How Pansy Got Her 9 Tattoos

It is a long one, so settle back with food and drink. Why do none of Pansy's stories have a short cut? My tattoo sojourn began a long, long time ago:

I met my very best friend BigD (although all of my friends are my very best friends) at my new, Country-Girl-Goes-To-The-Big-City to be a secretary at the High-Rise Lawyer Firm. Two weeks after I have landed on Mars, BigD says to her cubiclemate "oh, my pictures from Jamaica have arrived." I, Miss Bat Ears With Super Sophisticated Echolocation Sonar Hearing, scamper over saying "Show me, too!" BigD (not knowing me) later confessed she felt quite shy about doing so but it was too late. Plus, she is a Cocker Spaniel and could/would never say "no". I, on the other hand, am a Chihuahua (imagine that). Her shyness stemmed from the fact that she and her husband, BiggerD, went to a resort in Jamaica that has a clothing optional beach. And she wasn't sure how I felt about such things. I look and look and look at the photos but finally confess that I do not see BigD in any of the pictures. She carefully explains she is the one with her hair in a ponytail on the top of her head. BigD looks remarkably different with her hair up instead of down. But, I see which female in the pictures is her and spent the rest of the photo viewing saying "Oh! There they are. I mean, YOU are." "There they are again. I mean YOU again." I still could not recognize her with her hair up. But her boobs. Well, they are as distinctive as markings on whales. Which I dutifully pointed out to her. We became very good friends almost immediately because she is a Cocker Spaniel with a great sense of humor. Then she tells me all about Jamaica and how wonderful it is and how she and her husband always tell people about it but no one they know ever goes. Even though the others profess great interest in going. I tell her to be careful for what she wishes.

The day of the picture viewing I race home and tell Mr. Pansy all about BigD and Jamaica and the resort.....Hedonism II. He immediately blanches and says "That place!?" I look askance and ask "what are you talking about? Have you heard of it?" He retorts "Yes! In sophisticated publications like Hustler." I pale and say "But BigD seems so nice." He contorts his face with disgust and says "Yeh, sure." and asks me to tell him more about her boobs. I falter and get a case of the vapors. He clutches me to his broad and manly chest and has his way with.......oh, please excuse me. Got mixed up and started to tell you ANOTHER story. hahahhahaha.

The fact is, I have to agree with Mr. Pansy that if HE had come home with the story I came home with about some "nice guy" at his work and seeing pictures of Nice Guy's private parts we would never have gone to Jamaica. But, since "Pansy Knows All" was the instigator, of course there is no reason to avoid BigD and BiggerD like the plague. We couldn't get our act/money/trip to Jamaica put together until two years later.

Then the horrific mishap at the airport. All 4 of us arrive at midnight, everyone else is cleared to go, I step up to the counter and the nice ladies tell me "This is not a birth certificate. Do you have a passport?" They were serious. I truly almost fainted dead away. I thought I had ruined our non-refundable vacation, that the money was down the tubes and it was all over. Mr. Pansy thought he had a way out of our marriage. We watch BigD and BiggerD fly away. Mr. Pansy, to his everlasting credit, actually did not get on the plane with them and say "see ya when ya get there, honey." I most certainly would have done that if the situation had been reversed. That's because not only am I a Chihuahua, I am a Bitch Chihuahua at that! hahahahaha. I really did get desperate and was ready to run around the corner, bite the paper I thought was my birth certificate to "emboss" it, and try to palm it off on the nice ladies. But I realized in time that would not work. So as I stood there like a stunned cow, they sweetly lied to me and said "this happens all the time. Just call your birth state people and get a birth certificate." I numbly/dumbly shake my head back and forth in the universal gesture that means: "I dunno how to do dat." They gave me the phone number in Texas and told us to keep coming back each night at midnight to the airport until I got the birth certificate. It is Groundhog Day! For Reals! If we showed up each night they could just postpone our flight for another 24 hours and we would not lose the tickets. Who knew that!? What nice ladies they really were.

