.It Takes the Time It Takes, To Get It Right.

Sometimes, when things don’t go as planned, there’s a reason for it.

In fact, I would venture to say that EVERY time things don’t go as planned, there’s a reason for it—we’re just not usually privy to the why, that we so often desire.

That said, lemme tell you about my latest tattoo adventure.

To be honest, I’m actually not much of a planner. But there are some things—such as getting your body marked (permanently), that one may want to put at least a little thought and consideration into. If I’ve learned nothing else (and trust me, I’ve learned a lot), from the musings of artist Miya Bailey, it’s that you should do your research before getting a tattoo. Namely, on the artist (s) and the shop.

There was a time, that I’d walk into any shop and let anyone take their needle to my skin—but, when you know better, you DO better (luckily, for me, this has never resulted in an issue—I have always been fortunate enough to luck up on great artists).

There’s lots to be considered when choosing an artist. Have you seen their portfolio? Do they specialize in a certain style of tattooing? Does their style match your tattoo idea? Do you even HAVE a tattoo idea? Is it a reputable shop? Just a few questions you should be able to answer before even bothering to hop into someone’s chair.

Before I continue, it should be noted that, from my very first visit to City of Ink, I knew that I trusted any and every artist in that shop to do my work—they are an incredibly unique, and talented bunch. Even the shop itself, which is more of an art gallery, than an actual shop—blew my mind.

That said, while work produced in that shop is of the highest of calibers, the style of each artist is also entirely different. Therefore, you select your artist according to their particular style and how well it coincides with the art that you want.

My goal, is to eventually have a piece from each artist at City of Ink. Prior to yesterday, I’d been inked by Miya Bailey, Sophie C’est La Vie, and Tuki Carter (former co-founder, but no longer affiliated). For this go-round, I’d chosen an artist whose work I’d been following for the past year and couldn’t be more excited at the opportunity to be his next canvas.

At the time that I’d selected him, I wasn’t really sure exactly WHAT I’d wanted, but I knew whatever it was—I wanted him to do it, and I was sure that he was fully capable.

And then one day, while listening to Erykah Badu’s “Bag Lady”, it hit me. I wanted a modified version of Banky’s “Lovesick” piece.

Except, I wanted “bags” instead of hearts…the implied impression is…if you hold on to too much baggage, it’ll make you sick. Better out, than in. Or, at least, that’d be my interpretation of it. Or, I’d remain open to a custom piece, which, to me, are more special anyhow. Either way, I knew for sure that I wanted it on my side…a rib piece. Y’ouch.

So, that took care of the who, the what, and the where…which left, only, the how [much] and the when.

Having a budget when it comes to your tattoo, is important. Another thing I’ve learned from Miya? Know what you want, and expect to pay for quality work. Not sure what quality work is?

Let me give you a hint, unless you’re a big fan of Jafar from The Lion King, the one on the right, ain’t exactly a worthy depiction of the pride’s most notable predator.

The good thing about City of Ink though, is, no matter how small your budget, you will ALWAYS get a quality tattoo. YOU actually get to choose your budget—you tell them how much you want to spend, and they’ll build your tattoo based on that price. That said, you can’t expect to walk into a tattoo shop and say:

“I want a back piece—of Tarzan, swinging on a vine from one tree, over to the other tree, where Jane is…oh, and I want birds flying in the background, and the sun rays shining through the leaves of the tree…oh and flowers, please give me flowers…and, if Mowgli could be chasing Baloo around one of the trees, that would be great…I’ve got about $150.”

Get real. I mean, do you walk into Footlocker expecting Payless prices (I mean, yes, it’d be nice, but no, that’s not a REAL expectation for most). Some people will spend $5 a day on Starbucks coffee for a year (you do the math), but are appalled at spending $500+ on something that they will wear on their skin forever. If you don’t drink coffee, feel free to substitute that analogy with the $40-100 a week (or even, every OTHER week) you spend on gas…there’s 52 weeks in a year, like I said, do the math. Drive back and forth to work for a week and both your $40-100 AND gas are gone…and you have NOTHING to show for either. Have cable? Think about how much you spend every month to watch Honey Boo Boo traipse around in her halter top with dried icecream stains smearing her face. Sure, it’s entertaining for a few minutes, but, what are you left with, besides a few less brain cells?

Okay, there’s no dried icecream [you totally imagined it, though]…but, you see where I’m going with this, right? You have no excuse to skimp out on your tattoo budget.

I solidified my budget, and called the shop to schedule my appointment and to make my deposit. I was locked in for Saturday, January 19 at 1pm.

So, to summarize: I researched my artist for a year…figured out what I wanted, where I wanted it, and how much I wanted to spend—and locked it all in with a deposit for my appointment. I’d done my due diligence in regard to putting proper thought and consideration into this tattoo.

And then, it all started to kind of crumble.

First, I received a call back from the shop manager (whom I actually sort of adore, he’s always so helpful and nice), that there’d been a mistake. The Artist would be out of town until Monday. My appointment would have to be rescheduled. No need to panic, though, we’d just reschedule it for Monday when he got back. Same time, same place.

I’d gotten up early Monday morning, threw a flannel on over my gray, ribbed tank, a pair of intentionally tattered designer jeans, and pulled on my favorite oak-hued cowboy boots. I hit the road, sans breakfast, and drove the 186 miles to the shop.

I love solo road trips—no futile chatter to interrupt my quality mp3 time. A solid 3 hours and 39 minutes of non-stop music. But, I digress..this isn’t a blog entry about music.

With a nearly dead phone (3hrs and 39 minutes of music and GPS can really drain the life out of a mobile phone)…I finally arrived in front of City of Ink at 12:30. I’m almost always early.

The blinds and window covers, which were normally open, were closed.

Odd…maybe the sunlight was bugging them.

I grabbed the door knob, twisted, and pushed. Locked.

[Please insert instant panic]

I’d worried about showing up, and the shop being closed for the holiday. I may have even dreamt about it. And now, my worst nightmare was coming true. I’d driven 3.5 hours for nothing. I could FEEL my face, thick with disappointment.

Don’t panic, Robyn, you are early—The Artist is probably inside getting things prepped.

I knew what I’d do….I’d call—if anyone were inside, maybe they’d answer.

Nope. No such luck.

I remembered then, that I still had the shop manager’s number from my last visit, back in May. Instead of having a full-on meltdown, I opted to give him a call.

No answer. I’d have to settle with leaving him a message:

“Hi, this is Robyn. I’m sorry to bother you, but, I have an appointment today at 1pm and I drove up from Alabama…and…the shop looks closed, but, I’m early, so maybe that’s all it is…if you don’t mind though, can you give me a call back when you get a second?” Rambling Robyn.

Then, anxiety lingering, I took to The Twitters and tweeted Miya—if anyone would know whether or not the shop was open, he would.

He advised that the shop opens every day at 1pm, and assured me that if I had an appointment, the shop would surely be open. I was just early. Phew.

Relieved, I popped over to The Olde Kitchen, next door, to grab a bite, since I’d skipped breakfast.

Despite an ailing battery, I decided to kill some time while waiting for my shrimp and grits, by scrolling my Instagram feed.

Full-On Melt Down: ENGAGE!

There, at the top of my feed, posted a mere fifty-six minutes prior, was a photo uploaded by The Artist. In it, his feet were propped up on a balcony. I didn’t recall ever seeing a balcony at the shop. More alarming, there was a palm tree.

THERE ARE NO PALM TREES IN ATLANTA.

Okay, okay. Breathe. The shop is going to be open in another half hour…and well, just because he posted a picture, fifty-six minutes ago, doesn’t mean that he TOOK it fifty-six minutes ago. Chill.

I swear I’m not this neurotic about anything else—but when it comes to getting tattooed, I’m sort of a basket case when facing any hiccups in my planning.

