The stories behind all my tattoos are here, if you're interested.

I'm not particularly feeling a new tattoo at the moment - I went through a rash of tattoo-and-piercing-getting a few months back, and think I probably need to slow it down for a minute - but I'm always thinking about what I might want my next one to be. And since my birthday gift to my dad was a session with an amazing NYC tattoo artist (which ahem ahem ahem I kind of thought was the coolest gift ever), I spent a lot of time scrolling around on the internet helping him search for ideas. In the process, I found oh, so many ones that weren't quiiiiite what Dad had in mind - he ended up going for a fine-line drawing of his 1963 Fender bass guitar - but that I saved to my Pinterest anyway. You know, for later.

...And now I kind of want a new tattoo.

Davenport, CA

I remember very, very distinctly the first time our son touched grass, because it did not go well. He was already six months old - because he was born in October, and we live in New York City, and grass-touching isn't an especially popular pastime during the winter months - so once spring hit we immediately packed up a picnic blanket and popped a tiny fedora on his head and set out with our friends to spend the afternoon watching our son revel in all that glorious grass.

Turned out he hated grass. And sand. And water. And any other naturally-occurring underfoot texture (although he would happily toddle barefoot down the sidewalk, crushing shards of glass and discarded cigarettes under his tiny toes). As a native New Yorker myself, I get this. Grass is creepy, yo. There are so many things that could be in it: needles, broken beer bottles, bugs. Yesterday I saw a two-inch-long slug sitting on my front step, and then a few minutes later it wasn't there.

Just FYI: Finding PG-13 (or R)-rated images to accompany a post on polyamory presents quite the challenge.

I have this friend. We'll call her Charlotte. Charlotte is one of my closest friends, actually - someone whom I've known for years and years, and who I trust enormously, like family. We met when she was single, and over the years I watched her date around, then find a long-term partner, then move in with him. One night, sitting at their kitchen table over sushi and wine, Charlotte and her partner told me - in the same tone of voice you'd use to tell someone about a cool new restaurant - about a party they'd gone to the other night where they'd both had sex with other people.

Oh, really?

Ikea: the master of deceptive simplicity. (Image by Carl Kleiner.)

Going to Ikea on a Sunday is SUCH a rookie move. Going to Ikea at noon on a Sunday with your children and husband in tow means you don't get to complain about anything ever again, because honestly, you're clearly so poor at decision-making that you deserve whatever comes your way. Forever.

Except I had to go. Because I needed something that could only be found at Ikea, and Ikea charges $150 to deliver, and the alternative to going with my children and husband was going with my children and without my husband, and sorry nope.