Red Car

I keep replaying the last time I saw my father over and over again. I hugged him a million times and kept crying and telling him how much I loved him, and even though half of the strength he used to have was gone, the hugs were still just as strong. I wasn't sure if it would be the last time I would see him again or not. It definitely wasn't the first time I thought I was going to lose him, but it wasn't the time I thought I'd be losing my dad so rapidly. I didn't think he would be so...lucid, I guess.
I thought it would be the cirrhosis he had back in 2005. Before anybody could grasp what was happening, he was 80% gone. I hope most people understand what happens to the body when you have cirrhosis- I tried writing down the symptoms, but it rushes back too many memories and makes me sick to my stomach.
He was pushed up on the wait list for a new liver, had the transplant in 2006, and was back up and moving around in 6 months. Nothing could stop my father from doing what he loved (being a locksmith) and being around to cheer me and my sisters on in life.
It wasn't long after the transplant that I went to visit him while he was in recovery, a few days before they sent him home. He told me about a recurring dream he would have every night leading up to the surgery.
It was about a red car, which I always thought was strange because my father has never driven a red car- actually, he's had an electric blue truck the last 13 years. But in the dream, he would get out of the hospital bed, walk downstairs and get into the red car parked in front. He would start driving towards the west. He's driven across country before, but he specificially remembered the drive being different- he didn't recognize any of the roads, but he knew where he was going. It was like a secret road, that trailed along the Gulf Coast and went directly back to California, where me and my sisters were.
This dream never changed. He would always get out of the hospital bed and head to the West in the red car. He never actually got the the west coast though, he would only make it a thousand or so miles, then he'd wake up. After the surgery, he had it a couple more times. Only at that point, he wouldn't even make it that far. The trip kept getting shorter and shorter, until he stopped having the dream.
My reaction at the time was chalking it up to his crazy imagination, but since the cancer showed up, I started thinking about it a lot more. That red car was his escape from all the pain he was in, back to the people he loved the most.
He was in much worse shape back then than he is now, but it doesn't change the fact that the illness won this time. I never got to ask him if he dreamed about the red car again, but I think I know what the answer might have been. I can still see the frustration in his eyes when the doctor told him they need to add another pill or another transfusion to the balancing act keeping him alive. He was so tired and in so much pain. (None, thankfully, in his last few days.)
He continued the fight until he physically, mentally, and emotionally couldn't give anything else. I wish I could have stayed there, but I don't think my landlord, the phone company, and everyone else I pay monthly would have been as understanding of my lack of finance as I would hope they'd be. Not as understanding as my father, that's for sure. I kept telling him how sorry I was, and I'm not even sure why. Sorry for carving my name into his car when I was 3, sorry for pretending to be sick so he would have to pick me up from school & take me to work with him, sorry for not calling him more these last few months, and sorry for not staying as long as I should have. He just smiled and kissed me and told me how much he loved me for the millionth time.
I don't believe he's gone, not at all. I talked to him last week. I woke up this morning thinking it was going to be a bad dream, and that I wasn't leaving for New Jersey in a couple of hours. I'm not going to meet my sisters in Newark airport tonight & we're not going to walk into his empty, quiet apartment together. No. He'll be sitting there, laughing at some reality show on TLC and asking if we want some chicken cutlets, because he was always such an awesome cook and we could never say no to chicken cutlets and he knows that.
But if it is true, and my father is really gone...then I hope that that the red car was there for him when he went, and that he's already on the road back to me.

