firstwivesworld - Episode 15: Body Art - Comments

tattoos

Guest — Wed, 21 May 2008 22:01:38 -0400

I get the tattoo thing. It's just a ritual. But what I don't get is why everyone gets the same damn tattoos. Every tattoo parlor I see has 100's of designs in the window, and yet everyone gets the same old spirally design, or dragon, or Asian lettering. Get creative, folks! ... Like Esme!

yay esme. just sending some applause . .

Guest — Thu, 13 Mar 2008 08:25:04 -0400

. . . To the writer of this blog. am enjoying reading it and keeping up wih the unfolding story. Am going through my own "hot flashes" now, and have yet to find a way to laugh about it. Your blog has been cathartic for me. Anyway, thank you and please keep wrirting them. Your humor is medicinal for me. Im lonely, unhappy, feel a bandonded since my ex left. well, no more poor me,... thank again. JB

tattoo you

Guest — Wed, 12 Mar 2008 13:21:50 -0400

Esme character is too funny. bt what is it with tattoo's and the reinvetion thing? a few of my girlfriends have them. I don't get it.

Episode 15: Body Art

Tue, 11 Mar 2008 08:22:00 -0400

In case you were wondering, I didn't have sex with Raoul. Oh, I may have wanted to lunge at him right then and there, his ripped "I'm a handyman and don't you forget it" t-shirt, the indecipherable longitude and latitude tattoo, the chest (really muscle-y, by the way) that was pressed up against mine, all of it—but as the owner of a house in the process of the most important re-model of its forty-plus-year-old, mid-century life (kind of like forty-plus-year-old, almost mid-century, in need of some minor remodeling, me) I managed, somehow, to exercise some self control.

That doesn't mean I didn't think about it. A lot. After Raoul took off (the dining room, still not painted, I might add. What's up with that?) I consumed most of what was left of a velvet heart-shaped box of chocolates (a misplaced gift from an apoplectic Jeffrey after the Sonya incident - could he be any more of a loser?? I mean really, how could chocolate, even twenty dollar a pound, gold flecked Brazilian cacao, ever make up for walking in on my half-naked ex-husband and a hooker), downed a half-bottle of Muscato D'Asti (that sweet, sparkling Italian stuff that makes you believe that a bike-riding vacation in Tuscany may still be in your Liposuctioned future), whipped out my new, bedazzled iPhone (yeah, I got one) and called Annabelle to tell her to get the hell out of bed pronto because I was getting inked.

Now, it is important to note here that the tattoo thing had nothing to do with Raoul. I want to make it perfectly clear that I don't do things just because I may or may not be lusting after some dude, who happens to have a kick-ass tattoo of his own. (At least, not usually. There was the "buying fifty heads of lettuce incident" which just possibly might have had something to do with that adorable Whole Foods produce boy...)