The grits arrived just in time, and seemed to have helped calm my nerves a bit. Or, maybe it was the sweet tea. Or, the waiter. I can’t rightly be sure, but, a half hour later, I was fine again.

I was even better once I paid my bill and walked the few feet back to the shop, finding the blinds wide open, and people lounging inside.

As I walked in, I was greeted by name and given the customary tattoo waiver to sign. [Have you ever read that thing in its entirety? You’re signing your life away.]

Great, he knows my name. Which means, he was expecting me…which means, we’re on track. I could breathe easy, now.

A short time later, a guy took a seat beside me. It was not The Artist. 

“Robyn?” He stuck his hand out and introduced himself to me.

“I’m Q, I’ll be doing your tattoo today, because unfortunately, The Artist hasn’t made it back in town yet.

I hoped my disappointment hadn’t shown on my face. But, I was sure it had.

As I mentioned earlier, I wholeheartedly trust the work of every artist in that shop. But, you’ll also recall that I’d been following The Artist for a year now. I’d specifically chosen The Artist for my next piece. I’d specifically driven almost 200 miles for The Artist—specifically (you know, in case you’d somehow missed that). So, how could I not, on some level, be at least a little disappointed? As fate would have it, my disappointment dissipated just as suddenly as it’d surfaced.

Q asked what I had in mind, and I’d explained the Banksy spin. We pulled it up on Google images and he seemed to like it, though, he didn’t appear to be overly enthused. I went on to explain that I wasn’t opposed to a custom piece—that I’d actually prefer it. The thing that I understand about individuals who tattoo, and artists in general, is this: they obviously have the talent and wherewithal to REcreate, but when you give them the opportunity do their own thing, that’s when you really see them shine. Besides that, you end up with a piece all your own.

He pulled up some of his work, and to say the least, I was impressed. OF COURSE, I was impressed. I was at City of Ink, how could I not be impressed?

I know two people who are going to be appalled at what happened next (“Beans” and Twin Teri, if you’re reading this, I mean, YOU TWO—so, brace yourselves). Ready?

I told him I’d been thinking about getting an owl.

“An owl would be dope.” He’d said, seeming to genuinely mean it.

He’d clicked onto another picture.

“This is a tattoo I did for a girl who’s a writer.” The tattoo was of a pretty cool-looking piece of scroll paper and a quill pen, adorned with roses.

“Nice. I’m actually a writer too. At some point, I want to get an old school typewriter inked on me.”

And then, that thing… that thing that I look forward to happening with every artist, happened—a glisten in the eye, and then the proverbial light bulb going off. Or on. Whatever. He was excited.

“You know what? It’d be dope to have the owl sort of swooping down on the typewriter and sort of grabbing it or something with its talons.”

It certainly wouldn’t have any sort of preconceived ethereal meaning for me, but I immediately liked the idea because it sounded like it’d be visually stunning, and most important: unique.

We’d agreed.

“Alright, I’ll just need a little time to sketch it up…20 to 30 minutes, an hour at the most.”

It seemed like a minimal amount of time to craft the masterpiece he’d described to me, but, what’d I know? I didn’t care about the amount of time it took, I just wanted it to be perfect…besides, I was itching to get out on the streets of Atlanta to do some exploring with my Nikon.

I’d returned from my escapade an hour later…no Q.

So, I’d decided to take another walk. This time, longer.

An hour and a half later, I returned—still, no sign of Q.

It was fine though, by this time, Shaka and I—a photographer I’d befriended the last time I was in town, who’d been filming my then artist, Tuki Carter, during my session—had drummed up several conversations ranging from aliens, to ancient civilizations, to the human condition. Another half hour had passed and I hadn’t even realized it.

Bringing an end to my enthralling conversation, Q emerged with a piece of white sketch paper held firmly, face-down to his chest, with both hands.

He held it a moment longer, and then turned it over for me to see.

“So, here’s what I came up with…the paper coming out of the typewriter is sort of on fire…which attracted these moths, which attracted the owl…”

HOW. DID. HE. EVEN. THINK. OF. THAT?! Creative minds, astound me.

I loved the s!*t out of it.

I already hadn’t minded the wait it took to sketch it, but now…now, I especially appreciated that time. After all, to quote one of my favorite musicians, Tony Lucca, ”it takes the time it takes, to get it right.”

Onward.

After he’d transferred the image to my skin, he’d paused a moment to admire it.

“I love the placement of the wings…it’s like this one is sort of hugging your rib, and the one on your back is spread just right. It’s perfect.”

I looked down, and couldn’t help but agree.

As I lay there, waiting to hear the buzz of the needle, another artist appeared—she stood over me, admiring the design.

“There’s no way you guys are gonna finish that in one session…you’ll be lucky to get through the outline. I couldn’t do it, if it were me.”

I explained to her that I actually have a pretty high tolerance for pain. In fact, in a weird sort of way, I actually LIKE the feel of getting a tattoo. I’d be lying though, if I said that I wasn’t at least a little worried about what kind of pain a rib tattoo would produce. But, I was confident—I’d driven 3.5 hours and endured two mild panic attacks.

We would finish.

And, we did.

ONE session. THREE AND A HALF hours long…on my RIBS… NO breaks. I officially consider this ink, my Tattoo Badge of Honor.

If you see me walking around in the dead of winter, with my shirt raised, showing off my rib, now, you’ll know why.

I couldn’t be happier with my new art.

So you see, every little bump in the road, I tripped over to arrive at my final destination, in the big scheme of things, was for a reason.

Sure, on the surface, this is just a blog entry about a tattoo—but, the next time you find yourselves deep in the throes of life’s missteps, remember…keep calm and let life run its due course, in the end, you just might wind up with a typewriter toting owl on your ribs. And welp, everybody knows, that’s badass.

Until next time…

[ ♥ ] . Peace. And Bacon Grease.

.I’ve Been Everywhere.

                                                 I’ve been everywhere, man.
                                                 I’ve been everywhere, man.
                                                 Crossed the desert’s bare, man.
                                                 I’ve breathed the mountain air, man.
                                                 Of travel I’ve had my share, man.
                                                 I’ve been everywhere.

                                                           -Johnny Cash

Okay, okay—maybe I haven’t been everywhere, but thanks to Uncle Sam, I have been some of everywhere.

And ya know what? Maybe it’s something people can kind of sense, because…I can’t think of a single question that I’m asked more than, “where are you from?” …actually, “why are you single?” is a super close runner up, but hey, that’s another blog entry entirely. 

If you’ve been following my tattoo progress, then you know that the theme I have going for the bottom portion of my sleeve is: land, air, and sea. 

I finished the latter two a couple of months ago. But, what the heck was I gonna do about the land? I really hadn’t had an ever-loving clue what to get to represent that portion, even since the inception of the theme. But you know, it’s funny the way things happen sometimes. The way a plan comes together, even when you have no definitive plan to begin with. 

Crazy things happen in bars. Strangers hook up. People dance like no one’s watching. Bar fights. I once even witnessed a violently inebriated girl, vomit into  some food that she’d ordered (just as the waiter set it in front of her), right before she passed out face-first into the plate. Like I said—crazy.

I guess in comparison, my crazy really wasn’t that kind of crazy. All I did, with the help of a perfect stranger, was make a decision that would change me forever.

There I sat alone, both elbows propped up on the edge of the lacquered wood bar top. My eyes were glued to the flat-screen TV mounted high on the left-hand side of the bar. I can’t rightly say that I was paying attention to what was on it, but, for whatever reason, my eyes were fixated—my mind, however, was some place else.

“You a big basketball fan?” An older gentleman with a handle bar mustache had apparently taken a seat beside me. His voice had startled me out of my thought-coma.

