Da Wei is a Crock!

DISCLAIMER: If you are Chinese and read this, do not take offense. I have included some things in here that help the reader understand the magnitude of the situation, and also mind you, I was with 4 Filipinos, and they had the same problems as I did. I love all people, and I embrace all cultures. I just have a serious issue with people thinking I am not intelligent, and trying to ride me for money.

So, with that being said, I was feeling frisky on Saturday, and I decided it was time to get my new tattoo that I had picked out.... No bigger than a dollar coin, and in blue, white, and black.

I was with my friends Renei, Don, Kevin, and Mary Ann, and they were all very excited for me and were happy to be there with me to get my new ink job. As they searched around the shop, sat on the couches, and looked through artists portfolio's, I waited patiently to talk to the lady at the counter.

This mid 50's Chinese lady (and I am not being racist or prejudiced, this whole situation just erks me a bit, and she happened to be Chinese is all) had some kind of welding helmet on of sorts, a rubber apron, and not one noticeable tattoo on her, was running the front desk. I finally got her attention, and I told her what I wanted.

THE CRAZY BITCH QUOTED ME $220!!!! OMFG! Right?

The first words out of my mouth were, "You're serious?"

She replies: "Yes, see, becaw dis a pafek suckle, see? Ottiss only ha one chance to make dis pafek suckle, and de long ottiss mess it up and you have no pafek suckle on body fo lest of rife." (yes, I am doing dialect now)

Me: "You're serious?"

Crazy Chinese Tattoo Lady: "Yes, you only get pafek suckle hee (here), and das why we chodge $220 dolla."

Me: "And, the color of course, that's what you think should charge more for as well?" (At this point, I really want to know the reasoning behind the bullshit)

Crazy Chinese Tattoo Lady: "No, weely juss da pafek suckle. You no get pafek suckle anywhale. We pafek suckle here, is hod find goo ottiss who can do."

Me: "Well that's rediculously overpriced, and I think I will take my business elsewhere."

Crazy Chinese Tattoo Lady: "You no get pafek suckle anywhale else."

Me: "Um, yes I can, and I will get it somewhere else, and I know for sure they are not going to rip me off at an asking price of $220. I can go to St. Louis or Memphis to get this same tattoo for about $60. And I am sure I can go to any other tattoo shop here in San Jose or even in San Francisco for about the same."

Crazy Chinese Tattoo Lady: "No whale chodge fo lat plice, you won't get pafek suckle."

Me: "Um, whatever. I think your pricing is ridiculous, and you can screw some idiot out of $220 some other time. I'm not retarded, and I know thew tattoo industry. (To my friends) Let's bounce, I'm done with this bullshit."

Another reason for my distemperment-perfect circle my ass! Any tattoo artist worth their salt should and would not be afraid of a freaking circle. That's why they made fancy outline machines with fancy tracing paper and other such neato novelty items for tattoo artists to help with their trade. I have never in my whole adulthood of having multiple tattoos, ever heard such a ginormous, unmeasurable amount of bullshit in my life!


Now, at this point, I really feel the fire and smoke coming out from my ears. My friends with me had about the same reaction of shock and awe and not to mention the audacity of this woman.

So I took it upon myself to yell at Kevin to find where his artist had moved along to.

We find Humble Beginnings in Jozay (my loving term for San Jose). Not necessarily what I would name a tattoo parlor, because it sounds more like a rehab center, but oh well. We walk in, and theatmosphere is ten times better than Da Wei. It's brighter, you can actually see artists working on people, and they actually have their work made into posters on the wall, as well as albums easily accessible on the counter and in a good presentation also. The previous shop had posters of ink magazines on the walls, and no real artwork from the tattooists. I should have taken pictures to have you all get a good idea of what this whole experience was like.

I meet the artist, and of course, he could not fit me in. In my previous experiences with tattoos, you could just walk in, pick out what you want, get inked, and go home. But apparently here in California, you must make an appointment. This appointment thing bothers me since I usually get tattoos spur of the moment, but usually knowing what I want. I want it, and I want it now, because I am ready now. That kind of thing, you know?

