Before you get a tattoo, don't consider this

So, I wore black Ed Hardy sweatpants to work out last week.

I know.

Even though The Buckle, Las Vegas in general and a handful of unfortunate fratbags don't, I do know that Ed Hardy, excessively embellished "tattoo design" clothing and fight apparel (starting but not ending with Affliction) are now officially overdone and therefore out of style.

But the thing is, these sweats are so comfortable that I don't care. (I sound like a Crocs-wearer.)

Plus, I'm hoping that sweatpants somehow get exemption from trends. I mean, they're sweats. Their very nature is anti-sexy.

Sometimes I get all Hot Tub Time Machine and imagine I'm looking back on the late 2000s/early 2010s. I think people will wear Ed Hardy costumes, pink hair and ear gauges, similar to how we wear jelly bracelets and banana clips when we dress for an '80s party. Surely the J-Bieb swooping man bangs (the preppy version of the Emo) will be a costume staple. So will the Kat Von D wig: black hair with blonde highlights.

Which brings up tattoos. No one can deny that tattoos are super trendy right now. They started out alternative, but now everyone and their mom, literally, has one. Full sleeves are no longer novel, not even on police officers, pregnant women and doctors. Certainly not on women. Thanks Angelina. Thanks Suicide Girls. We can single-handedly thank Megan Fox for the side rib tattoos.

I've got my share of ink, and it's worth disclaiming that my husband is a tattoo artist. Which makes me ponder about the longevity of his career; like other tattooists, he only is getting busier.

How will tattoos be perceived in 10 years, 20 years, 50 years? Will everyone eventually be covered? Will no one care? How does a trend that is permanent change the dynamics of what's "in" and "out?"

With so many people with tattoos, especially tattoos that they love (elaborate -- and expensive -- works of art), it seems unlikely that tattoos can ever actually go out of style.

But I wonder if my daughter will hate them because all the "old people" have tattoos. Or will she get one when she's 10? Will body modification just get more and more extreme, like with glow-in-the-dark LED implants? Or will there be a huge surge of rebellion against what is now the norm, a wave of people removing them to look "cool" and not "old."

Look at history. Every decade or so seems to be a rebellion against a previous one. Following the minimalism of the Depression, the '50s were all glam, excess and glory. Red lipstick and curls. Then '70s rebelled against that, with minimalism. No makeup, natural hippies and straight hair. Then the '80s rebelled against that, with another version of glam -- more excess, layers of necklaces, ruffles and lace and bows. Then the '90s went the opposite direction: grunge, plaid and boyish ruggedness.

I don't exactly understand the evolution we are in now. I ponder permanency, and how that will change the ebb and flow of trends. What if the red lipstick of the '50s were permanent? Would all of those women have regretted it just 20 years later, but then been happy to have it again in the '80s?

How will permanent body modifications play into the trends of the future? And if they go "out" somehow and people begin removing them, will that make the rest of us who keep our tattoos rebels again -- bringing tattoos back to their original roots?

I asked my husband these questions and he looked at me blankly. Then he responded:
If you worry about what others will think of your tattoo, then you're getting it for the wrong reason to begin with.

Maybe I should let him tattoo "touché" on my forehead.

Photo by Molly Plann.

The fine line between participation and caricature

When it comes down to it, this is actually quite ridiculous. My dad would call it a "high-level problem." It's not like I'm worrying about dying of cholera in contaminated drinking water or where my family is going to sleep tonight.

I've been sitting here in tears because my daughter won't nap, and I'm supposed to be writing about Betabrand "Cordaround" pants (with horizontal instead of vertical corduroy), but I absolutely cannot do it because, well, all I can think about is what I'm supposed to wear to the Def Leppard concert tonight.

Yup. That's my stress.