“Nah, just needed somewhere to put my eyes, I guess.” I said, with a laugh.

After about twenty minutes of small talk, it happened.

I knew it would.

It ALWAYS happens.

He popped the question.

“So, you’re obviously not from around here. Where are you from?”

I’m asked this question so often, that I actually have a standardized answer for it. 

“Define from.”

“Well, where did you grow up?”

“I’d have to have a map for that.”

And that was the moment I knew.

Finally, I’d reached “land.”

The Artist

Now, I knew the what, but, what about the who?

Ultimately, I guess the who came to me just as easily as the what had.

Every single day, for weeks, I’d driven by a place that had a sign that read, simply, TATTOOS.  One night, I finally decided to pull into the parking lot to see if I could see another sign with the name of the place. 

Timepiece Tattoos. I could remember that, right?

Seven minutes later, there I was at home, laptop fired up, and ready to see what I could find on this tattoo place.

The tattoo place….what was the name of it again?

I’d forgotten.

OF COURSE, I’d forgotten.

I drove by every day for another few weeks, before I finally managed to stop and pull into the parking lot again. This time, I wrote the name of the place down.

Seven minutes later, there I was at home, laptop fired up, and the cursor blinking in my Google search bar.

T-i-m-e-p-i-e-c-e T-a-t-t-o-o, H-u-n-t-s-v-i-l-l-e

Bingo.

I found some pretty impressive work under both portfolios on the site.

Seejay’s

Shayna’s

Yes, I was definitely interested. 

A couple weeks later, I stopped in with a friend, to talk to Seejay.

Let me tell you, aside from the finished product, there is nothing more exciting about getting a tattoo, than having the artist be just as excited (if not more) about the idea, than you are.

And that’s what happened when I talked to Seejay. I specifically remember my friend relaying his tattoo idea, and Seejay still being stuck on mine.  

It’s like his eyes were fixated on the flat screen TV in the corner…but his mind was some place else.

“I’m sorry, but…I’m thinking about her tattoo. I’m f*@$% stoked.”

If there are any words you want to hear your tattoo artist say, it’s those. And if your artist(s) are ridiculously cool and down-to-earth, you’ve really hit the jackpot.

Um—CHA-CHING.

We set up an appointment for a few days later to sit down and really hash out the details. And that, we did. An official appointment was set…and then, all I had to do, was wait three weeks.

Longest three weeks of my life. Seriously. 

Finally, twenty something days later—the day arrived. 

November 27, 2012

Before

After

As of the second session, December 8, 2012

*As an after thought, it’s pretty ironic that a map would end up surrounding my, “I always wonder why birds stay in the same place when they can fly anywhere—then I ask myself the same question” tattoo. Totally unplanned.

*Also ironic and totally unplanned…Hawaii ended up right beside my Jonah & The Whale tattoo :)

Oh, and…

*Every state/country I’ve lived in, has a red X that is placed in such a way that is geographically situated to represent the city that I resided in….every state except for Alabama…’cause, ROLLTIDE!

Now, when someone asks, “where are you from?” …I can show ‘em better than I can tell ‘em

Until next time…

[ ♥ ] . Peace. And Bacon Grease.

20 Things You [Probably] Didn’t Know About Robyn: Ver 1.0

1. I was born in Tulsa, OK and come from a lineage of Native Americans. Specifically, the Muscogee (Creek) Nation. My great, great grandmother, Pearl Marshall, was 100%.

2. I once auditioned for Real World and got selected to move past the preliminary round. Ultimately, I wasn’t chosen, but, it was a pretty cool experience.  I also flew to Dallas once and auditioned for America’s Next Top Model, made it to Round 3 of the process before getting cut…I was pretty happy with that :)

3. I feel naked without my ring. I bought it for myself while vacationing in the Virgin Islands. I thought, “self, I love you”…I liked it, so I had to put a ring on it.

3. When I puke, it comes out of my nose too. That said, I freaking hate puking.

4. I was born with a hernia. That’s right, I coulda died, ya’ll!

5. I was awarded a full-tuition academic scholarship, for which I did not even apply (thanks to my ACT score). Attended for nearly 3 years, and then, dropped out. Clearly, not as smart as my test scores would indicate.

6. When I was in high school, I used to wear my step-dad’s clothes. It should be noted that he is 6’0-something and 200-something lbs. And yes, I was just as small then, as I am now. I don’t know what the hell I was thinking.

7. I have eighteen tattoos. And nine piercings (have had 14 total in the past).

8. In 2008, I joined and swore into the United States Navy. My MOS (aka job)?

AZ (Aviation Maintenance Administrationman). However, I wasn’t going to ship for several months, and in the meantime, found a job. Which, I decided to stay in—and therefore, did not go—I wish I had. I may or may not be thinking about going in that direction again.

9. I have a real love for food. So much so, in fact, that I’d like to go to culinary arts school. 

10. One of my biggest pet-peeves is people talking over one another. It is, for me, like someone scratching their nails down a chalkboard…really makes my teeth hurt. This is why I can’t watch ‘The View’—EVER.

11. I haven’t been on a date in 7 months. Embarrassing.

12. I’ve lived in eight different states. Two countries. Attended six elementary schools. Two intermediate (middle) schools. And three high schools. I get around. Thanks, Uncle Sam.

13. I cannot live without chapstick.

14. I’m a published writer. http://androidspin.com/author/robyn-marshall/

15. When I was 16, my boyfriend was twice my age. Hindsight is 20/20. So is Dateline.

16. I once stole my mother’s BMW. Older boyfriends are a bad influence. My mother? She was not pleased with either.

17. I almost died of alcohol poisoning once.

NOTE TO THE WORLD: DO NOT EVER PLAY DRINKING GAMES WITH CHEAP VODKA.

18. I have no identifiable birth mark (that I’m aware of). Apparently, I wasn’t born.

19. I’ve only been to two funerals in my lifetime.

20. I share the same birthday as Stevie Wonder, Ritchie Valens, Joe Louis, and Bea Arthur :)

…this is such a lazy blog entry, but I couldn’t think of what to write…maybe I’ll be inspired between now and next weekend. If you have any suggestions, send them my way!

Until next time…

[ ♥ ] . Peace. And Bacon Grease.

A Whale of A Good Time

When I was about seven years old, I went on my first airplane ride. 

Or, the first that I can remember, anyway.

I found the experience to be entirely enthralling. The hustle and bustle through the airport. The loud voices over the intercom, directing travelers to their respective gates and informing them of their flight’s impending departures. I can remember pressing my nose to the thick airport glass, peering out at the large American Airlines aircraft and asking, “Papa, is that one ours, is that the one we’re getting on?”

I was traveling with one of my favorite people, my grandfather.

“Yes, baby, we’ll be boarding that one soon,” he said, giving my hand a slight squeeze.

Twenty minutes or so later, there I sat, buckled in beside my papa, ready for my first flight.

“Papa?”

“Yes, baby?”

“I’m cold.”

With that, he reached up far above my head, and pressed a rectangle button with a picture of a woman on it. A few seconds later, a nice lady in a fancy blue dress suit appeared.

“This one’s cold.” My grandfather said to the woman, with a smile. She smiled back, and held up a finger, as if to say “just a minute.”

When she returned, she had a warm looking royal blue blanket with her, which she handed to my papa.

He’d draped it over my tiny body and tucked it at the sides. Now, I was ready.

A voice came on over the speaker system letting us know that we we’re preparing for lift off, and then I could feel the plane moving.

I looked over at my papa, not afraid, just unaware.

“It’s alright, baby girl, I’ve got something for you.”

He reached down into his carry-on and pulled out a thick book. 

“Do you know the name of this book?”

I shook my head back and forth. “No, papa. What is it?”

“It’s The Bible, and this one is just for you.”