I won't even go into how I actually called my elderly parents (at midnight!) and asked them if they had a birth certificate for me. They pretended I had not awakened them, pretended to look around, and actually came out and gave us a ride home. What a pair of noobs! Us, not my parents. Well, they are noobs too. For god's sake they gave me this stupid piece of paper eons ago claiming it was my birth certificate. I have used it for getting my driver's license, getting married (Mr. Pansy thought he had Yet Another Shot at getting out of the marriage over this), etc. It is, in fact, a stupid letter from stupid Texas saying my stupid parents had a stupid baby girl. It even has a paragraph stating that if a real birth certificate is needed, please send 50 cents. So now I am also some punk phat/fat rapper's bitch, as well?! hahahahha. Get it? Get it? fiddycent's booty call ho. [Get back on topic, please, Pansy. Back? Pansy's Got Back, Too! hahahahhaha.]

Mr. Pansy and I get home, totally freaked out. He reacts as usual by going to bed and promptly falling asleep. After all, he isn't the unpapered illegal alien. Sidenote: I had left the employment at the high-rise law firm and was now working for the most wonderful attorney ever (he surely is Mr. Rogers' brother). I go to the office when it is time for Texas to open. I call and speak with Yolanda Wilson, my absolute forever best friend. I tell her I am Pansy Palmetto and I am in a world of hurt. And explain my situation. She says "Oh, my" and we hammer out what needs to happen. My request for the birth certificate has to be received in writing in her office. We waltz around how to get the written request to her ASAP and how many hundreds of dollars per day are going to be lost from my vacation when suddenly:

Yolanda says: "You could fax the written request." We both squeal with delight but then she whispers (really) into the phone: "But I can't give you the fax number. It's against the rules."
I ask her if she is whispering because a supervisor is nearby.
Yolanda: "Yes."
Me: "If she were not nearby could you give me the fax number and I could send in my written request now?"
Yo: "Yes."
Me: "So, let's wait a bit and see if she needs to go get coffee or something. After all, you guys just opened up.
Yo: Okay.
Pause
Yo: She's leaving (whispering excitedly).
I can actually hear high heels click clacking out of the room.
Yo: Here's the fax number.
Me: I am faxing it as we speak, Yolanda! But let me get this straight. You can't give out the fax number but if a written request magically appears on the fax machine that's ok?
Yo: Go figure!
We laugh evilly.
Yo: Got it! Oh, no!
Me: What?
Yo: I can't process this without the $11.50 fee.
Me: I'll fax a check to you right now.
We both get real quiet and then burst into hysterical laughter. I gasp out "Well, how about if I fax you CASH instead?" and we laugh into tears again.
Yo: Pansy, if I pay this fee for you will you reimburse me?
Me: My god, Yolanda, you will own my ass for life on this one. Of course I will pay you back...double and with extra on top of that.

So she pays my fee and then we have to get the Real Birth Certificate Fed Exed to me. Yolanda has never done a Fed Ex thing in her life but she calls the Fed Ex people and we are all on a conference call wherein I say to the Fed Ex guy "I am Pansy Palmetto and I am in a world of hurt" and explain my situation. He says "Oh, my!" And says he'll help Yolanda when he gets there to pick up my birth certificate package.

While waiting for the FedEx guy to show up, I fax a filled-out Fed Ex form to Yolanda and train her on how to do it. Then the FedEx guy shows up at Yolanda's office with all the forms and a Fed Ex envelope but he cannot fill out the form himself (against the rules). So he gets on the phone with me and Yolanda and supervises everything and takes off with my birth certificate package. Meanwhile, before he got to Yolanda, the FedEx man on his own volition called and caught the pilot of the only FedEx plane on earth going from Dallas to my airport that day and tells him to hold up because of "Pansy Palmetto who is in a world of hurt" and explained my situation to the pilot who said "Oh, my."

All in all, I was on the phone nonstop (sometimes on hold) with Yolanda from 6am to 8:00am when the FedEx man took off to the airport. We had been on the phone so long we weren't sure it was really over and were fearful to hang up. So I gave her all my phone numbers and fax number and she gave me all her phone numbers, cell included so she could find out how this saga ended. By now, some of my office coworkers are showing up and look at me like they are seeing a ghost and we all have a hearty laugh about stupid Pansy. I have nothing else to do, so I go to the high school where I was parent assistant to the cheerleader coach and all of them look at me like I am a ghost. Even Baby Pansy momentarily had a brain meltdown and wanted to know why I had come back early from Jamaica. Then I went to the tanning place for one last tan session (don't go to Jamaica naturally white or you will die). While there, I decide to call Mr. Pansy and see if he is awake and tell him what's up.

