In Living Ink

Dedication

To my husband Jeffrey, who was there for every ink spot and never complained about the incessant tapping at four am.

This is our story.

Jesus replied, You don’t understand now what I am doing, but someday you will.

John 13:7 NLT

Preface

After wrapping up the filming of our hour-long TV reality show Tattoo School, I exhaled. I imagined my image being lit up on the gigantic billboards in Times Square, wearing something fabulous and looking twenty-five pounds thinner. Maybe I’d be positioned next to a Calvin Klein model wearing nothing but skivvies and a grin.

After the star-studded premiere, a long black limo would come for Jeff and me and we’d be whisked away to a glamorous rooftop party filled with celebrities. Photographers would pose us, and we’d appear on a Time magazine cover—or at least People—as the new pioneers of tattoo education.

Definition of reality: the world or the state of things as they actually exist, as opposed to an idealistic or notional idea of them.

One week before Tattoo School was scheduled to broadcast on TLC, there were no parties, no magazine stories, I wasn’t twenty-five pounds thinner, and 50,000 people wanted to kill me.

That was my reality show.

Chapter 1

I stared at the computer thinking I must have read something wrong. The screen started getting fuzzy from the outside in, as my field of vision began shrinking and darkening around the edges. My insides began churning and I could have thrown up, all in an instant.

Jeff was standing next to me. We had just survived an intense heart-to-heart conversation and were already experiencing the most emotionally draining day in our eleven-year relationship. And now this.

The email was sent from a film production company in England I had never heard of. It was a long letter that started out with a polite and formal introduction. I quickly scanned the first few paragraphs and didn’t think much of it until I hit the middle portion and it began dawning on me that this wasn’t a Nigerian scam letter saying they would transfer $100K into my bank account. These people had obviously done some prior research on me and seemed to know my professional life quite well. They knew enough about my school, The Tattoo Learning Center, to prompt me to put on my reader glasses and start reading more carefully. My eyes scanned faster and faster because in spite of having an emotional day with Jeff, the length of this letter suggested this was something important too.

Four or five paragraphs down came the hook. They wanted me to star in their upcoming reality TV show, Tattoo School.

I should have been thrilled, I guess. Instead I was terrified. A cavalcade of horrible things had been happening to me lately with reasonable consistency so I presumed (correctly, as it would later turn out) that this was merely a thinly veiled disaster of another sort waiting to happen.

In the weeks leading up to this email, Jeff, my significant other, had wandered away from me and was searching for the lovely and tempting Sirens’ song that was summoning him from the bottom of the Jack Daniels bottle.

Chapter 2

I met Jeff after my middle-aged, and newly tattooed-self had separated from Michael, my college sweetheart and husband. There was no time overlap between these two relationships, but it wouldn’t be fair to say that I was searching for another long-term man. I wasn’t; it just happened that way.

The separation agreement Michael and I signed said that we would share custody of our two beautiful little girls, Alexandra and Allegra, but that they would live with me in our house. Michael had moved out into his own apartment and would have the girls at his nearby place on the weekends. I desperately missed them when they weren’t with me and I could hardly stand it. When I looked at their empty little toddler beds I felt an uncomfortable loneliness I wanted to flee from. Like that deep itch that drives you mad until you can rub up against something to get relief, but I couldn’t find the tree to rub up against or even the wooden backscratcher for that matter. The excruciating separation anxiety pain felt like a burning house, if I didn’t run fast enough I was going to perish. My only option was to stay as busy as humanly possible.

So I posted one simple sentence on the Internet’s intricately woven web and waited to see if I’d find any reasonable distractions:

Looking for someone to ride with, rope with, or rodeo with.

I meant what I posted, literally and simply. A relationship—any kind of relationship—that was light and breezy seemed like a comforting idea. It wouldn’t have mattered if a man or a woman replied; any new equine friends would be welcomed. In my life I had never really had a true horse companion—hubby was never horsey—so I figured that might be the perfect distraction right now.

Horses have always been a huge part of my life. From the time I could first walk, talk, and think, the only thing I desperately wanted was a horse. Dad was happy to take me to riding lessons but Mom didn’t encourage my interest and definitely didn’t want the responsibilities and expenses of caring for a horse. They always told me, When you’re old enough to buy your own, you can get one. I took that to heart and looked forward to adulthood for that single and solitary reason: I’d be able to finally have my very own horse.

Shortly after college, I followed through on my lifelong quest and bought a handsome chestnut thoroughbred named Blonde Sinner. I’ll never forget the day he came. As he was being taken off the trailer it was like seeing the most magnificent Christmas present Santa ever made walking towards me. All my dreams were manifested in this four-legged creature. It was the happiest day of my life, with the exception of January 20th, 1993 and August 28th, 1995, my girls’ birthdates, but that’s a different kind of happy, a maternal happy, this was pure childlike bliss. I enjoyed life with that beautiful horse for twenty years. I spent every free moment with him and he did everything I ever asked of him. He had a heart as big as all outdoors and my father-in-law always said he expected to see him sitting at the dining room table on Thanksgiving. I affectionately referred to him as my first-born.

Sinner was so multi-talented and eager that I felt an obligation to challenge him regularly with new activities. In our many years together we had jumped, showed, fox-hunted, gymkhana’d, trail rode, team-penned, and played a lot of polo. Team roping and barrel racing were the only events left that we hadn’t attempted together, so I hoped my new equine-loving friend, if one materialized, might want to explore those activities with me. On the other hand, if my new friend only rode horses for pleasure or enjoyed going to the rodeo on a Friday night, that would work too.

