June 18
 
 
 

At work, all pictures look the same.  Any deviation from this expression results in immediate termination.  Which, to tell you the truth, might be a welcome relief.  It's supposed to be sunny for the next 4 days.  Beach, anyone?
 
 
 

My mother is a witch.  Seriously.  I may or may have not mentioned a while back that I was hesitant to get a tattoo because my mother would give me shit about it.  Not shit in a "don't you do that or i'll punish you, now go to your room!"  way, but in the "I will give you a lecture about hepatitis and dirty needles and I will show you a slide presentation and email you grim statistics of how many people are infected from their spit-cleaned needle tattoo parlors and how I know someone who's daughter's friend's sister went out one night on a whim and got a tattoo of a rose on her butt and THEN HER BUTT FELL OFF.  And this, all of this, I will do WITHOUT SAYING A WORD! I AM A MOTHER, READ MY EYES!!"

In any case, I was kind of hesitating just to spare myself the lifetime lecture series I'd be signing up to attend.  Obviously, the "I want one!"  side beat out the "Are you sure about this, Dana?"  in me, because, well, I have one now.  I decided that what I'd do, in honor of her staying with us this weekend, and having my family around (imagine it: two grandparents, an aunt, uncle AND a mother giving me shit!)  was I'd just cover it with a bandage.  It's small.  It's coverable.  Good solution.  I warned Nick (who, by the way, got a tattoo last week:  one about 3 times the size of mine.  I am a puss)  not to flash it  (it being his ARM, not something weird, you pervs) at my mom if he didn't want the Dirty Needle talk, and since I knew she'd figure if he got one, I'd get one too or vice versa--and went on my merry way.

I walked into my grandparent's house Friday evening.  My mother hugs me hello.  She stands back and looks me up and down.  She stares at me, intensely, but says nothing.  Later that evening, she tells a story of a wedding she'd been to.  "The bride" she said "Was lovely.  In a beautiful, traditional silk wedding dress!  But she had all of these TATTOOS all over the place!  Up and down her arms! All over her chest and back!  It looked HORRIBLE!"  she looks at me.  I gather plates and clear the table.

The next day, we are at Linens and Things.  I need to buy one of those foamy bed pads to replace the one that the dogs ate.  (Dogs eat foam, I'm just as surprised as you...)  I have a queen sized bed (I am preemptively taking away your right to make "because you are queen-sized" jokes, sorry!).  The only queen sized foam pad is way the fuck up high.  I consider climbing for it.  My mother and I stand around and discuss it.  I attempt to knock it down.  I set off looking for a ladder.   Find the ladder, wheel it over, scramble up and get what I need.  As I am coming down, my mother shrieks "A tattoo!!! I KNEW IT!!"  And God help me, I am the worst person ever, practically the first thing out of my mouth was:  "Yeah, but you should see Nick's!! It's MUCH BIGGER!!!"

She started spluttering "Hepatitis!! HEPATITIS!!!!"  and I kept replying "It's so very, very tiny! Look! It's covered with a bandage! It's TINY! The hepatitis I'd get would be minimal!! Ankle hepatitis!"  Glare. Glare.  Glower.  "Come ON!! It's TINY!!  The place was CLEAN!!"   Stony.  Total.  Silence.  "So, so small!"
 

The moral of today's story is that I am not to be trusted, at all.  If I'm going down, I'm bringing everyone down with me, no matter what, even if you are my husband!  Like I'd sit through that lecture alone.  Right.  Though, really, she didn't speak another word about it, choosing instead to stare down at my ankle sorrowfully every hour or so and made only one half hearted attempt to look at Nick's arm.  Wow.  Maybe she doesn't love me anymore.  Man.  That sucks.
 
 
 

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