Daddy's Girl

I've been avoiding writing this for a while now. I don't know how to word exactly what I want to say, but I have a million thoughts. I want to say how scared I am, how weak I feel, how lost this makes me. All I've been able to do is pretend it's not happening, but when reality calls I turn into a heap of tears and unintelligible noises.
My father's battle with cancer started last October. It was jarring- I had been working on set 7 days a week at the time, and I had just calmed down from the news of my mother's emergency heart surgery. As soon as my mom was through her recovery and I had wrapped on set, I packed everything up and drove the 3,218 miles back to my hometown. I thought I could handle it, I thought everything would be fine once I got there and I was with him. Unfortunately, the desperation that had been building up in me quickly turned into a crippling depression.
His hair was gone from all the chemo. We had the same hair color, me and my dad. I forgot that for a long time, until I saw that it was no longer there. I cursed myself for dying my stupid hair black for years. I just wanted my dark brown hair back. I wanted his dark brown hair back.
His appetite was gone; all the medication he was on made him sick. We hadn't had a Sunday barbecue in over 10 years, but for some reason I never gave up hope that there would be another one. The generic frozen dinners that sat idly in the freezer shot down the hopes of seeing my father lecturing my uncle about proper barbecue etiquette ever again.
But he never gave up. He was weak, he was tired, but he never gave up. He never lost the prideful, stubborn attitude he is notorious for. He drove himself everywhere, refusing help from anyone. His sense of humor was still in tact, and his love for good deals at the grocery store I think will always hold strong. Seeing remnants of the man I looked up to my whole life is the only reason I'm still here right now.
The cancer fell dormant after 5 months- no reasonable explanation from the #1 cancer hospital in America, aside from a shrug and a PET scan. So I came back to LA to get back to work, to get back with my derby team I love so much, and to try to give my father the space back that he enjoyed having.

A few weeks ago, I found out the cancer had come back- 4 months ago. The pride and stubbornness had gone too far. He refuses to tell anyone what's going on until it's almost too late. The stage 3 cancer in his lungs is now accompanied by a tumor resting on his vocal chords, 10 centimeters big. I can't hear the voice of reason, or the gruff Brooklyn accent at all anymore. He has such a sense of humor about having cancer- it kept his spirits up and it kept the hope alive in my heart.
He's not joking anymore.

Everything he taught me- being independent, strong, sensible- is falling apart. I don't know how to hold myself together anymore. People that have come and go in my life have made me feel disposable, worthless. More people than I care to admit, actually. They mattered for about as long as it took my father to answer the phone and remind me whose daughter I was. Dads are known for treating their daughters like princesses- my dad treated me like a diamond. I was the brightest, the prettiest. He protected me and was proud of anything I did. I always looked forward to the day he would accept another person in my life that would see me as a diamond too.

Tomorrow starts another very painful chapter in my life- I'm praying as hard as I can that it's not a chapter of goodbyes. My dad is weak right now, and trying to give up the fight. I can't handle seeing my best friend in this state, and I'm going to do everything I can the next couple of weeks to keep a smile on my dad's face and his passion to fight alive, even if it means draining myself of all emotional, mental, and physical energy.
Lately, my independence has been feeding off this strange feeling that I might be "bothering" someone. I won't call, I won't text, I won't go out, because I'm afraid I'm bothering a person or group of people. This year has been so horrifying, and I can't do it alone anymore. My close friends have been pushing to be closer to me, and I'm going to stop pushing back.
Any and all positive energy, good thoughts, or prayers to whoever you believe in are greatly accepted right now. Please keep me, my dad, and my family in your thoughts.
My love is unconditional for the people that have been there for me lately. Thank you, thank you, thank you. I couldn't say it enough if I tried.

