My wife has a few tattoos.
She never tells me when she’s getting them…or where they are. She usually gets them during “girls weekends”…
...where I can only imagine Enrique Eglasias as the tattoo guy:
I’ll kill that tattooing bastard if I ever see him.
They’re all small (nothing like a giant dragon down your arm to get me going) and fairly innocuous (a rose, a ladybug). Her second tattoo (the ladybug) was done just above her bum.
I first saw this tattoo about two months after she got it.
I'm not sure what this tells you about sex after children…but you get my drift. It’s much, much better now…so I’m fully expecting to see her next tattoo as soon as she gets it (which, will probably say, “Brad Pitt was here.”)
Anyway, I decided in a fit of whimsy (not sure if using the word “whimsy” gets me kicked out of Man-town), that I’d get a tattoo as well. I couldn’t be the only one in the relationship without one.
I decided to forego the matching ladybug tattoo and instead went with a Boston Bruins logo. My tattoo was supposed to be about the size of a shot glass on the back of my left shoulder. I was a pretty hard-core hockey fan back in the day…so what better than a fitting tribute to my team…
Of course, now they suck ass…but I’m stuck with the f*cking tattoo, so I still have to watch…
Anyway, the idea of getting the tattoo probably wasn’t a good one for a number of reasons:
1) I hate needles
2) I hate pain
3) I hate needles that cause pain
4) I hate the pain caused by needles
..but I decided to do it anyway.
So, being the brilliant little man that I am, I scheduled my tattoo.
As is my luck, my tattoo was scheduled for the hottest day in August in ten years.
It was also done on the top level (third floor) of the tattoo parlor.
Said tattoo parlor had no f*cking air conditioning.
I don't know why sometimes I even bother to wake up. This is how things go for me.
So there I was, bent over in a 120-degree oven (like a camel in heat) when the pain comes like a billion mosquitos diving in for the kill.
I started sweating…
..great...now I'm hyperventilating…
I’m starting to think that maybe…maybe I’ll tell him to stop now.
I'll just have a tattoo of a few black dots. That should be good enough...
Me to my friends: "Hey, I got a tattoo."
Friends: "Oh yeah? Of what?"
Me: "A few little dots. It looks like freckles."
(scene of unimaginable violence as my friends beat me to death)
Now I’m getting woozy…
I ask him, “How far are you?”
The buzzing stops for a second.
He says, “I’ve got the outline almost done.”
You’ve only done THE OUTLINE?!?
I feel like I’ve been in here for 17 hours being interrogated by Jack Bauer from 24 and he’s only on the OUTLINE?!
(by the way, I only found out what a Prince Albert was the other day...if you don't know...you don't WANT to know...)
Based on what I felt like, I was sure that I’d be stepping out of that chair and seeing an entire replica of The Last Supper scrawled out on my back.
I look at my wife…
“Honey…can you get me a soda?”
She shakes her head, looks at me and says (with the tattoo guy right there):
“You’re such a pussy.”
GO GET MY SODA!
This went on for what seemed like infinity. The tattoo guy (who, incidentally, resembled any one of the trailer-trash crack addicts that you’d see on Cops) had to stop three times because I almost passed out.
When it was over, I had this fancy new sporty Bruins logo sitting on my shoulder.
It looked cool. It looked hip.
It hurt like Hell.
It won’t happen again.
..unless I get a cortisone shot first.
Wednesday, November 07, 2007
My wife has a few tattoos.