I think the last time I felt this anxious about what to wear was the first day of seventh-grade, which, incidentally, was around the height of my Def Lep fanaticism. Now, I'm what you might call a serial sarcastic-concert-goer. I wore stirrup pants to Bon Jovi and a baggy tee and tight jeans to Bret Michaels. I even curled and ratted my bangs, just for good measure.

When attending such a concert, you must swathe yourself in the right amount of ridiculousness, in order to securely draw the line between participation and caricature. Otherwise you could be swept into the sea of serious Cherry Creek moms, swaying and holding their hands over their hearts/Mom Jeans' waistbands (same location), while nodding that yes, every rose does have its thorn. Sniffle.

In a way, concert slumming is simultaneously owning and chuckling at your past -- a way to indulge in excellent power ballads like "Love Bites," while rising above the fact that Tommy checked "no" in the letter you passed him, even though you carved a "T" with an eraser on your ankle for him. Or so I hear. (The "T" on my ankle is a totally natural scar from some injury that I can't seem to remember.)

You see, if I just hopped in my car without crimping my hair, people might think I seriously like the greatest stripper song of all times ("Pour some sugar on me," obviously), or that I regularly dance around my house to it while sweeping when my husband works late on Thursdays.

Yet my costume creativity is depleted, and like any art form, you can't force it when uninspired. I used all of it for a photo shoot this weekend for my husband's business, Surfbillytattoo.com, whereby I hula-hooped while wearing a latex dress and stilettos; Lisa ate Astro Pops in a kiddie pool of squirt guns; and Caleb sipped fine whiskey in a beach chair in a graffiti-covered alley. How could I possibly one-up a photo stint with a pirate piñata and mermaid costume? I don't even know what's normal or bizarre anymore, much less what a proper '80s costume entails.

Plus, we're going to the concert with our friends Mike and Renu, the ultimate hair-band couple. Renu is a mad scientist who can infuse glitter into any substance, from lip gloss to cocktails to a curry dinner. She's the only human more sparkly than Joe Elliott himself, with his matching silver glit-sneakers, mic and stand, guitar, belt and (probably) man thong.

Whereas Mike, with his long, curly brown hair, is a dead ringer for Vivian Campbell. Did I mention he plays the bass? Mike, not Vivian. See? Even I'm confused.

As for my husband, I caught him cramming on Def Leppard's Wikipedia page so he would have some "limo banter." (Of course Mike and Renu rented a limo, because they are the ultimate.) My shaved-headed man won't even paint his nails, and he doesn't own one single pair of leather pants or glitter shoes.

We are doomed for a very serious night out in our regular clothes.

I guess I'll just wear what I already have on: a short leopard-print ruffle dress, pumps with socks, one single fingerless fishnet glove and this cropped leather jacket.

Sigh. Maybe Tommy will be there.

Link:
http://www.dailycamera.com/ci_18829944

Real rewards

One of the prominent qualities of a true fashionista is the ability -- nay, the instinctual need -- to one-up.

You wear a feather in your hair. I wear an entire ball gown made out of feathers. To Walgreens.

You wear a trendy patch of lace on your sweatshirt. I wear more lace than a Mexican quinceanera: a purple seven-layer(-dip) lace skirt, black lace leggings, a gray lace corset-style blouse and a gray scarf. Too much? Nah, I scaled back and I left the lace wrist-length gloves at home. Ridiculous? Only if you're boring. I prefer fearless and fun.

So needless to say, when my husband achieved the master one-up on me, it sent me into an identity-crisis tizzy.

He put the card in my pants. How? How did he do it? And more importantly, how could I ever beat that?

The challenge began about a month ago in the queue at Big Lots in Longmont. Despite the Hub's intimidating appearance -- he towers above Too Tall Jones like a 7-foot-tall tattooed totem pole -- he, like most huge beasts, is extremely gentle. So much, in fact, that he could not say no to the elderly cashier when she asked him to sign up for a Big Lots Buzz Club Rewards card. Just spend something like $200 a Big Lots and you can redeem your 20-percent-off reward.