I didn’t know what he was talking about, but I knew that presents were my favorite.

He’d opened the book to a story. The first story in the Bible that I ever read.

Jonah & The Whale.

At that age, I didn’t understand the underlying message of this book…all I knew was that it sounded cool that a guy got swallowed whole by a freaking whale.

My papa couldn’t have picked a better Bible story to start me off with…and I’ll never forget it, or my first flight.

The Tattoo

When I decided to go below the elbow, I decided to have a theme. 

Air, Land, and Sea. 

My latest tattoo venture was to take care of the “sea” portion. When I was trying to figure out what I could get to represent the sea, I knew I didn’t want something as simple as waves. I mean, I like waves, don’t get me wrong. But, how many times have waves been done?

If you’re not sure, google “wave tattoos.”

So, there’s that.

And then it came to me, Jonah and the Whale. That was it. Not only was it a perfect representation of the “sea”, but it also reminded me of my papa. Further, I eventually reached an age of understanding and realized that the story of Jonah was more than just a story of a man getting OWNED by an aquatic mammoth. As far as I was concerned, it was a story about not running from, what you deem to be, your problems. Or else, they can swallow you whole and eat you alive.

If you’re not familiar with the story, feel free to get acquainted. 

So anyways, I knew what I wanted. Now, I just needed to figure out who I wanted to do it. As fate would have it, I found Nathan Menke. This guy, in my opinion, is incredible. If you don’t believe me, just watch this and I promise you’ll be sold.

Nathan is an amazing, award-winning artist from California, who, lucky for me, would be guest tattooing at a Nashville shop for a week. I touched bases with him, and he seemed excited about the idea, and that, excited me. The rest, is pretty much history.

The Shop

When I saw bacon lining the walls, I knew all would be well.

And so, it began.

Almost done…

The very cool, very down to earth, very engaging, Mr. Nathan Menke.

All done. I suppose you want a closeup, though?

P.S. If you’re reading this and you’re within driving distance, Nathan will be in Clarksville, TN until the 22nd, catch him if you can!

Until next time…

[ ♥ ] . Peace. And Bacon Grease.

Up to My Elbows in Ink…

After having gotten inked at City of Ink in Atlanta, GA, I made a declaration: I’ll never get ink from any place else.

I guess I lied.

I think I’ve figured out that it’s not necessarily the who/where, but the what, and more importantly, the quality of the what.

Artists are everywhere, and why limit myself?

I don’t remember how or even when, but, at some point I started following the work of Ryan B. Thomas of Black 13 Tattoo in Nashville, TN via Instagram.

I really loved that stylistically, his approach to tattooing was of a more traditional nature. You know, like the ones sailors used to get back in the day…and who doesn’t love old school sailors?

See what I mean? Bad ass, right? And that was the one that sold me. I knew I had to get personally acquainted with his work. Unfortunately, I already had an idea in mind, and it wouldn’t allow for a signature piece, but I figured it would be a nice icebreaker.

If you follow my blog, you may [but probably don’t] remember this…

A quote by author Harun Yahya so relevant, that I may as well have said it myself. 

It’d shown up in my Tumblr feed and I knew then, that it would be my next tattoo. Simple and true.

I contacted the shop and Ryan liked the idea and its simplicity. So I was set.

I would usually announce this sort of thing, but for whatever reason, I decided to keep my impending appointment to myself. 

And so, 11 days later, off to Black 13 Tattoo I went.

And so it began…

BEFORE

DURING

AFTER

Before I move on, let me say, Ryan is a super cool person and was open and easy to talk to, which always makes a tattoo session more enjoyable. I also love it when a person’s dedication lies in their craft and not a dollar bill. At one point, he’d suggested that the piece would look better if we took the size up a bit. Knowing that I was on a pretty specific budget and wanted to leave room for tipping, I had to inquire about how much an increase in size would cost me.

“…oh, are you on a budget? don’t worry about that, I’m more interested in this looking good, than that sh*t, and I know it’ll look better if we make it about 5 percent larger”

I appreciate that type of customer/craft-oriented ethic. It’s more rare than you think. So if you’re reading this, Ryan, thank you for that, and—I’ll be back.

Now, moving on.

This tattoo is sort of a big deal for me because of its size and location—below the elbow. I have tattoos…lots of them, in fact, I think this one made #19 (I’ve honestly sort of lost count at this point), but none so blatantly obvious. There are some at least fairly legitimate reasons for not going below the elbow…social acceptance, career consideration, etc. etc. If you choose to get such a tattoo you have to either be okay with the way people may [pre]conceive you, or, you have to be prepared to cover them up. I’m the type of person that prefers to live my life caring about what I think of the way I choose to express myself, rather than living up to other people’s expectations and/or limitations—and I think people admire me for that. There’s a certain type of person that is okay with being themselves at all costs, I am one of those people…I don’t care about social acceptance, maybe because I’ve spent most of my life on the outskirts of it. 

That just leaves the ol’ career. I’ve battled this one for a while. Corporate America has come a long way, but, tattoos in the [corporate] workplace are still primarily taboo. I work in the aforementioned setting and have even had the following question posed to me by my boss, “do you think your tattoos are professional?”

I’m not sure what the answer to that question should have been.

“My tattoos weren’t hired to do the job.”

OR

“I don’t know about the tattoos, but, I am.”

I mean, didn’t Dr. King impart the priceless pearl of wisdom, “judge a man not by the ink on his skin but by the contents of his character”? I’m pretty sure that was it. Or something really, really close. 

Anyways, it should be noted that for the most part, on a daily basis, my ink is covered. I wear a cardigan to work every freaking… single…day. On this particular Monday, I’d gotten the tattoo in question two days prior. It was still an open wound…and a cardigan sleeve rubbing up against a particularly expensive open wound isn’t my idea of a good time. I don’t interface with the public at my job, have very few coworkers, and rarely leave my own office space—I thought I was safe.

But maybe he was right, maybe in the business world, professionals have a certain image to uphold in order to be successful.

And maybe what I think is, we need to change that image…and I don’t mind being a pioneer of progress. I don’t mind at all… 

The Fears Vol 1: .Blame It On the Alcohol.

On my first date with Mark, he told me that he was an alcoholic.

The conversation went something like this…

Me: so, what’s a normal week like for you?

Him: well, I work every day…I have school…and I drink, I’m a f*@%ing alcoholic. 

Then he laughed.

And then I laughed.

I thought it was a joke.

We were in our twenties—who didn’t drink copious amounts of alcohol in their twenties?

We started dating and spent pretty much every day together. In fact, I all but lived with him. We drank every day. Not that I noticed.

I thought it was fun.

We were in our twenties.

A month or so after we started dating, he surprised me with an overnight trip to Atlanta for my birthday. 

Between the time we arrived in Atlanta, and when we returned back to Huntsville the next evening, the math of his consumption looks like this:

All in all, he consumed 43 beers and the majority of two bottles of wine…all in less than 24 hours. FINALLY, I realized that that wasn’t a joke that he’d told on our first date. We were in our twenties…and my boyfriend was an alcoholic.

That relationship was over five years ago. We’re still friends, and well…he’s still a self-professed functioning alcoholic.

Being single at the age of thirty-one causes you to think a lot about why you’re single….you analyze your hangups, your shortcomings, your mistakes, and most of all—your fears.

I fear alcoholics. I fear them to such a point that I even fear guys who might not be alcoholics at all.

The part that scares me the most is, if a person spends the majority of their time in an alcohol induced haze—what is real to them? 

In the same moment that I realized Mark was an alcoholic, I also realized that everything we had, everything we’d done, and every feeling he’d ever confessed to me was potentially a lie. They were potentially all a by-product of his binge drinking.

