Wednesday, November 02, 2005

about 900 years a year and a half ago when I was turning 30, I was prepared to have a mini breakdown for my birthday so I decided to take the day off of work and go shopping and get a new tattoo.

I thought about a million different ideas for a tattoo and then decided on a tiger because both my son and I were born in the Chinese Year of the Tiger* so, being the original soul that I am, I went straight to Google images - GOSH, so many tiger designs to choose from - do I get a realistic looking one? or a cartoon-y looking one? or a Disney one? or a Chinese symbol meaning Tiger? After months upon months long minutes of looking over the 7 trillion results, I found the perfect image - it wasn't cartoon-y, it was just... well, here - here's a picture of the tattoo (it's located on the back of my left shoulder, thanks for asking).

I was so proud of my tiger, so proud of it's originality and uniqueness... until last weekend when my son and I went into Kmart in search of a lightweight jacket for him (and some Jacqueline Smith leisure wear for me***) and there was a whole line of zip up sweatshirts in the boys' department boldly emblazoned with the EXACT SAME DESIGN.

I'm not sure how, but I'm pretty sure this is Martha Stewart's fault.


* Obviously I mainly wanted a tattoo to celebrate my Chinese heritage**, but if I'd been born in some pansy year like rabbit or ox, I'd have probably chosen to get a container of kung pao chicken tattooed on me

** I SWEAR if one person says something lame like "I didn't know you were Chinese" I will drive to wherever you live and smack you upside the head.

*** if you believed that one, you can go ahead and stop reading my blog right now, there's nothing here for you