I posted only once.

Replies started appearing in my email box by the next morning. None of them were horsey so none received a response. More non-equine replies poured in for the next few days. Some guys chose to believe my rope, ride, and rodeo words were words to describe some weird fetish I was into; others just ignored the horse aspect entirely.

It wasn’t until several days later I got an email that piqued my interest. The jargon suggested the writer was indeed a true horseman. A cowboy. Finally, a letter worth replying to!

Just to be sure, I quizzed the emailer with an endless barrage of questions and was eventually satisfied that I had found a bona fide horseman. We wrote back and forth several times a day for more than a month before deciding to meet. I liked the fact that he never asked what I looked like. But because we had never exchanged pictures of ourselves, the idea of a meet and greet was a scary proposition, even for an extrovert like myself.

After a few false starts, we finally met for lunch at the local mall. That date was my one and only Internet-born encounter. Jeff showed up in a puffy blue Buffalo Bills jacket and was hobbling around on crutches, having recently broken his ankle. I wore a denim jacket with a felt horse-head on the back, tight jeans, and cowboy boots. My stomach was so queasy from nerves that most of my lunch stayed on the plate. It was strange to know all this man’s likes and dislikes, disappointments and dreams, from so many hours of chatting by email, yet to be so unfamiliar with his face. I told myself that after this lunch I would not be doing this awkward meet and greet thing ever again.

After that Ruby Tuesday lunch, I walked, and Jeff hobbled, around the mall for a few hours and we planned our next date. And although Jeff didn’t have the Italian look I was usually attracted to, I found myself drawn to his easy, laid-back demeanor. I think the crutches had something to do with it.

Jeff hinted at being a recovering alcoholic. He had been sober only four months when we met that day. At the time I didn’t realize how delicate a recovery state that is, nor did I learn the extent of how far down he was capable of going when hitting rock bottom.

Our date ended with my feeling satisfied that this quiet cowboy seemed legit and uncomplicated. And that was what I was looking for. I needed a horse-loving friend and he needed a sober girlfriend. We were a good fit. I was willing to see him for what he was, and he was willing to do the same for me.

Pretty much after the second date we became inseparable. I was afraid of being alone when the kids were gone, and he needed an equal amount of distraction to keep him sober. We did everything together—rode horses, went antiquing, watched old westerns, and read books. I think a shrink would have called it a solid co-dependent relationship.

We made out like kids in his beat-up truck and always found things to keep us busy. Jeff had a serious rodeo background and had ridden professionally. Like many rodeo riders, he’d also lived a rodeo life, which is not unlike that of a touring rock musician—drinking, women, late nights, crazy adventures, bad relationships. But he genuinely seemed to be over that phase.

Chapter 3

I didn’t want to fall in love again, so I tried keeping Jeff at arm’s length. I was guarded with him and he kept his demons well hidden and under control. Still, we were growing closer, slowly but surely. One thing that was interesting about Jeff was that he stuck to me like glue—he enjoyed being in my physical presence—but he wasn’t clingy or needy. I liked that. So we were happily keeping each other company, but it wasn’t getting complicated. I liked that even more.

The year 2000 was approaching. I had just quit hand-painting clothing after two long decades, and was searching for my next occupation. Something that would keep the lights turned on and my vehicle from being repossessed.

Though my hand-painted clothing business had been good to me and had brought me a lot of satisfaction and income, I finally just needed to stop. Painting pink and purple flowers had been my bread and butter for almost as long as I could remember. Every day I would paint about 20 pieces of clothing—80 to 100 a week—and then sell them at craft shows on the weekends. I had grown tired of the business after ten years, but had stayed with it for ten more because I loved the self-sufficiency it gave me, and because it jelled perfectly with being a mom. But it had reached a point where I abhorred the thought of painting another iris. I was way beyond burned out. I would rather have flipped burgers or cleaned toilets than paint one more pastel-colored pansy. With two small daughters at home, I didn’t consider day care an option, so my employment choices were definitely limited.

I needed something where I could be reasonably self-sufficient, and also, if possible, a little bit creative. I wasn’t sure what was next but was wide open to ideas. What happened next was where some would say divine intervention intervened.

Okay, now let me backtrack a bit. Two years before meeting Jeff, I had become a statistic in the ever-expanding demographic of women between the ages of 18 and 40 who get a tattoo. Admittedly, I could say that I have yearned for multi-colored skin all my life, but the real reason I got a tattoo was to shake up the status quo in my life and in my extended family. I was ready to reclaim my identity and remind everyone that I was more than a parent. And the teenager that lived inside of me just wanted to do something naughty. But it had to be something that wouldn’t hurt anybody else because after all, I was a responsible mother and had to put my family first. Getting a tattoo seemed like the perfect blend of self-actualization and outrageousness.

As soon as that needle broke open the skin on my upper arm, and a beautiful shade of aqua appeared beneath the surface, I knew I was having an experience that I would never forget. I was hooked right from the moment I saw the artist dip the needle into a tiny plastic cap full of ink. Tattooing looked like painting to me but with different brushes and on much more interesting canvas than what I was previously used to.

A thirty-eight year old soccer Mom, I suddenly found myself sporting a thin, pastel-colored, self-designed floral armband. I wore it like a badge of honor. Now when I looked in the mirror, I wasn’t Mommy or Mrs. Anyone, I was me again. I adored my new tattoo and stared at it in the mirror every chance I got.

When the tattoo artist was