He was the first of two people that I’ve ever truly been in love with. Realizing that the person you love so very much, never really liked/or loved you at all, and was instead just drunk, was devastating. And unfortunately, still impacts my dating life to a significant degree. How do I know that once someone sobers up, they’ll realize that the reason they liked me so much is because they were drunk? It’s a tough pill to swallow.

So now, as if trained to do so, if I’m hanging out with someone, in my head, I’m automatically monitoring how much/how often they drink. If it’s a lot, and/or often…it’s a red flag and I go from 60-0 in record time. From there, they get put into Catergory: UNDATEABLE…DO NOT PASS GO. Once I put them there, there’s no going back—I simply can not take them seriously.

I have dated guys who at the peak of their drunkeness, have told me how into me they are, and how much they want to be with me—but they never find the right time (and/or courage) to divulge these intense feelings when sober. Given my haphazard history, there is almost nothing that infuriates me more. 

I know a lot of people might say that alcohol is a truth serum and that drunks are incapable of telling a lie. I call bulls**t. I mean, have you ever watched a single episode of COPS?

Cop pulls guy over and asks him to step out of the car…

Cop: sir, have you been drinking tonight?

Guy falls out of car: nuh uh.

See. Drunks can lie, and do.

What makes matters worse for me is that I am a horrible judge of determining when someone’s wasted, especially people who handle their alcohol really well. I’ve had guys pour their hearts out…and then weeks later when reflecting on other details of the night, “oh man, I was trashed out of my mind that night.”

Great.

I’m sure you’ve all seen my Facebook statuses. I go out. I drink. I have a good time. But the reality is, I drink maybe once a week (if that), and when I do, I have two or three beers and I’m done. I don’t do liquor (except for a very rare and stupid occasion) and I don’t get drunk (except for a very rare and stupid occasion).

There’s a fine line between having a good time and having a problem. I’m never sure of the difference when it comes to other people. It’s a scary, scary world out there…

Have thoughts, questions, and/or suggestions? By all means, click here and spill the beans.

Until next time…

[ ♥ ] . Peace. And Bacon Grease.

I Wear My Heart on My Sleeve

Years ago, I somehow stumbled upon the work of Miya Bailey.

Years later (2010), after much anticipation, my skin became his canvas. It was an experience I will never forget, and as you could probably guess, I wrote about it. If you haven’t read it, you should definitely take a pause here, and read THIS. If you’ve already read it, or, if you’re too lazy to, well then, by all means, proceed here.

After that first trip to City of Ink [COI], I made my mind up that moving forward, I would only be getting my ink from that shop. In fact, I’d decided that I wanted to get ink from every artist there. 

The very next year, I ventured back to the city of Atlanta and the City of Ink, this time, with my cousin, Maurice. I had it all planned out. I had done my research, and the next artist on my list was Melvin Todd. I was VERY excited. My cousin was pretty excited too, as his appointment was with a hot little number by the name of Sophie C’est la Vie. 

When we arrived at the shop, we stood in front of the two artists and Samba, the shop manager at the time, who asked, “so, what are ya’ll tryin’ to get today?” 

I pulled out the quote by poetess Maya Angelou, that I’d brought with me:

 “…music was my refuge, I could crawl into the space between the notes and curl my back to the loneliness…”

I explained that I wanted that quote, but no words. My cousin stated that he wanted an angel. Sophie immediately piped in and said that she wanted to do mine, and Melvin, being something of an angel connoisseur (cherubs are actually his trademark tattoo—check out Loveless Society), wanted to ink Reese. Panic set in INSTANTLY. I’d done all of my research on Melvin, not Sophie. I was actually sort of livid at this little switcheroo. But you know what, it worked out. Half an hour or so later, she’d come back to me with a drawing, entirely different than the image I’d conjured in my head as the visual representation of the quote—but it was awesome. And two or three hours later, I was walking around with my second COI piece.

I loved it. I still do.

Reese ended up with a pretty amazing piece from Melvin as well.

For whatever reason, we didn’t go last year. But, I guess that gave me plenty of time to think about what I wanted for this year. Back in December, we made our $50 deposits and decided on Memorial Day weekend for our appointments. Maurice re-scheduled with Melvin again, and this time around, I wanted ink from LEGENDARY artist/COI co-founder, Tuki Carter. Except, Tuki is also a musician, and so when I made the appointment, I was told that it was too far out to determine if he would even be in town. For the next several months, my appointment was just kind of up in the air… I had one, but not with anyone in particular. This made me nervous, I’m not necessarily a planner, actually, I’m not much of a planner at all…but when it comes to things like this, there are just certain things I need to know…like the who, and the when. As far as the what, that much, I had figured out.

Fast forward—a couple weeks out, I was tentatively scheduled with Melvin as well. I still felt uneasy because it wasn’t a definite. Luckily, I saw Sophie post on Facebook that she would be in town that week (she moved to NYC not long after my tattoo with her) and tattooing at COI. I messaged her to ask if she might be able to fit me in…but I wasn’t so lucky afterall—she couldn’t.

So there I was, back in limbo, all the way up until our arrival at the shop.

I have to say, I love that shop. You won’t find a single wall-mounted swatch of tattoo templates to choose from. There aren’t any template books lying around either (although, there are artist portfolios to flip through). The reason is, they create art, they don’t recreate it. Every piece from every artist, is a custom piece of art. On the walls of this shop, you’ll find hand-painted art-pieces hanging that you can actually purchase. People always ask me why I travel “all the way to Atlanta just to get a tattoo”, well, now you know. This isn’t just any ol’ tattoo parlor.

Chris, the new shop manager greeted us.

“What’s up, ya’ll. How can I help you?”

We told him that we were there to see Melvin.

“Oh okay, both uh ya’ll?”

“Yeah, I guess he’s Melvin’s 2 o’clock and I’m supposed to go after him.”

“Oh okay, gotcha. Well, some of the other artists will be in here today, and you could get one of them to do yours so don’t have to wait, but, that’s up to you.”

“Well, originally, I wanted Tuki to do mine, but I guess it was too far out and I was told he might be on tour, so…”

He paused before speaking again. I could tell he was thinking.

“You know what…he’s in town, I could call him and ask him if he can fit you in, if you want me to?”

Now I was anxious. Really anxious. If this worked out, I’d be ECSTATIC. Mainly because just eight days prior, I’d seen Tuki tweet that he was retiring. I thought then that I might not ever get my chance to become his canvas. In fact, I’d put my own tweet out in the tweetosphere.

My heart quickened a bit, as I tried not to get too excited too soon. Chris asked what I wanted, and where I wanted it. All along, I knew the inspiration behind the tattoo. I wrote about that too—you should also read that if you haven’t.

After a few phone calls back and forth, and texts, and emails…Chris finally came back to me.

“Alright, he is headed out to a video shoot today. But he says he can definitely get you in tomorrow…tomorrow at 2. Or, you can keep your appointment with Melvin today.”

I have to admit, it was a little bittersweet. I was excited that Tuki would be able to do it, but disappointed that I’d have to wait a whole ‘nother day. I decided it would be worth the wait though. So instead of getting my ink that day, I sat and waited on Reese to get his. Seven hours later (that includes general waiting around, then time for sketching, the actual tattoo, and of course some breaks in between), he was rocking a brand new awesome tattoo, another angel.

*He actually ended up getting TWO tattoos this weekend. The next day, shortly after we arrived at MY tattoo appointment, Melvin called him and told him that he’d had a cancellation and if he wanted to come back, he could…of course, he did. Hence the last tattoo, an angel, aiming to shoot the rising angel down.*

And then, then there was the next day—my turn. I was given directions to Tuki’s private studio, as he doesn’t tattoo at the shop anymore, and my cousin and I headed over. 

“Before we get started…I don’t know if you follow my music at all, but I’m signed with Wiz [Khalifa] and I’m working on a project for my album, so I have a film crew that follows me around whereever I go, recording $h!* for the project, do you mind being filmed?”

