... almost too eagerly, really. But whatever, we were two modern gals on a mission. The camp is just outside a the small town of Carnation (population 1,893 according to the 2000 census). In Carnation there was a tattoo/hair salon, and it was decided that's where we'd go to get it done. Although we knew it was a great idea, we asked a few more opinions. First the 18 year old junior ranger. He laughed like an idiot, and begged to come along. Sure why not, we said, the more the merrier. Next we sought the opinion of the 20 head cook. She was wise beyond her years, and she herself had a tattoo. She said it was a good idea, as long as she got to come too. It was all become so real. The head cook, sensing my nerves, said that they might not even give me a tat if I seemed at all unsure. So I wiped the sweet from my brow, swallowed the vomit in my mouth and strutted to the car. Once to the tattoo/beauty parlor, I started to get the shakes again. I called my little sister. She told me it was a HORRIBLE idea. Again, that's all I needed to hear. If she had told me it was a good to very good idea, I probably wouldn't have gotten it. Thank GOODNESS I don't let people tell me what to do, am I right?


After the young man came back with the sketches, I settled on a simple font on the left-side of my left inside wrist (can you visualize where that is?). While the head cook and jr. ranger sat in the lobby, Jane and I went in the back. I sat down in a dentist-like chair. A few feet away from me there was a guy getting two turntables tattooed across his entire back. I wanted to ask if he was hellzah in to mixing freaky beats or some shit, but I was too nervous. The guy who was doing his tattoo asked me if this was my first one. I said yes, and he gestured to the turntables. "It's his first too. You wuss." I chuckled, and tried not to be hurt. 10 minutes later, I had my tiny tattoo. He wrapped it in saran wrap, and Jane took me to the am/pm for a fountain drink. And you know what. Every time I look down at it, I, too, feel wonderful, and I am very proud that I am kind of funny.
LOL (lots of love)
Kate