Love is Pain

I have been separated from Beau for about five weeks, and to talk in hyperbole, it has been pure torture. I feel like I've been walking around half alive, a shell of myself (more melodrama, yes). But it's true. I sleep, though I haven't had a single good night's sleep since I arrived. It's hard to sleep so close to someone for so long and then suddenly be alone. Your body feels the absence and objects via its restlessness.

But, Beau arrives in the United States, specifically Milwaukee, tomorrow, and this should all come to an end, FOREVER. In fact, he should be somewhere over the Pacific (along with my cat, Bina) right about now, watching his third movie and having his sixth drink and second meal. I don't envy his nightmare trip, which involved some desperate dashing around in L.A. trying to get Bina released from the airlines, passed through customs, and back to the airport to get them both back on the plane to Milwaukee all within two hours and 45 minutes. If he doesn't make that plane, I'll probably have to do something drastic, like drink a bottle of tequila and sing Bohemian Rhapsody over and over.

And of course, I'm very very very excited. I kind of have a habit of overdoing presents, particularly for birthdays, which I think are very special and sadly lacking in the appropriate attention. I mean, if you love someone, shouldn't the day that celebrates their existence on this planet be a BIG deal, no matter HOW old they are? *cough* Anyway, for Christmas I have gone all out for Beau again. I'm feeling the pressure since last year i got him a mandolin and he was so stunned and overcome with emotion it kinda scared me. So, how to top a fantastic Christmas trip to NYC and a mandolin?

Well, for starters, I bought him a charcoal grill. Beau is a HUGE BBQ man, which is great for me too since i reap the benefits of his great cooking, and we sold the old grill when we moved to NZ. Now, I know it's the middle of winter, but I'm sure he'll figure out a way to use it 12 times before the temperature reaches above 50 degrees. But that's not all! I bought him a bunch of ornaments that would have a personal meaning to him (I'll spare you those details), a nice shirt for work (he'll wear his clothes 'til their threads otherwise), and I oil painted his family's Scottish clan crest (Ferguson) on an 8x10 canvas in bright colors.

But wait, there's more. This was the biggie. I don't know exactly why it came to me, it wasn't my plan, but I do have a kind of belief in fate, well, sort of, destiny, kind of, and I just follow it. A week ago I walked into a tattoo parlor and started asking questions. By the time I left, I had made an appointment for the following Friday and the artist started to do his pre-tattoo drawing. Now, i've already got two tattoos, I'm very happy with both of them, and they're both perfectly placed somewhere where'd you'd have to see me in a bikini to be able to eyeball them. That suits me fine, since my tattoos are very special to me, and FOR ME. That's why i never totally understood the ones on the back of the shoulder or above your ass. Those are obviously for other's enjoyment. I love to look at my tattoos, even today. I got the first in Kanchanaburi, Thailand in a night market. Yeah, it sounds crazy now, it seemed like a cool idea at the time. It's a symbol from Arizona -- a saguaro -- that I thought represented me in many ways. Getting it was more painful than I'd expected - originally I was going to have a more elaborate tattoo and stopped after the saguaro was done -- but he did a great job and there were no problems.

The second I got in Missouri; Beau and I each got one at the same time. Mine was a Maori symbol -- a Koru -- long before we left for NZ. His, he likes to call a "war pony." I like to call it "that cute horsie."

So, why get another? I don't know. And the "faith" part of it is the real kicker. Since Beau used to be a real darn cowboy, I thought what I would do was get a cowboy hat and then have his name in cursive below it. "Cowboy Take Me Away" has always been one of our songs, so it seemed fitting. But anyone who knows anything about tattoos knows that that's the taboo of the tattoo world -- NEVER get your lover's name, never! It puts a jinx on the relationship and you always break up. And yet, over and over and over again we do it. Now, is that FAITH or what?

The tattoo parlor was staffed by two men, one a late-40's guy who had a long beard, crazy hair, little glasses, and kind of that old school Harley guy thing going on. And of course, lots of tattoos. He was loud and obnoxious, and kinda turned me off. His partner was barely an adult, with piercings, a bright red beard, and a body so skinny, that the whole thing seemed concave, from neck to feet. He was lost within his clothes, and pointy bones jutted everywhere. He had that "whatever" stoner voice and speech, and laughed frequently at the older man's obnoxious remarks. And of course, lots of tattoos. I was told Junior would be doing the tattoo.

That was a Saturday, but I couldn't do it til the following Friday after I got my first paycheck from Target. As the days crept by I kept telling myself, "You can get it out of it! They don't know you. You just don't show up." But I didn't want to. Even though the whole thing felt spontaneous, something I am firmly against when it comes to getting a tattoo, it felt good, and as the days advanced, I found myself growing excited. I even stopped by Thursday to check in and see when I should come and to see Junior's drawing. It was great. Junior had the idea of making Beau's name, still in cursive, look like it was a lasso rope. Very cool! He even put a little star above the "i" in Beau's name (*cough* yeah, obviously Beau is not his real name). My only request was to make it smaller, since I don't like the idea of a tattoo crawling across my body.

