There’s two things I can’t ever seem to get enough of: books and margaritas and…

Well, nevermind. There’s lots of things I’m a greedy little hog about. But two of my great loves are tattoos and oysters. And I was past due for both. 

I’ve been eyeing pretty heavily some tattoo designs on Pinterest. I want to be sure, you know? Like, really sure. It’s so permanent and all. I haven’t regretted any of my other selections, but that’s because I agonized over them for months, or years, even. I am prime real estate, & He ain’t makin’ no more. 

I’ve been hung up on swallows ever since Hannibal Lector was schooling Clarice on them. (However, my recent Google search showed that it was roller pigeons, not swallows. Dammit. But swallows are the same concept:they dive for their meals. For the sake of my story, we’re going to continue on like it was always swallows, because that’s what I’ve been envisioning all these years). And I was researching the meaning of swallow tattoos, and the birds in general, and found that I liked everything I was reading about them. They symbolize coming home, true love, the arrival of spring, and a host of other wonderful homey things. The blue ones signify optimism. They eat sixty mosquitoes an hour. Hello, my little feathered heroes! I found several simple designs I thought would work for me and the wrist placement I had in mind. You know, small and dainty so I could cover it with my watch or a wide bracelet. 

Johnny made me an appointment with his friend Big Dave, who has inked their whole tribe many times over. He warned me he has a heavy hand, but I wasn’t worried. I have three already, after all. I’m a trooper. I anticipated it all week, practically giddy by Thursday afternoon. As I haven’t had a new tattoo in several years, this was a big deal.

So Friday at 5:15 I found myself climbing into a cracked, ripped, creme colored tattoo chair in a red painted room while some heavy metal band called Dead Fetus, I believe it was, screamed from the speakers. 

You get what you get in these places. I imagine it’s much like operating rooms, only for tattoos you’re awake to see and hear it. 

I had showed him some pictures of what I had in mind beforehand, of course, but we had to find a clearer image in order to print it off and get the dimensions. I kinda thought he would just free hand it, but whatevs. I didn’t like the cartoon style swallows, and I didn’t like the super detailed ones either, because I knew as small as I wanted it they would never convert over. Here are a few of the type I liked:

Simple lines and basic colors like navy blue. I definitely wanted it swooping and I definitely wanted the forked tail to be prominent. So when he brought me this, I knew I’d have to get involved in the hunting of images. 

Sure, it’s beautiful, but to me, it’s just a songbird. I’m no ornithologist (save your dictionary app-that means a person who specializes in birds). 

We finally settled on one…and on a much bigger scale than what I’d originally intended. Go big or go home. And I’d had such a heckuva time parking I wasn’t about to go home. Just imagine, the story I’ll be telling the rest of my days: “Well, I got frustrated hunting the perfect Google image, and this is what I got because I just wanted to get it over with. He told me the little ones would just look blobby. Why wouldn’t I trust him?”

He got the forked tail outline started before I started sweating. He and Johnny were chatting away like nothing was amiss, like this was a happy time in a land of unicorns and rainbows and unlimited cupcakes. I snuck a look to see if he was almost done. 

Ha. 

Luckily, Big Dave lives up to his name and had my wrist pinned under his meaty hand and I couldn’t go anywhere if I tried. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t cry. Or pass out. Or throw up. 

No wonder people always ask if it hurts. Because it does. I guess I forgot. I barely felt my little shamrock when I got it done…but come to think of it, I might have been drinking that night. No matter. And my heart and horseshoe I was all excited to finally be getting them I was riding a rush of adrenaline. Whoooo-eee. I closed my eyes and pretended I was Miranda Lambert. When that didn’t work, I tried to put it in perspective. This wasn’t as bad as a visit to the lady doctor. Wait. Yes it was. It was worse because it was lasting a lot longer. And I really like my doctor! Ok, the dentist. Yes, this was definitely worse than the dentist. 

Well, no. The dentist is worse. There’s the grinding. And the smell of bone being pulverized. Ok, yes. Definitely the dentist is worse. And kidney stones. Kidney stones make you want to die. First, you’re scared you’re gonna die, then you hope you will, because the pain is so intense. Ok. So good. Two things worse than being tattooed. Good thing I really wanted this damn bird because it was taking a lot of willpower to get it. 

Could I get some ice chips? 

Every time he swapped inkwells, I got a brief respite from the buzzing needle for a minute, just long enough for me to relish the lack of pain before he started back in with a vengeance. 

Johnny took some pictures to preserve the moment, at my request, in case these were among my last moments on Earth. 

You thought I was exaggerating about the Big Dave part, didn’t you? 🙂

He eventually stopped jabbing, squirted some restorative water on me, swabbed me down, wrapped me up, and sent me on my way. 

I am proud to report I didn’t even cry in the truck. I wanted to, though. Shug’s like, “You good for awhile, then?” (Obviously not, as I’ve been looking at watercolor sleeves all weekend). We stopped for barbeque on the way home, since I was hungry before we started but was afraid to eat in fear it would all come back up. I was bleeding under my saran wrap and people kept eyeing me, so perhaps it wasn’t the best idea. 

Amyway, here’s the finished product. 

I don’t know why that loaded sideways. It’s upside down, anyway, because it’s for me, not anybody else, and I want to look at it right side up. Hence it being upside down to everybody else. 

So that was Friday. 

Saturday we had plans to go to my good friend Whit’s house for an oyster shucking party. I’ve never shucked an oyster in my life, but clearly, there’s no time like the present. So I packed our two dozen towels and hot sauce and key lime pie and away we went. 

In case you’ve never seen 100 oysters, this is what they look like: 

Pretty gross, according to the men in our lives. I wasn’t allowed to talk about the worms I found hanging onto the mollusks, nor the teeny tiny crabs I kept running up on (and consuming). But after a few games of beer pong, nobody cared. And we (me & Whit) are the champions…but who’s the real winner, the true winners, or the people who get more beer? 

I guess it’s however you wanna look at it. 

So that was my adventurous weekend. I’m kinda proud of myself. Livin’ on the edge with arm tattoos and raw oysters. Yeehaw.