Cara

I Hope There’s A Roller Derby Team in Hell

“Does this hurt?” I winced in pain as the chiropractor lightly twisted my left leg.
“Eh. Kind of.” I wasn’t about to give in that easily, even if the pain was making tears well up in the corners of my eyes. The night before, I was at practice. It was an off night, and I blamed it on eating a hamburger immediately before. We began to practice falls, and did them in the normal drill fashion- one knee falls, then two knee falls, 4-point falls, and 180s. My left knee wasn’t too happy about the whole situation, but I told it to stop complaining because we were almost done.
I guess I was too focused on the cut I had on my shin from falling on my skate during the last drill to notice the rock sitting in front of me as I got up from a two knee fall. Before I could recover from it, I was already back down on the floor and feeling a surge of pain from my left knee up to the top of my head. The panic of something being horribly wrong took over, and instead of doing the logical thing and telling my coach I needed a minute, I kept skating. I skated hard enough that walking to my car was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do since I lied and told someone I enjoyed The Notebook. I rubbed a substantial amount of Icy Hot into my knee when I got home and ignored the sharp pinching sensations.
I immediately regretted ignoring that pain the next morning. The second I woke up, I felt like my leg was caught in a death trap from a foreign film. Bending my knee would send shooting pains into my calf, and any attempt of straightening the leg or lifting it made me howl and sob from the pain. I frantically dialed the team sports doctor and begged to come in immediately to see him.
Two hours later, I was laying on my back on the exam bed in his practice, trying to play down how much pain I was in. He told me I most likely ripped the meniscus and would need to sit out for a month.
A month.
My fresh meat curse was kicking in; something terrible always happens that causes me to not make it to assessments. This piece of spoiled meat started sobbing on the exam table. I can’t go through this again; I can’t sit through another bout and watch girls I started with play the games that I wanted to play. I can’t build up this much confidence to have it come crashing down. I’m never meant to skate with the big girls, I guess. This is it.

Well…I’ve had a couple weeks since to gather my thoughts, ice my knee, and buy out the Icy Hot company. The meniscus is slightly torn but it just needs RICE and time off of it, no surgery. I don’t know why my first reaction to anything bad is “it’s the end of the world”. Surprisingly though, this time the overreaction only lasted about three days. I’m now walking on it and capable of bending my knee more, which is wonderful. I’ve also had time to do something I didn’t do the last time I got injured- talk to other injured girls.
I get discouraged very easily, I don’t know if anyone has noticed. But I believe anyone would be discouraged just as easily if they were left alone with their thoughts like I allow myself to do almost 100% of the time. When I don’t wallow in my stress, when I actually reach out into the community that I’ve put myself in, my will to push through becomes so much stronger.
I’m positive that this time around, my frustration and exhaustion with this injury and most likely needing to go through Fresh Meat again comes from absolute, unconditional love for roller derby. Because I now know and accept that, no matter what injury or unfortunate event happens in my life that keeps me away, I’m going to come running back to the people, sport, and atmosphere that makes me the happiest.
I will probably be fresh meat until the day I die, though. Maybe I’ll play a game in after that.

See you in hell.

Kitten Tarantino

Even if it’s been sitting out for a while, it’s still Fresh Meat.

