One knows one's tattooist is Exemplary when he, mid-tattooing, pauses momentarily to bless a sneezer in the next room. Twice.
(In a non-denominational way, of course.)
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Bobby Five, ladies and gentlemen.
I will be posting Copious pictures of my bare skin on the internet for your gratification, imminently.
'Coz i'm just that kind of gal.
Imagine receiving this little package of love in your mailbox. It is a Good Good Life.
My new tattoo is So amazing.
More amazing than my bike tires.
(only slightly more amazing than my bike tires.)
(but More amazing nonetheless.)
As this book-making workshop I'm involved with unfolds, I find myself pondering principles and styles of teaching, all of which is kind of new to me, and makes me realize how much I'm a product of when I was 10. I went to a Montessori school for 9 years, and as a result have a particular take (who knew?!?) on how I relate to kids I'm showing stuff to.
Discussing this with teaching guru SG tonight over amaretto sours (which I've never had before and are Amazing, incidentally.)
(although not Quite as amazing as my new tattoo),
she coined her teaching philosophy in a way I thought was perfect. (I'm paraphrasing the following, hopefully accurately:)
[The ideal scenario as a teacher is to render yourself irrelevant.]
THAT IS. If kids can walk away knowing they have figured something out, knowing they have accomplished something on their own, having learnt something they can claim as theirs, that means they have been taught well. What they think of the teacher as a person is not the object of the class, nor is it the purpose of education.
I was awed and humbled, all at the same time.
Had another "publishing is built on the backs of underpaid women" conversation last week. I've had alot of these in the last year. The question is whether these jobs truly are irrevocable labours of love or whether that is a collective ruse all us girls gather under to accept the fact that we're doing nothing about being paid quite badly for doing good work.
Of course, these conversations are always followed in my brain by "That's it! I quit!", which is then followed by "It's far too late for me to join the Tour De France, my math/science skills are hopeless, and I burn way too much toast to ever be a chef, etc. etc. etc."
(sigh) And I love books. I do. I love making them, in whatever capacity.
So. What to do?
It's Fun being shallow and caring about things like my NewAmazingTattooThatICan'tHelpButThinkHasChangedMyLifeIrrevocably.
I saw a blurb for this in this week's Now, which convinces me that I must go out and get a better-paying job IMMEDIATELY.
What was I ever thinking, and how will I ever be the same without it?
The interest expressed in section VII is not to be confused with the genuine interests of stef lenk, who, marked devotion to new tattoos notwithstanding, will never ever EVER condone the acquiring of such FUCKING RIDICULOUS items as a "Clocky".