I told you, he’s a musician. In fact, he’s actually tattooed Wiz and his Taylor Gang crew, and even Wiz’s girlfriend (aka Kanye’s ex-girlfriend, Amber Rose).

How ironic. The first time I’d gone to COI, DAPA Entertainment had a crew there capturing footage of Miya for a film called I Am A Dream Chaser. 

I ended up on the trailer for that film. I make my second film appearance (my first, was as a paid extra in Stomp the Yard…but that doesn’t count, cause you never actually see me) at about 1:09 or 1:10. A solid second…literally, you see me for ONE second, lol.

So yeah, I was totally fine with it.

With that out of the way, I went on to reiterate what I wanted…I talked about the song, Mountains & Molehills, that inspired my idea—and what the lyrics meant to me.

I’d decided on a samuari girl.

In Japanese culture, the samurai embodies strength, courage, nobility, and honor. They’re katana-toting WARRIORS. I have several molehills that I want to slay, and what better representation of that, than an image of a warrior, historically recognized for slaying $*!@ with precision swordsmanship? Plus, it kind of reminds me of the story of Mulan…although she was Chinese, not Japanese, she faced and overcame adversity and went on to become one of her country’s greatest heroes.

I want to be great. 

I wanted a samurai girl with her sword plunging into a small mound of land (a molehill) and maybe some mountains in the background.

He looked at me. Looked at my arm. 

“…And, you want all that, there?”

“Uh..well, yeah, that’s what I was thinking…”

“Listen, the reason people like my tattoos so much is, they’re detailed. They show a lot. I could very well do what you’re asking, but, it’s gonna be too much in too small a space, you’ll lose detail..I mean, I can do it, but I don’t suggest it. If we take some of the elements out, I can do more in that space.”

“You’re the artist. I trust you. You know the inspiration behind it, and what I’m trying to capture, so, I trust you to use your creativity. Do what you think will look best.”

And with that, he began to set up his tattoo gun and supplies. He took out his skin pens, and commenced to free-handing the entire piece directly on my skin.

And then the inking began. 

I love the way tattoos feel. It’s a good kind of pain. Well, usually. With this one, it was great the first hour and a half or so…and then, well yeah, then it just hurt.

“You know, you’re getting a helluva deal. Not only am I retired (I guess I’d read that tweet wrong) and doing this…but, we passed your budget a long time ago.” 

If you’re ever fortunate enough to get a tattoo from Tuki, you will have to put down a $150 (that’s not a typo—yes, $150) non-refundable deposit (which does not go toward the cost of the tattoo), and a tattoo minimum of $600. I know that probably seems steep, but, you get what you pay for. And with anything else, you pay $$$ when you want something nice…so why would you expect any less for something that will be etched in your skin—permanently? Anyway, in my case, he was right I DID get a helluva deal. 

But back to the pain…the tattoo extends all the way into my armpit, so you can imagine how that felt—actually, you probably can’t. I took it like a champ though. I didn’t move, I didn’t wince—but inside, my soul was crying, lol.

It was all well worth it though. Out of pain comes beauty. It’s true. After four hours of labor, this baby was born.

I wear my heart on my sleeve…what’s up yours?

Until next time…

[ ♥ ] . Peace. And Bacon Grease.

The Tuesday That Never Should Have Been

Ya know, life at sixteen was pretty flippin’ sweet.

I remember it like it was yesterday, even if in reality, it was over a decade ago…I mean, let’s not get into numbers right now.

Who could ask for a better life at that age? Heck, I was a proud member of one of high school’s most elite social circles…the Spanish Club (what?! don’t judge!), my mom’s sweet 325i beamer was my primary mode of transportation, I had an ‘older’, sophisticated boyfriend (so what if he was twice my age? again, let’s not get into numbers…some other time, k? K) and I had a job which afforded me one of life’s great luxuries—visiting Best Buy every Tuesday for release day.

Yes, Tuesdays were the shiz. Well, except for The Tuesday That Never Should Have Been. That Tuesday was so not the shiz.

It was the summer of …well, it doesn’t matter, just remember, I was sixteen.

Unlike now, back then, my body still allowed me to sleep in, and that day, it was noon before I’d actually managed to even think about the initiation of my daily ritual of waking up.

1. Hit snooze.
2. Start drifting off again.
3. Hit snooze again.
4. Repeat 3x.
5. Open eyes.
6. Close eyes.
7. Blink 13 times.
8. Lay there for another half an hour.

Had it been any other off day, I probably would have continued laying there for another …oh, I dunno, four hours. But, this was one of few days where I had the motivation to rise up out of that bed and, as Tamar Braxton would say, get my life. Ritual complete, I hopped out of bed, and when I remembered that it was Tuesday, I was all…

Missy Elliott’s Supa Dupa Fly was dropping that day, and I couldn’t wait to not be able to stand the rain with her. ‘Gainst my window.

I wasn’t sure where else I might venture off to that day, and who I might see, so I was extra careful in piecing together my wardrobe….or, not really, since ultimately, I decided to throw on an unironed, boringly plain lilac-hued tanktop, a pair of slightly bell-bottomed blue jeans, frayed at the cuffs where I’d walked on the back of them a few times too many, and a pair of flip flops. I clearly did not put very much effort into this outfit. I did at least pull my hair back into a decent ponytail, and throw on some foundation and lip gloss…you know, just in case.

I’m not sure how I’d managed to score mom’s car that day, considering she usually only loaned it to me to get back and forth to work, but, I had the keys, so, let’s just do what I did that day, and go with it.

There’s something about having the day off that makes you want to go in (or, at least when you’re that age and you work in the restaurant industry)…I’m not sure what it is, but there’s something. Or, maybe that’s just me? Anyway, I stopped by the fast-food Italian place that supplied me with my paychecks, to see who was working and shoot the breeze a bit before heading down the street to Best Buy. The other thing about going in on your day off is, you want to make sure that everyone else there knows that you work there, even if you’re not wearing a uniform, so you find any ol’ reason to go behind the counter for something. It’s some sort of weird ‘I have this privilege’ that you don’t mentality, I guess—meanwhile, the people you’re showing off for, don’t even care. Or, wait, is that just me too? Don’t worry, I’ve outgrown it…if I have a day off, you won’t even see my face on the same ROAD as work. But, I digress.

After checking the back to see if I’d left my …whatever I was pretending to look for there, and talking to a few coworkers, I threw the deuces and told them I’d see them all later. I had important crap to do…like procure new musical selections. And off to Best Buy I drove. Windows down, music blaring, and my seatbelt pulled aside just a bit so I could execute a proper lean.

I headed straight for the M’s …I could hear Ms. Misdemeanor calling my name, and after scooping her up, I turned my attention to a new release from Sarah McLachlan. I knew I’d probably only buy the two albums, but I didn’t have anything better to do, so I figured time spent exploring each aisle wouldn’t be a bad idea. I must have gotten really focused on thumbing through those cd’s, because I didn’t even notice the strange man standing next to me, until he spoke.

“She’s good.” He said, pointing at the McLachlan cd I was clasping in my left hand.

“Um, yeah, yeah, she is.”

“I’m trying to find some music myself”

“Welp…I guess you’ve come to the right place, they’ve got plenty of it.” I said, giving him an uneasy smile.

I turned my attention back to flipping through cds.

“You look really nice.”

I knew right then, $%!* was about to get weird.

“Uh, thanks.”

I casually moved on to the next aisle. So did he. I then decided to slip away to another department. That seemed to work. He did not follow me. In fact, even as I checked out and paid for my two cds, he was still nowhere in sight.

That is, until I’d emerged on the other side of the automatic glass doors, where I found him standing outside, obviously, waiting for me. I looked straight ahead, pretending not to see him.

