When I was 11, my mother and her “boyfriend” came home one night reeking of liquor, sporting brand new matching tattoos. Fabulous! Initially, my mom was very proud of this tattoo. She started wearing revealing tops so everyone, including strangers and my friends at school could see her newly embellished shoulder blade. The guy’s tattoo was on his thigh and I am thankful that I only heard about it and never had to see it with my own eyes. They went on three more dates before going their separate ways.
Do you want to guess what the tattoo is? If you guessed a black panther taking a ready-to-pounce stance, you are correct. Not a cartoon panther, a life-like one. As an adult, I asked my mother these questions, “Have you heard of the Black Panther organization? Are you trying to become a member? Aren’t you so glad you really went for it in your mid thirties?”
That sounds bad, but the next tattoo was worse. A classic lower back tattoo, really nice mom. When I saw it for the first time, I truthfully had no idea what it was. Oh, but of course, how stupid could I be? It’s a Native American dream catcher. Later in life, I corrected her, ”No mom, that is a Native American sperm catcher.”
As odd as it may sound, I was thankful when my mom got off the tattoo kick and got a belly button ring.
If you happen to meet my mother now, she will deny that she has any “ink.” Approaching 50, she has finally found herself in the real world and I think she realizes how stupid her “tats” are. However, I will never miss an opportunity to bring this up in front of people for my own entertainment.
You’re welcome, mom. Life is a mother fucker.
