“What are you in for?” Tat Man asked, holding the needle a centimeter from my skin, preparing to scar me beautifully for all eternity.
I turned my head but couldn’t make contact with his clover-colored eyes over my shoulder.
“My birthday,” I said.
“Which one?”
“Twenty-third.”
“Not exactly a milestone,” he said as his instrument buzzed to life. The sound, not unlike a dentist’s drill, was more unsettling than the sight of the needle.
I tried to distract myself with the Ink Lab’s scenery, but it didn’t calm my nerves. Nine Inch Nails screeched on the stereo. The sign above the doorway read: “Unattended children will be sold as slaves” and the fingerprint-smudged display cases housed metal and plastic adornments so alien I couldn’t even tell which body part they were meant to penetrate.
“Here it goes.”
A sensation akin to a steady bee sting settled into my skin and a trail of heat snailed down my back.
When I winced, Tat Man said, “First I outline, then I’ll fill in. This is the most painful part.”
Far from it! The most painful part was already underway. Getting inked was a piece of cake in comparison to separating from The Mexican, my husband of six years. Funny how uncoupling increases the urge to injure oneself. Before getting inked, I’d pierced my belly-button and gotten two new holes in my earlobes. Was I trying to shock something awake or numb out? I didn’t cry during any of the procedures.
Perhaps getting inked is a rite of passage, a bridge from your old life (in which you conformed to society’s Leave it to Beaver BS) to your new life, which is (at least in your mind) infinitely more rebellious.
Or are tattoos a cry for identity? Or touch? You’ve got this (often scary-looking) stranger up against your skin, breathing on you, touching you, inflicting pain, making you bleed, then wiping you clean. It’s incredibly intimate, if not S & M-ish sexual.
My tats were all quickies—30 minutes in and out, no touch-ups necessary. But what about the people who have murals permanently painted on their most private parts—that’s a lot of up-close-and-personal time spent with someone you don’t end up sleeping—or eating breakfast—with.
“It’s not your birthday anymore,” Tat Man said when I returned one week later with a new astrological design in hand. “What’s the story?”
“I’m getting divorced,” I sighed.
“Ahh…” he said, wiping down my arm with a cool compress. “I thought so.”
Tats and divorce go together like…apples and cinnamon. I’ve noticed the tat trend lately amongst my middle-aged male friends (see yesterday's post). Punk Blogger did too, as evidenced by his recent expose on his newly tattooed buddy, “Drew Blood”. Said buddy was a husband, father, professional and probably living a Novocain kind of life. I joked to Punk Blogger that “First comes the tattoo, then comes the…hell, just give Drew my number. I’ll take good care of him.”
I was inked five times in two-and-a-half years. The first two were astrological symbols, as though I needed to advertise, up front, that I have dual personalities. The next three were “rewards” for finishing three marathons: a leaf design for Twin Cities, a unicorn for Boston, and an apple for New York, all on my ankles.
My last venture to the Ink Lab was in 2007. “Loco” (Not a pseudonym!) was my tattoo artist; a short, brown-skinned man with black flames up both of his calves. He had fuzzy dreadlocks and the face of a troll—by which I mean leathery and happy, not ugly. We became fast friends because he was a Latino married to a gringa. As it turned out, Loco was so NOT loco; aside from the ball-and-chain, he had a son and an MFA. (Wait—did I just prove my own point?)
While Loco went to town with his needle, I eavesdropped on a couple describe their desired tats to another artist. The woman wanted a cross engulfed in flames; the man wanted a naked lady. This was his second naked lady. On his forearm. At first I thought the naked lady WAS his girlfriend; alas, there was little resemblance. Is having a cartoon chick inked on your arm a form of cheating? How could you fuck a man who, every time he assumed the missionary position, stuck two pairs of pointy nipples in your face? (Answer: doggie style.)
So how is this all related to food? It isn’t really; tats just fascinate me. But if you’re gonna make me stretch, I’ll say that tattoos are like corporeal garnish; they add a little spice to an otherwise bland dish. They make the mundane more exotic, kind of like keeping your ex’s Mexican last name when your skin tone is pastier than cream cheese. (Not that I know anyone who’s done that…)
For now, I’m giving the needle a rest. The only apples on my body are in my stomach—hence today’s recipe, in honor of what was my last tattoo. Maybe. Probably. Hell, never say never!
MINI-APPLE CHEESECAKE TARTS
INGREDIENTS
1 cup fat-free Cool Whip, thawed
½ cup whipped brown sugar and cinnamon cream cheese, room temperature
1 tablespoon Splenda
4 Keebler mini graham cracker crusts
½ cup dried apple chunks
¼ cup pecan halves
Caramel syrup
METHOD
• In medium bowl, beat Cool Whip, cream cheese and Splenda together with electric mixer on low.
• Pour into graham crusts.
• Top with dried apples, pecans, and caramel syrup.
• Chill 3 hours and serve.