“You know, I meant what I said in there…about you looking really pretty. You do…”

I continued walking, eyes looking past him.

“…I’m only here in town on business for the week, do you think you’d like to come to my hotel room and keep me company?”

Wait. WHAT IN THE YOSEMITE SAM HELL?! Did this perv just infer that I might be a prostitute? I really needed to know what kind of drugs this guy was on so I could alert the DEA that there was obviously a new kind of crazy pill out there on the streets. Go to his hotel room?

“Um, I really have to go.” I said, finally reaching the car, unlocking the door, and sliding into the driver’s seat. I reached out to close the door, but he grabbed it and firmly held it ajar, before situating himself on the inside of it, inches away from me. For the first time, I glanced up and took a long look at him, up until then, I’d purposely avoided looking directly at him.

He was in his mid to late forties. A real lanky guy. Actually, he looked a lot like a human, much taller, older version of Arnold from Nickelodeon’s Hey Arnold! cartoon—except, with an exceptionally absurd comb-over. His tank barely hung on to his gangly shoulders, and his runner’s shorts seemed to be growing right before my eyes.

“…but, you can’t go, look what at you’re doing to me…” and then, he moved those tiny shorts aside and exposed himself. His fleshy staff was saluting me.

It was two o’clock on a Tuesday afternoon, in who else’s life would something this preposterous occur? No one’s, that’s whose.

I could feel my heart in my chest, pumping away like an old Texas oil rig. My breathing, shortening by the second, which actually felt like minutes. Panic set in. If this guy was cuckoo enough to whip out his junk in the middle of a parking lot, in broad daylight, what else was he capable of? I didn’t want to find out. I had a few choice words for him, but I knew now wasn’t the time for sarcasm, the last thing I wanted to do was piss this guy off. So there I sat, trying to think of the logical thing to do. Meanwhile, he’d crouched down in front of me and began to fondle himself. I struggled not to cry…or vomit.

“Oh wow…um, that’s nice, but, I really do have to go, I’m really sorry…I uh, have to meet someone at the mall and I don’t want to be late.” Oh yeah, real smooth, Robyn.

The corners of his mouth curled, he shuddered a bit, looked me straight in the eye, and gave me a dreadful smile. Now, at half mast, he stood and pulled his shorts back into place, wiping his hand on the side of them in the process. He calmly proceeded to shut my car door.

“Stay pretty.” He flashed one more creepy smile my way, before sauntering off.

I hadn’t realized it before, but my hands were gripping the steering wheel, as if I were holding on to the key of life itself. I hurriedly stuck the key in the ignition and sped off before he had the chance to double back with renewed aberration. I’m not sure why I hadn’t just done that begin with—shock, I suppose.

I rushed down the street, back to my job, where I explained to my manager and coworkers what had just happened to me. They all insisted that I alert the authorities. And so, half an hour later, I was recounting the afternoon’s shenanigans a second time—this time, to a uniformed officer.

“Alright ma’am, I think I’ve got everything I need. We’ll be on the lookout for this guy so we can prevent this from happening to someone else.”

Still a bit rattled, but calming, I decided to finish out my afternoon errands. I hadn’t totally lied to the creepy guy when I’d said I needed to go to the mall, although I had no plans on meeting anyone there, I did have a few things I needed to pick up. So I headed that way.

After stopping by the Cookie Cart for some comfort food, I headed for the escalator. As I was descending off the last step, I locked eyes with the person on the other side of the escalator, going up.

Pervo McNasty. There he was.

Again.

Him, and those disgustingly tainted runner’s shorts.

The corners of his mouth curled again, and I suddenly felt sick.

Panic beset me.

I began walking as fast as I could, without breaking into a full-on sprint—the whole while, looking over my shoulder to make sure that he wasn’t behind me. No matter how many times I looked back, I didn’t see him, not even on the escalator. Maybe I’d imagined him?

Get a grip, Robyn.

Clearly, I was so traumatized that I was seeing things. I looked back one final time just to reassure myself, and there he was, as plain as day. He was following me again. I was stuck in the middle of a real life Lifetime Special.

I slipped into Barnes & Noble, hoping, no, praying that he hadn’t seen me.

I made my way to the center of the store, sort of hiding behind a carousel of Stephen King novels. The old oil rig in my chest felt like it might have transformed into a helicopter that was slowly rising into my throat. I closed my eyes, tried to catch my breath.

And then, there was a hand on my shoulder.  A hot breath on the back of my neck. If you’ve never felt a tingle in your spine, never felt your knees buckle in fear, well, thank your lucky stars.

“…there you are…pretty girl.”

I’m not sure if the color can drain from a black person’s face, but if it’s possible, I swear that it happened right then. I jerked away from him. I had to get away. As a sales associate walked by with another customer, I reached up and grabbed her arm.

“Um, ma’am, I’ll be right with you, I just need to ring up…”

My grip on her arm tightened. “Can you please…can you show me where the Oprah Book Club Selections are…please?”

I don’t know if she could read the panic in my eyes, or if it was because I was squeezing the life out of her poor arm, but she led me away. And as she did so, Pervo McNasty stepped aside, and made his way toward the entrance, and exited the store.

Once I was sure he was gone, I told her that she needed to call the police right away. I explained through breathy sobs that the man that had been hovering over me, was a wanted man. She called mall security, who called the local authorities and together, they escorted me to a part of the mall I didn’t even know existed. Probably, because I’d never stolen anything and therefore, hadn’t had a need to see the security area.

In all this time, I’d have thought that Tallywacker McGhee would have had the sense to evacuate the premises. But, upon being placed in front of several monitors that surveyed the entire grounds of the mall, where did I spot him? Right back in Barnes & Noble, indubitably, looking for me. I watched on the monitors as my unsolicited pursuer was apprehended by two uniformed officers and one of the mall’s security personnel.

I’ll be damned if an episode of COPS “live, on location” wasn’t unfolding right before my eyes.

They brought him upstairs and marched him right past me into the makeshift interrogation room. As he passed, I noticed that now he was the one with panic in his eyes. Neither corner of his mouth curled.

“Please, please, I’m sorry. I’m sorry” he said to me, in a whisper entirely different than the one he’d used in the bookstore, the one that’d made my skin crawl. This one was a cowering whisper, void of the power he’d had less than an hour earlier.

“Shut the f*%k up, she doesn’t wanna hear it, you pathetic piece of s*!#”, one of the officers yelled, yanking him hard by the elbow.

The rest of the next four hours is sort of a blur, except for a lot of yelling—him yelling out at me to have mercy on him, after all, he was a married man with a family, to include daughters—he worked for the government, he’d lose his job and not be able to support them—and then there were the police, who were yelling at him, that he’d better shut his mouth and stop talking to me, if he knew what was good for him. I remember the police questioning me…specifically about whether his flag was lowered when he exposed himself, or whether it was full mast…about whether he’d touched himself, and about…well, whether he’d shuddered or not.

I remembered he had, it was right before that first dreadful smile.

Apparently, all of this made a difference to them. Me, I just wanted to go home. I wanted this whole day to be over and done with. I wanted to fall into my bed, sleep in, start my wake up ritual no earlier than noon, and pretend that the day before had never happened. Instead, after four hours of lockdown in mall security, I was advised to go to the police department, where I spent the next two hours penning a written report of the prior seven hours.

Two things:

1.       Oprah inadvertently saved my life that day.

2.       Tuesdays were never quite the same again.

Go Robyn, It’s Ya Birthday v.1.0-What Happens In Nashville…Eventually Winds Up On My Blog

As birthdays go, I’ve had a few. At last count, in fact—there were thirty of them.

