About Me

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Four years into widowhood, after one year of incredible happiness and nearly 14 years of single blessedness. Have given up perfect manicures and pretty hands in order to resume playing the soprano recorder and to see if I can figure out how to play bluegrass banjo. Singing in the shower. Still really, *really* love to knit!

Friday, December 07, 2007

What I was doing at the tattoo parlor. At 11:45. On a school night.

Picking up my kid. Who was there with HerBoy, the one getting a tattoo last night.

[I have no personal aversion to tattoos. I had even been toying with the idea of getting a discreet one for my 60th birthday, until President Hinckley spoke out against them a few years back. So, no tattoo for Ms. Ravelled.]

I *do* have an aversion to my kid coming home much too late, two nights in a row, when it’s a school night.

How did I know they were at the tattoo parlor, you ask? Well, I texted a guilt-trip to LittleBit around 10:15 and got no response. So I called her about 10:30 and left a more-strongly-worded voicemail. Again, no response.

And that’s when God put His oar into the water, reminding me that I had HerBoy’s cell phone number from the day that LittleBit had her endoscopy. So I called him and asked, “Where *are* the two of you?”

“Still at the tattoo parlor, ma’am. They’re shading my design.”

“Where is this tattoo parlor?”

“Keller, ma’am.” Keller is another suburb of Fort Worth, about 18 miles from where we live.

“What’s the address, please?” at which point he handed the phone to LittleBit, who apologized profusely; her phone was in her purse, which was in a chair on the other side of where HerBoy was sitting. She was holding his hand and hadn’t heard the phone buzzing.

She got me directions, and I told her I would see her shortly, and we would be talking, missy. [Which is where I insert a *Yay for Mapquest!*] There was a general parting-of-the-waves amidst the riffraff hanging about the door of the tattoo parlor. LittleBit came out to greet me, and I told her I wanted to talk with TheBoy before we left.

I had been praying all the way there, that I would say the right thing, and *not* say the wrong thing, and that above all I would not behave like an @$$. Because I was in serious Mama Bear mode. [Which no doubt accounted for the parting of the colorful (pun intended) types. Would you want to get between this mama and her cub? Didn’t think so.]

I told him, “Taking my daughter out to dinner? That’s a date. Taking her to the tattoo parlor to watch you get a tattoo? That is not a date.” I also told him that I thought she ought to be home by 9:00 or 9:30 on a school night, because we get up so early. And I told him that I realized that both of them were still getting practice making adult decisions. And that this had not been a good one.

I was reasonably calm and remarkably polite. I think I still scared him a little, which is not entirely a bad thing.

And then he asked if I wanted to see his tattoo.

Oh, why not?

It’s gorgeous, and I told him so. One of the guys who was standing around watching [and listening] said I could go next. Which is when I explained that I wouldn’t, for religious reasons, but that I might get a Harley someday, instead. Thus establishing myself as a cranky Mama Bear with a certain amount of elan.

I was awake enough from the adrenalin to get us home safely, and I had a mug of hot milk before going to bed.

Today is one of those days when I understand why some species eat their young. I was so tired that my voice dropped half an octave or more, for the greater part of the day. I told one of my coworkers that I made Lauren Bacall sound like Gidget.

My eyelids are as baggy as my ankles, or perhaps I should state it the other way around. Because I got to bed so late, my circadian rhythm is off, and I didn’t sleep well. So all the little things that hurt when I’m tired, hurt: my shoulders and traps and neck and that prime bit of real estate tucked just under each shoulder blade. I think I have enough trigger points to spark a revolution. And I’m flat too tired to try. Quite possibly too tired to cry, but it might be a good idea.

Thankfully, nothing is wrong with me that a few nights’ sleep won’t cure, and some good plain food, and plenty of water. Though I would love it if I had the time [bigger problem] or money [lesser problem] to go see my shiatsu practitioner. I would feel ever so much better if I spent an hour or three on the table having each trigger point humbled into silence.

There is just something wonderful about having oneself disassembled like a Transformer and put back together, minus the pain. The problem is that I usually wait until I am [this] far short of zombification before I pick up the phone and call. At which point the cure is almost more painful than the situation which calls for it.

Felt better after some lunch, only part of which was healthy. Felt considerably better after what happened next, an encounter with a courier that put a nice Texas smile on my face. I don’t know if he really, in his heart of hearts, thought that I was pretty, or if his mama raised him to be nice to little old ladies [and today I have felt rather closer to little old lady than to red hot mama], but he gave me a sweet old fashioned Southern greeting, and he smiled, and we chatted briefly while I signed the delivery slip, and suddenly I no longer felt half-past dead.

I love living in the South. And I hope that Santa puts a nice surprise in that man’s Christmas stocking this year.

You know, there are days when I look in the mirror, and the eyes are happy, and gravity seems momentarily abated, and all my clothing is clean and creatively put together [but not weird, or *too* weird] and I think, “not bad for a mother of five and a grandmother of three”. And there are other days when I think, “stick a fork in me, I’m done”.

Most of today I’ve had the feeling that the fork was located midway between my shoulder blades. And that I kept whacking it on the back of my chair, which didn’t help.

Yesterday morning I was thinking about how much I love Brad Paisley’s new song, “Letter to Me”. OK, I like a lot of his songs, so I was predisposed to liking it, but this one is just great! His voice is quiet and intimate like Randy Travis’s, and they both make me think of curling up on the couch with a good book and a mug of cocoa and a plate of cinnamon toast.

The song that has been running through my head all day is Garth’s “Much Too Young (To Feel This Damn Old)”. Good song; couldn’t find a link for it.

First Barcelona/November Mystery Sock is done. Second is getting close. Photos tomorrow? I’m going to sit on the couch with my knitting and a podcast or three until I cannot keep my eyes open One. Moment. Longer.

4 comments:

Tan said...

I think you handled the tattoo parlor thingie pretty well.

Lynn said...

Thanks; that seems to be the consensus with the coworkers with whom I shared the story.

I definitely handed it much better than I would have 11 years ago, had it been Firstborn. I told LittleBit this morning that *then* I would have ripped a fender off the car and beaten her about the head and shoulders. [Not really, but definitely the verbal equivalent thereof.]

I don't know if I've mellowed with age, or if I'm just exhausted...

LittleBit is taking the Mapquest printout and the business card for the tattoo parlor and creating a page for her senior scrapbook.

One apple, fallen not far from the tree.

suburbancorrespondent said...

I'd love to hear Garth's song, if you can find the link eventually.

I have that feeling with my 16-year-old (and eldest) - Wait! there's a whole bunch of stuff I have to tell you before you leave!

Jerry said...

I think you handled it well. I think I would have had to sit and pause for a few minutes in the car and talk myself off the edge so to speak as not to do something I would regret later.