Two days before I left London, I walked into Cloak and Dagger, and I got a tattoo.

The first, and most important thing about tattoos, is that they make you tough. Really tough, and really scary. So we are all clear on that, I am tough and scary. Moving on.

This is my tattoo, it’s on my right forearm, and it’s about the size of an Oreo. It’s a honey bee, and I love it.

I got it because honey bees remind me of my grandma. She passed away about 18 months ago, and she was wonderful. She always had the most beautiful gardens at their house in Wisconsin, and it was often my job to go pick flowers to put on the dinner table. She would tell be not to bother the bees, because they had work to do.

My grandma had a way of making everything beautiful without being contrived, something my mom has kept alive in our family. She was graceful and elegant till the very end, and was also the toughest one in any given room. She had a prominent rebellious side, did not suffer fools, and generally did what she wanted. When she was 16, she snuck out of her house in Kenosha, Wisconsin and took the train to Chicago by herself to see Maurice Chevalier perform. She got in a lot of trouble.

In face, my grandma was a lot like a bee; she worked hard and made things beautiful, but she could ruin your day if you messed with her.

After I got the tattoo, I sent a photo of it to my mom and she told me that I have a lot of my grandma in me, which might be the best compliment anyone could give me. I miss her a lot.

It’s a little bit funny that I got a tattoo that my grandma would probably hate. She could barely handle it when I wore black nail polish, and the tattoo would leave her guffawing into her manhattan. But maybe I am a little bit like my grandma.