At the end of my last attempt at fresh meat, I found myself crying on the floor of the sport court that I had just busted my ass on for 2 hours. I felt defeated and disappointed in myself. My weakness was my commitment to the team due to work scheduling, and I beat myself up about it for days. Shortly after, I moved to Jersey temporarily (and yes, voluntarily). And of course, most of my time in Jersey was thinking about how much I missed skating. So I made the decision that when I got back to LA, roller derby was going to be one of two commitments for me; the other being work. I’m just kidding. The other commitment is eating at Canter’s at least once a week.
When I was finally done being melodramatic (probably 5 minutes ago) about not making the cut and reminded myself for the thousandth time how much roller derby means to me, I got back on board and went to Fresh Meat recruitment night. Again.
It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve done this, or how many of the girls I know, I still get the “first day of school” syndrome. I awkwardly walk in, half wave at the girls I know, sit as far away from the cool kids table as I can, and manage to drop every piece of gear at least twice while putting everything on. Then I get on the rink, and I always think that I’m going to be the most experienced skater in this fresh meat group…until a girl whizzes past me, skating backwards. So I drop my head and work on my transitions and snowplows some more.
Shin splints and foot cramps, really? It takes me off the rink in 5-8 minute intervals, just so I can roll around on the floor and silently curse my tree stump legs to remind them that this isn’t the first time we’ve done this. It’s like my body knows when I’m starting over, so it feels the need to go through all the aches and pains again. I guess I can’t blame it for doing so- it has every right to start over as well.
Sitting down to stretch, one of the fresh meat coaches tells the other, “Kitten was here my very first day!”
”I was here way before that too,” I said with a laugh. I really expected that sentence to come out peppered in sass and bitterness, and it surprised me when it didn’t. I’ve learned so much from roller derby so far, but it seems the one lesson I had yet to catch on to was the lesson of humility, and at that moment it hit me like a ton of bricks.
My character a year ago would have been disheartened by going through the same class three times, and watching every girl get so much better when I felt like I was stuck in quicksand and a helmet. I pushed through as much as I could, and felt sorry for myself over and over again for not doing enough laps or really messing up that last drill, but last night I felt like my heart and my brain finally got together and said “alright, enough is enough. She’s depressing the hell out of us. It needs to stop.”
The next 6 weeks will change me more as a person than the other fresh meat classes had. I’ve said that before, but this time I’ve been humbled, and I no longer feel like not succeeding will bring my world crumbling down. To any girls reading this that are in fresh meat, are thinking of starting fresh meat, or starting fresh meat again, I hope you’ve all learned humility quicker than I have. If not, please try to let that be one of the first lessons you pick up from derby, aside from perfecting your derby stance. Roller girls, experienced or beginners, are sisters. And patience is a virtue, but it will never seem that way unless you can humble yourself around your sisters. And if this is another fresh meat class for you, then good! It means you’re not giving up, and you’re that much closer to being the roller girl you’ve always wanted to be. Everyone is learning at their own pace, no matter what rank they hold or how long they’ve been skating.  We’re all connected by 8 wheels and a pace line. You’ll always have someone to help pick you up when you’re down, but the trick is to let yourself fall every once in a while.
And hey….fourth times a charm, right?…..Right?!?
See you in hell. xo
Kitten Tarantino

Thinking Derby Thoughts

 

I would love to sit here and talk about how fantastic of a derby girl I am. It would be great if I could tell you I can do 40,000 laps in 5 minutes,
and my body is a hard, well-oiled jamming machine. I would definitely like to tell you that I'm the most confident, badass chick around too.
I can't do that, or else I'd be a total liar. The closest I've gotten to being a great derby girl is skating alongside (but mostly lagging behind) the amazing skaters of the Angel City Derby Girls. I just passed the one year anniversary of meekly shuffling my dead weight into Moonlight Rollerway for the fresh meat class. The one year anniversary of me almost running the opposite direction of the beautiful, loud, and slightly-dangerous looking roller girls. Something made me stop from running, something that apparently never decided to show up any other time I've wanted to kick off a new hobby or interest. I don't know what it was, but it cemented my feet into the patch of tile directly in front of
one of the team captains, made me take the new recruit paperwork from her, and barely scribbled "Kitten Tarantino" into the "derby name desired" line. It was an empty name. A cute one, yeah, but it meant nothing at this point. I just knew that I WANTED it to mean something, and be a part of something. 
I had made it that far, and already paid the 7.50 to get into the rink, so now I had to get skates on. Too bad I didn't realize I couldn't skate until that moment. But I strapped the worn out skates on and silently begged them to not make me look like an idiot, because I could handle that simple task on my own. It was the exact opposite of what I thought it would be- I didn't break anything, and none of the girls tried to check me into the wall. In fact, it was probably one of the most inspiring and exciting nights I've had in a long time. Every couple laps I would barely skate, another girl would come over, fix my posture, and tell me a little about themselves. And the more I found out about each girl, the more characteristics I picked up that I aspired to be like. There is far too many amazing women on the team to even try to take their talents and put them into one person, because I'm pretty sure that person's name would probably have to be Jesus. But the characteristics…those, I could try to squeeze into one. And that’s exactly what I do, every time my gear goes on. My wrist guards are like my focus and will-power; I keep them in front of me and they help me get back on my feet when I fall. My knee pads are my patience, positive attitude and selflessness; They need to be there when I’m brought down to make sure I understand that the fall could have been much worse. The elbow pads are like my discipline and obedience; Sure, I don’t wear them all the time, but without them I wouldn’t be allowed on the track. And my skates…they are my confidence, my escape route, my moxie on 8 wheels. I’ve never felt more beautiful and strong as I do when I’m wearing my skates. The feeling I get from skating is almost more than deserved from such a simple task as putting skates on.
Every practice and open skate night has been a new lesson for me. Not only how to play roller derby (which, let’s be honest, I didn’t fully grasp how until about 4 months ago), but how to be a friend, a networker, and most importantly, a sister. They have given me more confidence than I ever thought I could possess. I’ve had this incredible opportunity to be a part of a team of some of the strongest women in Los Angeles, and I sit here 3,000 miles away missing them everyday. Kitten Tarantino wouldn’t exist if it weren’t for Angel City, and I would still be wishing I knew how to skate right now. Here’s to Los Angeles, home of the Pretty City roller girls who made a woman out of me.

