Tuesday, August 7, 2012

You Have a Tattoo?

The day I turned eighteen, I got my belly button pierced. I was skinny and cute, and who doesn't want a piece of metal shoved in their belly button?  Well, obviously, my body. Within a few months my body had rejected the piercing, and I was slowly forming a granuloma underneath the bedazzled jewel that hung from belly button. So, out with the piercing and in with the scarred belly button.

Since I was young and wild, and assumed my parents didn't know anything, I waited until I turned twenty-one and went for the tattoo.  First, we stopped at Ruby Tuesdays and I bought a strawberry daquiri (because when you first turn twenty-one you MUST get an alcoholic beverage at every restaurant. period.) and drank it like a champ.  Then, I dragged myself to the tattoo parlor, ironically named Good, Clean, Fun. Ha! Now, how I made it through getting the tattoo, I will never know. I'm quite possibly the biggest scaredy-cat there is, and somehow I managed to sit in a chair and let someone use a needle to apply ink to my lower back for two hours. P.S. Wedding Crashers had not been made at this point. Save your lame bulls-eye jokes.

Long story short. Your mom will always know best. Face it. It took me twenty-eight years and a back surgery to know this.

That, my friends, is a cut straight through my beautiful tattoo. Now, when I'm old, I will not only have a wilted flower, but a scarred, wilted flower. My mother is still laughing.


  1. I'm just glad you're healing well. I've missed you!

  2. Payback is hell isn't it? P.S. your incision looks good.

  3. Hope you are healing well and doing good.