It’s funny. When you start looking back on your life, you begin to see instances from your childhood that seem like clues to what lies ahead. I had that happen to me not that long ago. I began to remember when I was six years old and saw a woman with a tattoo for the first time. Before that, I had only seen men with them. I was instantly captivated when I saw her at the apartment complex swimming pool where we lived.

She was sitting on the edge of the pool with her feet hanging in the water, talking with a friend. Her cigarette plumed smoke around her Barbie-like hair. Her bathing suit was a black, strapless one piece number that looked like it had been made from my uncle’s leather jacket. Regardless, I thought she was so bad ass. I convinced myself, at that moment, that she rode a motorcycle; not on the back, but drove her own. Why wouldn’t she? She has a tattoo and wears a leather bathing suit.

The tattoo was of a single red rose with a thorny green stem. The rose sprouted from the left side of her bathing suit, on her chest. I couldn’t stop staring at it. At the time, I thought it was huge. Looking back, it was probably two inches long. It doesn’t matter because it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. I would swim back and forth near her so I could check it out. I wanted to see every detail of the rose. My brother, Chris, tried snagging me away with a spirited game of Marco Polo. He even said I could be Marco. Nope, I don’t have time for such non-bad ass games. Sadly, she went home and so did we.

Over the next few days, I would try to draw the tattoo on paper. I made many attempts to match the red and green of her rose as best as I could. I drew it over and over to try and make it perfect.  I cut out one of the roses as best I could so there would be no white paper showing. I sneaking into my mom’s room, I snagged one of her tube tops from her dresser drawer and put it on as if it were my own leather bathing suit. I took the rose and taped it to my chest and had it coming out of the tube top just like her tattoo. I made sure to hide the tape, of course. There’s nothing bad ass about tape sticking out from behind your tattoo.

In front of the mirror in my room, I checked myself out. I didn’t look right. Something was missing. Aha!  I grabbed a crayon and began to puff on it like it was a cigarette. Now I looked like her. Yah, I gotta tattoo. So what? I have a motorcycle, too because I’m bad ass, man.

When I wasn’t being a miniature biker babe, I was very much into playing house. I was having a tea party and needed one more guest. I went to my closet and grabbed my Raggedy Ann doll. I wasn’t fond of the outfit she was wearing, so I decided to change her. Now, I don’t know why I hadn’t noticed this before, but when I changed Raggedy Ann’s clothes, I saw it. There, right on her chest…..a tattoo! How come I hadn’t noticed it before? I was so excited; first the lady at the poll and now this? But wait! There’s more…..

Hefty Smurf. There, on his little stuffed blue arm, a heart tattoo. It was similar to Raggedy Ann’s heart, but his was manlier because it was on his bicep and it had an arrow through it. That’s right up there with the lady from the pool. Hefty Smurf was bad ass! It wasn’t long before my cluster of Hefty Smurf’s grew. I couldn’t get enough of his tattoo.

 

Were these little snippets from my childhood a glimpse into my future? Possibly. It’s kind of fun to think so. Was it Raggedy Ann and the pool lady that made me decide to have my first tattoo done my chest? No. I didn’t get a rose and the placement was so I was able to see it while my parents couldn’t. Then there’s Hefty Smurf….is he Augie?????

Blago, oh Blago. Where for art thou Blago? Oh yah, you’re in prison. For those of you that don’t know, he was the Gov’nah of this fair state that I reside in….Illinois (‘nuff said). So suffice it to say, I don’t shed a tear for the man. See, him and I go way back…all the way back to 2006. I, along with the whole tattoo community, were taken aback when he announced that he wanted to raise the age of consent for tattoos from 18 to 21.

That was a punch in the gut for our family because this meant that our income was going to drop due to a significant loss in clientele.  That’s huge. The gut slam was quickly followed by a bitch slap to the face when we heard his reason. He was so hell bent on getting the age of consent raised because....he didn’t want his daughters to get tattoos when they turned 18. His daughters, at the time, were still in elementary school. I was livid and I wasn’t alone.

Our clients were just as pissed off as we were and saying things like, “They can send me to Iraq and fight for this country, but I can’t get a tattoo?” And they were right. Blago wasn’t thinking further than his own family. Besides, who’s to say the girls wouldn’t hop the border to get one if they really wanted to? If they want it that bad, they’d find a way.

It wasn’t long before this hullabaloo made it to the local TV news and newspapers; nothing big, just a blip. But still, it was something. I began to see articles that had interviewed area tattoo artists about the proposed age change. They were just as outraged as we were. They knew the impact that this was going to have on all of us. A group of artist even gathered in the city to protest.

The news stations didn’t follow the story for very long. I was surprised, actually. What news media doesn’t love a bunch of “freaks” for increased viewership? Without any warning, the focus on age of consent stopped. Blago’s camp announced that they were not pursuing the matter any further.  Just like that, we were done. We won!! Well, we didn’t know it right away, but we won because Blago was under investigation. Tattoo and piercing ages didn’t seem to be of much concern anymore.

A happy ending!

It’s hard for me to believe that I’ve been a tattoo wife for over 19 years now. When I look back, it’s almost like watching a movie. We were so stinkin’ young. I couldn’t legally drink at my own wedding; I was 20, he was 25. Since we were so young, we kind of grew up together. We had lived with our parents until we got our first place shortly before we were married.

Our first apartment was a quaint two bedroom overlooking a courtyard in an Arlington Heights complex. We found this place through some friends who were already living in the same building. How awesome was that? We wouldn’t have to drive anywhere to hang out with them! That sounded perfect us. Sadly, it didn’t take long to realize that this place was neither awesome nor perfect.

We had people ringing the door buzzer at all hours of the night. One time, there was a guy yelling, “I need a dime. I need a dime.” He had woken us up and being half asleep, I said, “Tell him to go to the Jewel across the street and get change.” Augie informed me that it wasn’t change he was looking for…….Ohhhh!!! It didn’t take us long to figure out that we may be living in the Dealer’s Penthouse Suite.

Looking back, I often wonder why we didn’t call the police. I have no answer to that; I really don’t. I wasn’t afraid. I knew Augie would take care of everything and he did. He would just tell them to go away and then we’d roll over and go back to sleep. But things changed rather quickly.

I remember it was on a Saturday because Augie was at work and I was at the apartment alone. I was going about my day when I heard this incredibly chaotic noise. All I could hear was pounding, running and shouting, all at the same time, coming from all sides. I about wet my pants. It was so loud and startling that my dog didn’t even bark. The poor little guy froze. I think he may have peed, too.

 

I peeked out the window and the courtyard was a mess with these huge armed men running around. It was startling. I immediately called Augie at work, not even thinking…..how is he going to help me when he’s all the way in South Elgin? But, I was freaking out and I needed him to calm me down. He did and from what I described to him, he figured it was a drug bust. He was right. We had actually seen the plants and growing lights the front window of the apartment above us when we moved in. A bust was bound to happen. I just didn’t expect it to be home when it happened.

That Monday, he went into the rental office the moment they opened and broke our lease. To this day, I have no idea what he told them, but whatever he said must have worked. We were out of our lease after only a few weeks of living there. But, I do have to say, it wasn’t all dealers, hopheads and raids. I did get a kick out of this older couple who would walk every day at the same time I’d walk our dog.

The husband always walked several paces ahead of her with his eyes straight ahead. It wasn’t hard to figure out that it was probably on purpose. She’d follow him, hollering. I couldn’t understand a word she said, but she said it with force. He’d take a rest on some bleachers that we’d pass and she’d sit a few rows behind him and continue to holler at the poor guy. Note to self: Never do that to Augie! Especially since he got us out of that place!