Gee whiz.

I understand a Walmart rewards card because it's impossible to walk out of that war zone without dropping $2,000, even if you just "run in" to "grab some batteries."

But is it even possible to spend $200 at Big Lots? I don't think the entire store of dinged-up junk amasses to 50 bucks. And if we were to somehow blow that much cash at Big Lots, 20 percent off is a totally sucky prize. I mean, isn't the premise of the store that everything is already discounted? So, what, after spending $200 I can get my toilet paper for $1.40 instead of $2 discounted from $5?

Obviously, I had to make fun of my husband, because I am as short as he is tall and everyone knows that short people are generally evil. To rub it in, I sneaked the Big Lots card into his car -- "Just in case you need it, sweetie."

Later that day, I found the card in my wallet. So I put it on his key chain. Without saying a word, he wedged the card into my lipstick.

Oh, hell no. Not the lipstick.

It was on.

He nearly choked on the card while popping sunflower seeds on our recent road trip. I nearly vomited when I found it at the bottom of my beer. Then it appeared stuck on the inside of my sunglasses, in the leg of his surfing wet suit, under his scrambled eggs, wedged inside my apple pie, in the left cup of my bra.

The card made it inside my book, inside his shoe, under my pillow and in the bag for my white Halloween wig.

I was impressed when he managed to affix it to my bobby pin while shopping in Vegas without me noticing. When he grew suspicious of my actions, I enlisted a friend to slip it in his right shorts pocket while we were dancing on Halloween. I thought the superlative was when I found the stupid card taped to my back; it had been there all day.

But then I found it in my pants.

This brought up all kinds of complicated emotions for me. How oblivious must I be to my surroundings if A) He had managed to accomplish this, and B) I had not noticed for I don't know how long. Not to mention the gross factor. He swore he'd disinfected it, but after the scrambled eggs and wet suit, I felt a little violated, I did.

Which brings us to today. I've been paining over how to get back at that sneaky freak of mine.

With the full acceptance that some things just can't be one-upped -- like, say, Gaga's dress made out of raw meat -- I wouldn't be true to myself if I didn't at least try.

Dear Husband, I hope you enjoy your lunch. I made that pizza just for you. Pick a slice, any slice. I call this game Russian Rewards Roulette.

Have a heart

Photo by Tres Benet.

I didn't have the heart to tell the man at Shooters Grill and Bar that the autopsy-style y-cut stitches on my chest were just makeup, not a real tattoo.

Wait for it.

Didn't. Have. The. Heart. Zing. Groan.

Someone punch me.

"It takes real kahunas to get a tattoo like that," he had said, and far be it from me not to accept an undeserved compliment.

It took real, albeit slightly smaller, kahooties to wear the temporary markings out to the Boulder bars, too. I could have washed off my zombie makeup, after my performance with the Dollhouse Pole Studio's dance fundraiser. But beyond Halloween, how often do you have an excuse to wear neck stitches and fake blood out in public?

That's a rhetorical question.

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The sisterhood of the traveling shirt

Jean Marie Designz

Once there was a shirt. Not just an ordinary shirt. This shirt, the Traveling Shirt, went on to do great things and witness some crazy debauchery.

This is the story of that shirt, and four friends who stole this shirt from each other, clawing and scraping and willing to take each other out for the chance to wear the Traveling Shirt.

Until the Traveling Shirt had babies.

But wait. We're getting ahead of ourselves. First, meet Kirstin Landers. Kirstin, 26, was getting ready to go to a barbecue, and she wanted to wear something unique. She loved punk clothes. And rockabilly. And '50s pin-up. She called it punkabilly.

Although she had never studied fashion, the Denver woman had always dreamed of being a designer. So on this day, she designed. She measured and snipped and sewed. She created a low-scooping halter out of a fabric of black and white skulls and red roses. Then, below the empire waist, she affixed a sheer black and white polka-dot scarf, in a "v" shape. A tie around the neck and a tie around the waist made it nearly backless. She had her unique top.

