When Morgan asked me to guest post for her, after I finished beaming and immediately replying hell to the yeah I’ll do it, I started to try and figure out what I’m going to write about. Kids? My general goofiness? My slightly alarming but often hilarious dating history? My ex husband? Ooooooh, the possibilities.
I only have two tattoos. Both of them on are on my back, right around my shoulder area, and one on each side. I worked in banking for a long time, and I wanted ink that I could hide or show at will. At the time I got my first tattoo, I was married to my first husband. Zippy was a nice enough guy, big hearted and a lot of fun. He was a great boyfriend. Unfortunately he was a lousy husband. Everyone but the two of us knew the marriage was doomed, and honestly? I think we knew this too, even if neither of us would admit it. Sometimes you make really bad decisions for what you think are the right reasons. Or to prove that you are right and everyone else on the planet is wrong. That never works out so well for me. Universe: 459, Me: 2. Not even close. Sigh.
Zippy was a bit of a drinker. When I say a bit of a drinker, I mean when started drinking, he was almost certainly going to get smashed. When he got smashed, he did stupid things. Stupid things like try to climb into a go-go cage at a nightclub where some chick had decided to strip – with me and the girls’ very , very big boyfriend standing right there. I mean, you want to dance with someone, I have no issue with that. If you want to take their bra off for them and dry hump them in public? Well, I’m going to have to file that under “Not a very good idea”.
|(Not Brooke's tattoo, I don't think....)|
Fast forward a few years and Robert (who is now my husband) and I went to pick up his sister for the weekend. Mandy was at basic training/AIT school at Ft. Jackson and every time she could get off base we pretty much went and got her for the weekend. She decided she wanted to go get a tattoo. Not a problem. I took her to the same place I got my first tattoo. As we milled around the shop looking at all the wall art, I was telling her that it wasn’t so bad, wouldn’t hurt so much, blah, blah, blah. I should mention at this point that my brother and I had experienced a bit of a falling out (we have that pattern, he and I) and he was still very good friends with the main tattoo artist in the shop. Shane, the tattoo artist, was also the only person working when we went.
(Just for the record, I still haven’t gotten another tattoo, and I believe Mandy went on to get about 5 or 6 more. More power to her. Seriously.)