It all started when I made the mistake of telling my husband I wanted a tattoo. “Susan,” he replied, his face contorted like he just found a spider in his Stoli, “A tattoo shows a distinct lack of breeding.”
Excuse me, but did he just diss my mom and dad, my Irish-Italian upbringing, and my steadfast conviction (pounded into me by both my parents) that penne bolognaise is an acceptable breakfast food?
I think so.
Offended but undaunted I broach the topic of tattoos with the one clique I count on to help make all of life’s crucial decisions (i.e. highlights or lowlights, Botox or bangs, six weeks or six months of sleep away camp for my crotchety eight year-old): the girls.
Thank God for girlfriends. When the chips (and salsa) are down, and it’s time to choose between a fourth margarita or a first mojito, my girlfriends order the former and tell me it’s the latter. And what do I know? It’s my fourth margarita.
Anyway, we’re hurtling down the highway in my friend Deb’s Excursion, a vehicle so massive I have to wonder how she handles it (particularly since she’s about as big as her own eight year-old), when I announce that I want a tattoo.
No response.
Considering there are four women in the car, all of whom are doing their most passionate Pink impression, laughing and sampling each others lip glosses, and generally celebrating the fact that for the next few days they’re free from playing referee, chauffeur, and head chef, this doesn’t surprise me.
So I say it again. Loud. And this time I connect.
“Houston, we have a redneck,” says Jenn, the youngest and most conservative of the crew and the only one we practically had to hogtie and toss into the car. Why? It seems she’d never left her kids in her husband’s care for more than a day. Why? She said she was worried they’d subsist on peanut butter sandwiches, but I think she was afraid they’d Gorilla Glue the toilet seats up. Again.
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