Never safe to assume...

By now I figured it was common knowledge that I had 2, yes, TWO, count em 2, tattoos. My Michael seemed surprised to see them the other day. As some of you know, I had bonded with Dylan over tattoos a few years back before he deployed for his third trip back to hell. Dylan got a wicked awesome tat of a steeley/cubs thing on his elbow and I got a cutie patootie tattoo toe ring on my right foot. The tattoo artist was taken aback and rather insulted that I referred to it as, "a cutie patootie tattoo". I remember commenting that it had not hurt as badly as I had thought it would and was rather surprised when it appeared to have rubbed off just a few weeks later. The theory was that the tattoo artist had "skin popped it" or only hit the top few layers so it wasn't really permanent.

For my 2 year anniversary (I have decided to go with the date of my first fateful mammogram as that is the date that is burned into my mind) I felt compelled to commemorate the event. For whatever reason, I was drawn to the idea of a tattoo. Nothing huge, nothing fancy, just a pink ribbon with maybe a few flowers. The obvious spot for such a tattoo would appear to be the left boob. However, my entire chestal area voted that idea off the island and refused to let the needles anywhere near. The top of the foot, while extremely painful to tattoo, seemed the next obvious choice, as there was no way in hell I was getting a tramp stamp and everything else was exposed with a bathing suit top and therefore in your face. The foot is the one part of the body that doesn't change shape much when you lose or gain weight. While I was at it, I had the guy redo the toe ring. This time, the thing hurt like holy hell.........thank you valium.