Reluctantly, I made a deposit of $40, an appointment for Saturday at 4:30, and guess what he price-quoted? $80! I'll take it! You know why? I want this tattoo done in California, and I am willing to make one last inflated purchase for the cost of living here, that's why. So, after work Saturday, I will jet on over, get my ink done, and be fulfilled. I will definitely post pics for everyone.

Until then....

my foot itches...

So I got a tattoo a week ago. (see previous entry) Now my foot at the site of the tattoo is itchy like crazy. I am almost complete with the scabbing stage now. YAY. I finally decided what to do as far as a cover up concept for my right arm tat that looks retarded. Yes, I was a victim of the late 90's Chinese/Japanese character tattoo craze.... I only found out 6 or 7 years after having the thing proudly displayed on my arm didn't exactly match it's meaning.

Instead of my killer Army tribute, teenage hardass complex tattoo meaning "SOLDIER", I found out from REAL CHINESE PEOPLE, who actually can READ AND WRITE CHINESE what it meant.

And a dis at that. "SOLDIER WITHOUT RANK"

From a fighter, to a nobody.... BOO HISSSSSSSSSSSSS. Got to change that...

Then about a week ago, I was showing off my "tramp stamp" to some co-workers. It just happens to be in Sanskrit, which Prem, my Indian friend, could actually read. Turns out, it really means "PRAYER" and not "DESIRE" (trampy,as it's right over my butt)as I had originally thought. An unfortunate reversal of fortunes for both tattoos that I had just mentioned. Oh well. I know over the years that I will have it all perfected and out of my system. I will not rest until my plans are complete. When they are followed through, piece by piece, I'll reveal them to you :)

My Tribute to Morris J Swartz

My cat Morris passed away last year on 8-14-07. My Dad and sister took him to the vet when they found him very sick, in obvious pain, and was not himself. He was put to sleep, and the vet thinks that he had a stroke. My cat was 18 years old.

He found his way to our house in Fenton via my father after he found him in the warehouse he worked in. It was September 1st, 1989: My 10th birthday. According to Dad, it was coincidental that he brought him home on that day, for that is the day he was lucky enough to catch him. My family and I had no idea Dad was bringing home a new family member, so this was a happy nd delightful surprise to all of us. Me especially, since he was suave enough to pass it on as a gift since we weren't rich nor poor, and a gift for a ten year girl in 1989 couldn't be anything better than a kitten.

We (well, my folks, since I wasn't old enough to know how) assumed that he was around 8-10 weeks old. So, we decided his birthday would be on the 4th of July. No biggie, since who celebrates animal birthdays? I severely wanted to name him Cupcake for some weird reason, and thanks to my parents (I am grateful, for at 10, Cupcake is an AWESOME name) they named him Morris, since he looked like Morris the cat from the 9 Lives commercials and cat food. This totally pissed me off, of course, because 10 year old little girls want to have their way, and I didn't get mine.

But at that age, I loved animals more than humans (I still do), and I would like to think that I had a special bond with any animal I met. Like they knew that I wanted to love them. Well, Morris' first move once my dad set him down on the floor was a quick scurry and behind the trash can he stayed. Both Mom and Dad tried to coax him out, and Jessica, my sister did too. As soon as I gave it a go he warmed right up to me, let me pick him up with no fight, and was purring by the time I had him in my arms. It was immediate and reciprocated unconditional love, and he became my best friend.

At the age of 11, when I was in 6th grade, I unfortunately fell victim to being the kid in class that always got picked on and beat up. This one kid (I am going to leave him nameless) made an abominable statement, that at THAT time, should have NOT been uttered by 11 or 12 year olds, let alone know what he was talking about. Anyhow, it escalated into much more worse things, and about 4 or 5 other boys chimed in, and they all made my life a living hell. Getting beaten up in gym class came a little later, and I never told my parents about it until I became an adult. Truth is, it was one of those things that become a repressed memory. I didn't even remember it until after I graduated from high school and after I went into the Army.