The Traveling Shirt was born.

She wore the Shirt to the barbecue, and even the hot dogs on the burning coals seems to turn and stare as she walked by. Kirstin paired the Shirt with black short-shorts and fishnet stockings. She totally rocked, er rockabillied, the picnic.

Lisa was getting ready for the Mike Ness concert at the Gothic Theatre in Denver. Lisa, 22, of Boulder, arrived at her friend's house first wearing a shredded T-shirt and skinny jeans. It was Kirstin's birthday, and the concert was her gift.

Then, Lisa saw it: Draped over a chair in Kirstin's bedroom was an edgy skull-print Shirt, perfect for the show. She asked if she could borrow it.

Jean Marie Designz

All night at the concert, people asked Lisa about her edgy Shirt. There were so many inquiries, in fact, that Kirstin decided right there, amid the hootenanny, that she was going to become a fashion designer. Jean Marie Designz, she would call her line. Yes, with a "z."

As for Lisa, she wore the Shirt home, and coincidentally "didn't have the chance" to meet up with Kirstin again. Ever.

Or so it seemed.

I hadn't worn regular clothes for weeks, not since I decided to get a full-back tattoo. My shirts all stuck to the tattoo goo, which had stained my a corset and a vintage blouse. I had nearly sworn off shirts altogether when I decided to venture to the Westminster Mall, known for its plethora of stripper-esque clothes. Surely somewhere here would have a backless shirt.

I was right. Except all of the shirts I found were pretty much frontless, too. Why couldn't I find something backless -- and classy?

A few days later, I was wincing again under the needle at the tattoo shop when my friend Lisa dropped by. I nearly screamed; a combo of the needle hitting my kidney region and Lisa's outfit. Her Shirt was what I had been looking for. It was backless, but instead of being covered in Playboy symbols and sequins, it had polka-dots and roses. Totally adorable. I all but tore the Shirt off Lisa so I could wear it home.

I wore it the next day, too. And the next. I paired it with a red pencil skirt. And jeans. And a black skirt. And a few more times (read: 40 times) after the tattoo healed.

I couldn't help it. I had been possessed by the Traveling Shirt.

Tara arrived to our girls' night with a bottle of wine and red and white knee-length skirt. But before we could crack the cork, we were invited to go dancing and our low-key night turned on high.

Tara needed a new outfit. I held up a black skirt, a red dress, a purple shirt. But her eyes kept diverting to a certain Shirt that I had tried to hide in the corner of my closet.

"That," she said, with a definitive point. "It's sexy. It's perfect."

Tara wore the Shirt to Round Midnight on Pearl Street, and was flooded with so many free drinks and phone numbers that she felt overwhelmed. One guy offered to buy her pancakes. Another wrote a song for her and gave her a ring -- literally. He asked her if she was a witch, because there was no other explanation for the lovey-dovey pile of drool he had become.

But Tara and I exchanged nods, knowing it was the Shirt.

Likewise, I knew I would never see it again.

Me and Lisa, in standard facial attire.

Until Monday. I was having Shirt withdrawal, so I asked Lisa where it came from. She gave me Kirstin's number -- and Web sites: www.jeanmariedesignz.etsy.com and www.myspace.com/jeanmariedesignz.
There it was: a replica of the Traveling Shirt. Kirstin had missed it so much herself -- and had such a wild demand for more of its caliber -- that she was now selling it for $40.

I plan on placing two orders. The first, for Lisa, a sort of karmic rebalancing act for my original act of thievery. And the second for Tara. Hey, I want the original back.

"The Tie Top," it's called on Etsy.com.

But it should be called the Magical Traveling Top, unique, edgy, classy and sexy. Whatever you need it to be. And, most importantly, soon to be once again mine.

The only picture I can find of this wonderful shirt, on none other than Kristin.