Some quite memorable, some that I’d rather forget, and some, well, some that I don’t recall at all. With another one upon me in a mere nine days, I figured I’d dedicate the next few entries to recapping the past few birthdays, starting with my favorite—last year.

Birthday Shenanigans-The Thirtieth Year

Thirty, is the first birthday that people don’t look forward to.

Well, with the exception of a friend of mine who had a complete and total meltdown at the mere thought of entering into her twenty-third year. 

But, that’s another story, so, moving along…

Everyone’s amped to turn sixteen, because it means freedom—freedom in life…and from brands like Schwinn & Huffy.

And turning twenty one, means you can toss your McLovin id and buy your own goshdarned Pabst Blue Ribbon (because, they’re like a penny each and at that age, you’ve probably only got about ten bucks in your pocket to begin with), cancer sticks, or get into that bar/club that you’ve been sneaking into since sixteen granted you all that freedom—and you can do it all without the fear of wondering if you’re going to wind up on an episode of Dateline NBC: Underage & Breaking the Law.

But, what about thirty? Approaching thirty, most people realize that they won’t be in their twenties anymore and get the “it’s all downhill from here” (or as Ethan Tremblay would say, it’s all uphill) mentality. They start thinking about how much closer to the end of their life they are, and how time only seems to speed up the older they get. Thanks to a friend of mine who turned thirty a few months before me, I was thinking a little differently. She EMBRACED thirty, and as a result, she influenced me to do the same.

I began thinking of this whole turning thirty thing as the beginning of the rest of my life, instead of the end. Turning thirty meant I was primed. I was ready for whatever else life was ready to throw my way.

Thirty was coming at me like a spider monkey, and well, I was ready to grab it by the tail, throw a red vest with gold trim, a matching bellboy cap, and a leash on it, and make it work for me.

And maybe that mentality is what made it the best birthday ever, but, I’d be willing to bet my spider monkey, that it was probably everything else. Everything like…

•  …turning thirty on Friday the 13^th and not having a single stroke of bad luck.

•  …me, in a bold move, cutting my hair for the first time in ten years. Motherloving liberation at its finest.

•   …renting a house in my favorite city (Nashville) and having ten fantastic friends fly/drive in from LA, St. Louis, Tulsa, Huntsville, and Nashville to help me celebrate.

•  …receiving one of my favorite things (vinyl…John Mayer, no less) from one of my most favoritest people in the world. Yes, favoritest.

• …having one of my best friends create something that represents me, with her own hands and time…and then me, opening it…in a parking garage.

• …having the most creative friends ever, who, instead of having cake or some other confectionary delight brought out—had the waiter concoct a bacon sundae, which consisted of scoops of mashed potatoes with gravy and strips of bacon, in the likeness of a hot fudge sundae. I love my friends. And I love bacon.

• …unimaginably entertaining karaoke by my friends who braved the stage of Nashville’s WannaBe’s. Lucky for you, you don’t have to imagine it. I had my camera with me. And it was rolling. I may reap death for this, but, here ya go!

•  …one friend, forty-five sheets to the wind, spotted hiding under a table at some point. O_O

• …going to the bathroom to check on an uh…sick friend, and peeping my head under the stall at the risk of catching vomit to the face—WHO does that? Or, when I commenced to crawling under the stall to join she and our other friend, and reached out to put my hand on her shoulder in an attempt to comfort her, and was stopped short with a “DO. NOT. TOUCH. ME.” …I’m convinced that at that very moment, I was in the stall with the female version of Damien. Needless to say, I took consoling her, off of my agenda—and I got the hell out of there.

• …the extraordinary fall. Which happened after karaoke, when we decided it was time to move onto the bull riding phase of the night…and a friend slipped on some liquid (no one really knows what it was) and went splat in the middle of the floor, much to her chagrin, in front of a cute guy. Though, he did offer to help her up. I’m sure that helped….because everyone wants to bust their ass in front of a guy that they think is cute, and then have him offer to help them up, right? Yeah…right….of course.

•   …me, riding a bull…in a dress. (*never before seen footage!*)

• …dancing [to include doing ‘the robot’] on an elevated stage… in a night club…with a rodeo clown…in full makeup and rodeo clown gear. Totally happened. I can’t make this stuff up, and in the event that you think I can, there’s photographic proof.

• …all…that…tequila…

•  …the hot dog stand. I can’t even begin to tell you about those shenanigans. Ridiculousness—in epic proportions.

• …hearing “I’m 32 years old” from a drunk friend. At bi-minute intervals. For no good reason whatsoever.

•  …my friend, sleeping in the middle of the dining room floor and waking up the next morning not having a clue where he was, or why he was there…he’s 32 years old.

•   …in the a.m., hearing about the adventures of a couple of friends who left early the night before headed back to our rental, due to uh…illness, and got kicked out of one cab…due to uh…illness, and dropped off in a sketchy area with “some freaks with tattoos…no offense, Robyn”…and had to wait for a second cab to pick them up, while hoping not to get maimed by tattooed freaks…

…not even gonna lie, if everyone with tattoos looked like this, I’d be scared too.

• …the bad bacon…well, wait, that…that was just sad. 

• Brunch at my favorite brunch spot in Nashville, Garden Brunch Cafe, and quotes like: “it tastes like a sex on the beach, minus the sex.”

Good times. And that only covers half of it…

Sweet Dreams Aren’t Made of This

So, last night, I had a well, um…a disturbing dream.

I was at my boyfriend’s house, who doesn’t actually exist in real life…and if he did actually exist in real life, I probably wouldn’t date him, because he owned pit bulls…aaand he allowed them to sleep in bed with us.

Yeah, three of those guys.

So there we were, lying in bed, among an island of four legged ferocity, and I’m all trying to drift off to sleep, but I can’t because the bejeezus is in me—and it’s scared crapless of these dogs.

Eventually, I somehow manage.

Except, I wake up in the middle of the night, to find that one of these little land piranhas is laying on top of me, with his warm jaw swathing my bare abdomen.

He’s asleep. I’m obviously WIDE awake now.

I lay as still as possible and contemplate how long it’ll be before I die from holding my breath. I mean, if I move at all, I may accidentally wake Kujo’s less affable cousin and send him into attack mode. They’re pretty much ALWAYS on, right? So, there I lay, as rigid as a virgin on prom night.

I turn my head ever so slightly to see the outline of The BF…facing in the opposite direction. Bastard.

Yeah, I’m screwed.

My poor body is starting to realize that I’ve cut off its air supply, and it is NOT happy. It will only be a matter of seconds before I either pass out, or my body wins and I begin gasping for air. Either way, like I said, I realize I’m screwed.

I wished I would have just passed out.

Instead, my body wins—and I’m proven right about the whole attack mode thing.

I start gasping for air.

The dog, startled, latches onto my bare abdomen and apparently thinks it’s in a pie eating contest. Robyn pie. I’m screaming bloody murder (quite literally), meanwhile, The BF jumps up and turns on a light and starts trying to pull the beast off of me.

Except, this pup clearly has no intentions of getting up from the table until the whistle is blown, he’s scarfed his last bite of pie, and is holding the winners ribbon in his little blood-sodden clawed paw.

I look down at the little guy…whipping his head back and forth, with my stomach squishing between his teeth like jellybeans. Are those my small intestines? Yep. Gross.

Somehow, I have the wherewithal, whilst being eaten alive, to do what? Well what else? Naturally, I grab my phone, snap a picture and Instagram my demise…except, I never get to upload it…because… I couldn’t decide on a filter.

That’s what I get for being indecisive.

And then…well, then that’s where the dream ends and I wake up….and my hand (aka, the deadly pitbull) is just within the inside of the waistband of my yoga (aka pajama) pants, flush against my abdomen.

The moral of this story is: don’t watch movies with dog attacks in them before bed—and keep your hands out of your yoga pants.