I cashed my check Friday and came in. I brought a pair of shorts and a Janet Evanovich book. I knew trying to read while getting a tattoo, which hurts like a motherfucker, was going to be a challenge, but i needed SOMETHING to do. If I just laid there and took the pain, I'd go insane and run screaming out of the parlor. I entered the place and chatted with the guys for awhile. The more the older obnoxious guy ("Senior") talked to me, the more he seemed to like me, particularly interested in Beau's cowboy past.

I watched Junior very slowly and methodically set up all the tools and dye. It was nerve-wracking, cause it's like watching a phlebotomist prepare his needles and gauze before he jabs you in the arm for blood, and you know the tattoo is going to take MUCH longer and hurt MUCH worse. Also, I'd been through this twice before, and thought it a pretty rough experience (though worth it). This time I didn't have two friends cheering me on like in Thailand or Beau holding my hand like in Missouri. This was my surprise present, and I was alone. Junior transferred his drawing to my leg, high up on the outside of my right thigh, just below the panty line. It looked good. Then, I had to lay down on the bed in a somewhat awkward position, shorts hiked up pretty high. Honey, there's no shame in the tattoo parlor. I opened my book and prepared to read.

FUCK! Fuck fuck fuck! It really hurts! For anyone who hasn't gotten a tattoo, it's the initial part, when your tattoo is being outlined in black, that is the most painful, though I'm not sure why. Later, when they're filling in all that color, it hurts a bit less. And as Junior was carving up my thigh, I thought about that long, coiling rope of Beau's name and how it had all those details on it. I grimaced and tried to dive into my book. Surprisingly, I could read, though as hysterical as Evanovich's books are, they don't make tattoo pain disappear. I did get through a great deal of pages though as the tattoo progressed. I tried not to look back, because as the inking progresses, I kind of put myself in this state. It's like, "Ohhh that's painful that hurts, just hang on, it's almost over, it's almost over..." just to psych myself through it. And tattoo artists know what they're doing, they'll etch away and just when you think you can't stand it, they lift up their gun. I mean, if I tried to tell myself "Just hang on for 40 more minutes!" I probably couldn't deal and would sprint from the parlor with a half-finished tattoo on my thigh. I suppose it's what women must tell themselves when giving birth, though I don't kid myself; I know that THAT pain must be 10,000x worse.

Senior walked in a few times, making conversation, and commenting on the quality of the tattoo (always nice to hear). He seemed to continually soften the more I talked to him, and a lot of his brusqueness melted away, which was really nice. At one point, mid-tattooing, he came in and handed me a small silver and gold piece, which looked like a tiny square belt buckle, that had a beautiful saddle on it. He said, "This is for you, you can keep it cowgirl." It turned out to be the top piece for a bolo tie! I thought it was really beautiful and touched by the gesture. A few minutes after that he came in and deposited a pen between the pages of my open book, which was engraved with the tattoo parlor's logo and address. Another little gift. Hee hee.

FINALLY, it was over. I went and checked it out in the mirror, and a gorgeous tattoo glared at me from my reddened thigh. I loved it. They both commented favorably how I had taken it so well, without a peep out of me. Junior said that sometimes with women they either scream or start to cry. Not that it doesn't hurt, but geez, to me it's one of those things where you kinda want to stay as still as possible. Your body racked with sobs probably makes the outcome of a neat and detailed tattoo a bit risky. Besides, I'm not that tough, I'd just be too humiliated to bawl in front of these guys.

Then we all walked out to the front where i paid (it was quite a bit more than I had been expecting, but worth it, it IS forever). We had a friendly chat, and when I brought up the tattoo curse about putting your lover's name on your body, they kinda sheepishly admitted that they believed in the curse too and were a bit concerned when that's what I said I wanted. But they admitted, it happens all the time, and it's not like you're going to tell someone "No." Junior said, "I just see it as a list. If it doesn't work, you put the new name under it." Hahah. Senior said, "Besides, it's more work for us. People come in later to re-do the tattoo after the break-up. More business!" I guess that's one way to look at. Despite all this, the parlor's boss (a woman) had put her lover's name on her arm, in such a way that Junior said, "Made it impossible to ever change it into something else." Then Senior added, "Yeah, and she's crying into her pillow every night now." Oh great. And yet, Junior himself had put a small heart on his arm with his girlfriend's initials inside. "I guess you could always fill in the heart if you had to," I said. "Yeah, heh heh," he replied.

Then I began to leave and they waved and said, "Come back in if you ever need us to change that name again!"

"Better yet," I said, "I'll bring HIM in to get MY name tattooed on!"

"There you go!" they said and smiled.

Then I turned, and slowly limped away.

Merry Christmas, Beau.

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P.S. I just HAD to show this tattoo 'cause it so grossed and freaked me out!!!! Can you imagine being the woman seeing that coming at her vagina? Let alone, giving this guy a BJ??? That'd turn you off of the act forever.