Mutilation by Bumblebees
My mom and I were in a small art gallery the other day. Looking around, I saw a few woodblock prints hanging on the wall. Most of them were prints of insects with various shades of yellow behind the inky black. I loved them. I pointed one out to my mom that I especially liked—it was of a bumblebee. “A bee?” she asked. “Yeah,” I said. “I love bees. If I ever get a tattoo, it’ll be a bee.”
My mom got a funny look on her face and said something like, “I don’t think you need to mutilate your body any more than you already have.” Huh? I have exactly three piercings, all in my earlobes (presumably the most socially acceptable place to have holes poked through your body), and one of which I never even use anymore. No tattoos (yet). No piercings in tongues or eyebrows or belly buttons or strange places in my ear. So what the hell was she talking about?
We walked around the corner to a little salon, where we had pedicure appointments. I kept pressuring her to tell me what she meant by “mutilation.” Finally, she spilled. When my dad had helped me move in to my current apartment—a year and a half ago, mind you—he thought he saw a tattoo on my lower back when I bent over. (A friend who also helped me move in does have a tattoo in her lower back, so maybe my dad just needs his eyes checked.) He came home and told my mom, “Guess who has a tattoo?”
My mom refused to believe me until—right in the middle of the salon—I pulled down the top of my jeans to show her my bare, untattooed back. I finally convinced her, but I was unable to escape the ensuing lecture about how tattooing is the same as mutilating your body. Guess this is further evidence that when I do get a tattoo, I sure as hell need to keep it a secret from my parents.
* * *
current book: My running buddy loaned me her copy of The Nonrunner’s Marathon Guide for Women: Get off your butt and on with your training. The writer, Dawn Dais, is pretty funny—she actually writes a lot like dooce—but her brand of sarcasm wears thin a chapter or two into the book. And I wish she’d written it more of a story of her journey from recliner to race day, rather than a guide. Nevertheless, it’s of course always good to hear that you’re not the only person irritated by how freakin’ happy runners are at 7:30 on a Saturday morning.
current music: I need to charge my iPod.
current socks: Some very soft, fuzzy, purplish ones my mom gave me for Christmas a few years ago. Before she thought I had turned to a self-mutilating lifestyle.
Posted 4 March 2007
No Comments
Comments RSS TrackBack Identifier URI
Leave a comment
my mom – who is very open to my life choices – also freaked out about mutilation when i got my tattoo. something about how she had created something perfect & beautiful & i had to go off and besmirch it. then she gave in a little, “at least it’s tasteful. i mean, i suppose it could have been a skull & crossbones.” because if anyone knows me, they would realize that i’m just a goth girl underneath it all.
ha! i just realized josh’s tattoo is, in fact, a skull & crossbones, albiet the skull of a mouse. i never put his tattoo together with my mom’s concerns. i should ask my mom how she feels about it since, at least 13 years ago, that was the worst thing she could imagine.