So anyways, the getting picked on would get so bad that I would fight back, and in turn, the boys made it look like I was the one starting all of it. My 6th grade teacher even said that if they were still allowed to paddle kids in school, I would be first in line every morning for the switch. That's always something nice to hear wen your 11. I realize now that he had alot to do with why the fact that I was being tormented by those kids never ceased. When my teacher would leave (this happened about 10 times, and not once did anyone call my parents) I would grab my things and leave quickly, telling the other kids that I went to the bathroom. I would then proceed to walk the mile trek home to my house.

I would get home, still in tears, drop off my things, and fall face first into the pillow on my bed. Before I knew it, there was a shedding orange fuzz ball rubbing up against me, purring loudly as if to say, "I'm so happy to see you!" Of course he's a cat, and probably had no idea that I was sad, nor probably had no idea what the emotion is. I would always have enough time to clean my face up and keep it from my folks what was going on.

My tears stopped flowing. Into my arms came my little man. He lived me for absolutely no reason, and he made sure I knew about it. At that same age, I would go away for 2 weeks in the summer for Girl Scout camp, and when I would get home, they first thing my parents would say would be some remark that they were glad I was coming home because Morris wouldn't stop crying when I was gone. Of course he would meow just once, and we'd hang out, and no one was alone.

In a sense, me and that cat grew up together. Back in 2004, he got very sick with sepsis and fever and I thought I was going to lose him. I couldn't even drive to the vet that day, I was such a mess. My friend Nisar picked me and Morris up and went to the Humane Society to get him looked at. I was crying so hard, I was heaving and couldn't catch my breath. (you know , the kind of crying where you have snot all over your face and you don;t give a damn?) When the vet told me he was going to make it, I can only compare the feeling of relief to someone on death row getting the governor's pardon. I couldn't imagine my world without my best bud.

Well, last year in August, I had a pretty good understanding that my cat was around 18, and in bad shape. (he still could get around, and use the kitty pan) I was set to come home from Alaska in September, and I had it in good faith he would make it in time for me to come home, spend some time with him, and humanely put him down at the vet's, so that he wouldn't have to suffer, and he could go peacefully. I wanted ot make sure I could hold him and let him know that I loved him.

I was too late.

I got home from work and my roommate told me to call my father. He had called 3 times and left a message for me to call him no matter what time it was. (St. Louis was 3 hours ahead of Nome, AK) This message made me weary, since I know Dad goes to bed early. It must be serious if he doesn't care what time I called him back. I called and he answered.

"Dad, what's going on? Is everything all right?"

"Sarah, I don't know how to tell you this honey..."

I knew what he was going to say. My heart fell to my stomach before he could finish out telling me that Morris was put down. My dad and sister Jessica had dutifully taken care of Morris and Chloe (My other cat) since I embarked to work in Alaska. I know that they loved him like a member of the family, and took great care of him. My sister got on the phone and was in tears telling me how terrible a shape he was, and how when he finally took his last breath, as she was holding him, that he peed all over her. The only other thing she could get out without choking on her words was that he went fast, and he wasn't in any pain, and that it had to be done.

I only regret not being there, and that is something I can never get back.

In all of my emotions, I managed to tell my dad that I wanted Morris cremated and I wanted his ashes and that I would pay him back. Dad didn't hear me say anything about the ashes, so I never got them back. I am truly sad about this, and I regret that when he told me he had no idea what I was talking about, that I yelled to high heaven at him, and of course started crying. (not what Daddies want to hear from their little girls)

So now, in the loneliest time of my life, even though I have my sweetheart Chloe with me, (thank God I have her) I still felt the need to have Morris with me. I was driving home from Gilroy, CA tonight, and I took a wrong turn on El Camino Real. I saw a shanty of a tattoo shop and I turned around and walked on in. So, I figured 'what the hell?'. I was in and out in a half an hour. (no worries, it was clean inside, but all of a sudden I felt like I was transported into some old Eat-Rite-turned-Tattoo-Shop in Franklin County)

I decided on the letter "M" for Morris, obviously. I decided to have it placed on the inside of my foot: where Morris always was....At my feet.

I will always miss him, but I am forever grateful that my Dad caught him and took him home that night.

R.I.P. Morris J Swartz
July 4, 1989-August 14, 2007