Before your very eyes dear internet, I am morphing into a crazy pierced, inked redneck. My husband is bemoaning the fact that my virginal skin has been vandalized. I know he cried into his beer last night when I told him I went and got my tattoo. He told me I am mutating from this pious, uptight lady to this scary, pierced and tattooed chicky. He wonders what’s next. Perhaps a chain collar or motorcycle lessons?

I told him with that attitude I was gonna pierce both my nipples, and ride topless down the street where all the Hell’s Angel boys like to play.

He shut up pretty quick. He’s learning that I tend to do as I say.

(How scary is that image? My saggy beavertails flapping in the wind…Even I’m grossed out.)

But in the end, it wasn’t as bad as I had feared. The scariest part was how my artist looked. (I now understand my husband’s apprehension. But until I dye my hair blue and have enough metal in my face to melt into several bullets, I think he’s safe.) The actual tattooing alternated between warm scratches and “Fuck, fuck, fuck” (all said in my head of course. I didn’t want to appear pansy-like.)

I am now sporting a beautiful cross on my lower back, to memorialize my Bug. It is blue and green and purple with some coral pink in the banner. I only caught a fleeting glimpse of it before she bandaged it up.

My thoughts? Holy Fuck! That thing is huge! Boo is gonna kill me! But look how pretty!

It wasn’t until I walked out of the parlour that I realized something.

I never checked the spelling of my son’s name.

What’s the chances she spelt Skjel right?