See you in hell. xo

Things I Learned on the Open Road.

Sitting in the kitchen of my new place in Arlington, New Jersey. It still hasn't hit me that I just drove 2,786 miles across the country. A drive I've been secretly motivating myself to take for about two years. I do wish the circumstances surrounding my move would have been different, but nevertheless it got me off my ass and on the road. So, while I'm waiting for the shock to settle in (if it even does- I just moved from one stomping ground to another), I figured I should take the time to take note of some things I learned on the open road.
Let me just tell you now, this trip turned out absolutely nothing like I had drawn out in my mind. I met basically two people, neither of which were named Large Marge, and I never got stuck on the side of a deserted highway in a snow storm. In fact, aside from scraping ice off my car windshield a couple mornings, I didn't even hit weather at all. I didn't go to any small town diners with no menus, happened to go to all the dinosaur museums on the days they were closed, and there sure as hell wasn't any mysterious handsome strangers in my journey. I didn't even "learn a lot about myself" like you're apparently supposed to when you spend so much time on your own. The only thing I learned about myself was that I can't sing, unless I'm doing my David Bowie impression. But I digress. Here are some things I've learned on my trip.

The self-timer on your camera is your co-pilot.
The moment I wanted a photo of myself in front of something (which was about 5 minutes into the trip), I realized I had a problem. Self timer became my best friend. I named it Wilson.




You don't have to stop driving to get a cup of coffee.
Stick a water bottle between a blanket and heater floor vent in the car. Put the heater on high and drive 10 miles going 70 mph. Open the water bottle, pour in one of those Starbucks Via travel packs, and shake it up. You can take the girl out of the ghetto....



You don't really get your kicks on Route 66.
Quite the contrary, Bobby Troup. There is nothing for the majority of the highway, apart from a few slaughter houses, abandoned barns and crappy rest areas.




Sometimes sleeping in your car is the best option.
My $50 motel room on the outskirts of Columbus, Ohio was probably one of the worst ideas I've ever had. Oh, Motel 6. You usually leave the light on for us, but this time I left the light on. All night. Sitting up in a chair, watching my car (& the drug deal next door), packing heat.




The atmosphere changes once you hit the New Mexico/Texas line.
Everyone is a lot nicer, with less teeth.

Big rigs are a lot less frightening after 500 miles.
It is a little embarassing when you see a giant truck whizzing past your "sports car", though.



You can make anywhere feel like home.
Well...at least I can.




Reading a map becomes second nature.
I hated looking at maps. Either it's all the easily accessible technology nowadays, or I'm just really stupid. I never wanted to touch one, much less own one. I now have 9 maps in my car, and I plan on keeping them there until they tow that piece of crap away.




