The Tattoo

Finally. At long last. It is done. Birdie has her tattoo. On Saturday, Birdie's aunt Candy Squared and sis Daisy helped her disguise the trip to the tattoo artist as an "aunt-nieces shopping" bonding experience. I should have suspected "something" as, in retrospect, they slinked out the door. The troublesome trio phoned in Birdie's intentions once they were safely on their way. They caught me when they knew I would be too busy spending my own money to worry about how Birdie spent hers--beyond hoping that needling a tattoo would hurt enough to keep the artwork small. Birdie returned home with her tattoo covered with a taped on, white paper towel. We trimmed the Christmas tree. I stared at Birdie's back. We decked the halls. I stared some more. We listened to the Chipmunks Christmas album. I kept sneaking peeks, wondering what lay beneath the Bounty. Finally, in the soft glow of the tree lights, she unveiled it. We stared in confusion at it and what it didn't say: No proclamations of I love mom, or dad, or grandma, or June (Daisy's treasured first cat), or Chuck (my treasured departed dog), or bacon (Big Guy's treasured treasure). I think we all thought we would get to own at least a small chunk of the Birdie back. In reality, the tattoo is a lovely, simple black-etched faceted heart. It sits on the midsection of Birdie's back, close enough to her side that if she twists around, she can see most of it.  We complimented Birdie on her choice. There's plenty of room to write I love Mom around it. And Birdie's Grandma--a nondrinking woman not brave enough to get her own ears pierced--chimed in cheerfully, and sincerely, that the tattoo will show just fine when Birdie dons her beach bikini. Clearly somewhere among the stuffing, cranberry and swear-like-a-sailor sweet potato pie, I lost control of my Thanksgiving children and my Thanksgiving company. For that I am grateful. I like Birdie's tattoo. Already I am planning mine. There will be a Birdie, a Daisy and a Martini--as a drink glass is easier to sketch than a full-blown depiction of Big Guy snoring in front of the TV or a multi-layered stack of crisply fried bacon. If Candy Squared isn't available to tattoo with me, I will conference phone her in to the procedure. But I won't ask Mom how fine my tattoo will look when I wear my bikini. She would have to turn into a serious drinking woman to contemplate that sight. So would I. Sooner or later, the Birdie tattoo will make its blog debut. Right now, Birdie reports, it's healing.