Familiar faces are key to sanity.
Staying with family for a week in Missouri was incredibly important. Not just because I haven't seen them in a long time, but because driving for hours and stopping in unfamiliar places without seeing someone you recognize makes you feel like you're slipping away from society. Luckily, my family is more than enough sanity for me...




Tattooing customs are different everywhere.
In Missouri, two bottles of wine and a singalong to "Sweet Caroline" in the kitchen makes getting a tattoo a family event. The Griffins were an awesome family to hang out with, obviously.



There's a lot more I learned, recurring dreams that I analyzed and figured out, grudges I let go of by screaming off of cliffs. I tattooed new people along the way, that I look forward to tattooing again.
Well, it still hasn't set in that I now live in New Jersey again. I say give it another week. I'm only giving the accent 2 days to come back, though.

See you in hell. xo

Good Tattoos aren't Cheap and Cheap Tattoos are on Craigslist.

There are a large amount of people who will agree with me when I say I suck at self-promotion. Not that I don’t talk to enough people, or that I don’t pass out enough of my cards (which, by the way, don’t even say I’m a tattoo artist either). I mean I honestly don’t tell anyone. I can bet money there will even be people who read this and say “Wait…Cara tattoos?” It’s terrible for business, actually. The promotion and concern for my clientele comes from...my clientele. They’re my walking canvases, and refer anyone who comments on their tattoos to me. Even though this isn’t the most effective means of networking, I prefer it much more than the disreputable advertising that's going on on Craigslist.

I get it. We’re in economic hardships, and we all feel we have to retreat back to the Renaissance way of living- to exhaust yourself with as many different skills as you can fit onto your paper plates in the hopes that they will help you live a financially stable life. In some ways, we absolutely should be more Renaissance in the way we live right now. Learn a new skill, sure. Find something rewarding in your spare time that might make you a little extra cash. But in no way, shape or form does this mean you should pick up a tattoo machine and go to town on the first person to give you 25 dollars.

Because this is what happens:

It almost feels like your eyes are playing tricks on you, but that's as clear as it gets. And yet- it makes no sense. This girl went to get a lighter tattoo underneath it covered up, and found a tattoo artist on Craigslist that charged her $40 an hour for....this. She knew immediately that he was messing up, and he threw her empty promises that the blotch of ink would "fade and look better". Last time I checked, when a tattoo fades it doesn't necessarily look "better". It looks, well, faded. Also, koi fish don't usually have a giant tumor attached to the left side of their lip. Just saying.

So yes, she absolutely admits to wanting to get a cheap tattoo, like so many people do. Do you want to know how much she actually spent on this affordable tattoo?

$3,120.

120 for the three hours this guy in Anaheim spent butchering her arm, and $3,000 more for the laser surgery treatments that left her arm scarred and felt a lot like what I think Freddy Krueger's face would feel like. She spent 3 years in long sleeves, hiding it and considering amputation (that's not a fact, sorry. But wouldn't you?).

I found her on Craigslist (surprise!) looking for another tattoo artist (I said the same thing) to cover up this one. I pulled her off of there and got the entire story, and here we are. I spent 6 and a half hours on her today, working on two different cover ups that she had botched. It was a semi-emotional parting, but I sent her off with a scolding for using Craigslist, and one session done:

I wonder if the people who post on Craigslist understand the consequence of turning on that homemade tattoo gun and pressing it into someone’s skin. “Good tattoos aren’t cheap and cheap tattoos aren’t good”. God, I can’t even begin to explain how perfect this saying sums everything up that I’m trying to say. If you honestly want to be a good tattoo artist, you have to put so much time, effort and money into it. Actually, you put time, effort and money into every tattoo you do. From sterilizing to cleaning, down to needles and inks and machine parts. It’s costly keeping your work clean. I’m not sorry that tattoos are expensive.

If you really have a problem with the price of getting a tattoo, I have two options for you: A) don’t get one or B) pop on over to Craigslist and check out which one of your neighbors rigged himself a tattoo machine and have him mark your body on his kitchen table.

See you in hell. xo