Then I go back to work to finish up a few things. I call the travel agent about my world of hurt and she says "Oh, my." She calls Hedonism II and tells them about my world of hurt and they say "Oh, my." And it all gets arranged down to the last detail that when we finally arrive in Jamaica everything will be treated as if that day is Day One. So we still have a full vacation coming at no extra cost or fees on the part of any of the players involved. Un-fucking-believable.

I don't expect the FedEx package until the next day at best. About 2pm Mr. Pansy calls me and says "I just got a FedEx package. Shall I open it?" Yes, yes, for god's sake YES! He opens it s-l-o-w-l-y because he is meticulous always and says "Well! There's a piece of paper here and it says "Please remit $11.50 and we will send you the birth certificate." I totally fall for it and am gasping and having a seizure. Mr. Pansy never cries "wolf" or pulls too many practical jokes so he knew I'd go for this like a ton of bricks. When he does do practical jokes they are incredibly vicious and deadly. I think he was hoping my death would be, finally, a way out of the marriage for him. Not with my Voo-Doo Powers. Anyway, all the people from Texas to California actually joined together in a human chain of kindness and got that package to me 7 hours after I began my marathon phone call with Yolanda. That was really a miracle.

Only 24 hours after seeing BigD and BiggerD fly away, Mr. Pansy and I tromp back into the airport in the same travel clothes to the same nice ladies at the counter and By God and with A Real Birth Certificate For Idiot Pansy we get on that plane! After a layover/plane change in Dallas and again in Miami, we arrive umpteen hours later in Jamaica, ride on the 2-hour bus trip (and I do mean "trip" with live goats, ganja weed blowing in the wind, and screaming babies) to Hedonism II. Where BigD and BiggerD greet us with Dirty Bananas (the very best drink in the universe).

Yes, this tale is rather sideways and long-winded. hahhaha! Well, it's the Story that counts....not the ending! And it's Jamaica that is responsible for all of my tattoos, thus the need for the background.

We have finally arrived in Jamaica, get into bathing suits and start to walk over to the nude beach. You must be "dressed" in other parts of the resort even though simply wearing a decorative scarf around your neck counts as "dressed". We make it about 150 feet and the beach ladies (vendors allowed on the grounds) demand to braid my hair. It was hip length so 3 hours and countless Dirty Bananas, Humming Birds, Flaming Bob Marleys, etc. later, my hair is braided and Mr. Pansy, Pansy and the beach ladies are all bombed. Which makes it totally even easier to go to the nude beach. Along the way I see a man wearing a speedo (those wacky Europeans!) that is in the same fabric as my bikini. It is a very unique and neon pattern. What are the odds of that? So we have a very friendly picture taken together. Then we finally get to the nude beach, undress, grab another drink and Mr. Pansy dopily stares at me with a big old goofy grin on his face and says "Isn't this GREAT?" I am still stunned over the birth certificate business and say "Well, I don't know. We have only been here 5 hours." Island Fever hit me about 2 hours later and I turn and dopily stare at Mr. Pansy with a big old goofy grin on my face and say "HEY! This IS great!"

Mr. Pansy, BigD and BiggerD are kind of wallflowers but greatly enjoy observing. I go totally berserk all week necessitating daily visits to the Nurse's Station for increasingly serious albeit minor wounds. I am in the lunchtime spin (silly participatory games) every day; I am on the water slides, I am at the disco, I am snorkeling nude, I am on the trampoline, I am All Over that trapeze. It was very scary. I had to climb up 35 feet on this nasty, painful, salt encrusted rope ladder and then lean way out off the platform and do all kinds of horrible high-in-the-air stuff. But the secret for me was: (1) my youngest daughter had dared me before we left for Jamaica and (2) no glasses or contact lenses allowed so I am up there blind as a bat and that really helped. I was good enough they were going to put me in the Friday night Circus Show but then I did a bad dismount and when I hit the net (standing instead of sitting like you are supposed to) I bounced forward and scuffed the front of my left ankle. And twisted some torso muscles. And I was kinda tired anyway from all the swinging (trapeze swinging!!) so it was just as well. This happened on Day 5. Then during the Day 6 lunchtime spin game of musical chairs where the women circle around the men who are the "chairs", another woman and I both leaped onto the one remaining man chair. For some reason, the weakling cannot hold both of us and we all fall down. I landed on the back of my head and split it wide open. But I am feeling no pain. As I go back to my table people become a tad upset about the river of blood coming out of my scalp. 4 medical people check me out. 2 are vacationing American doctors and 2 are the Jamaican nurses. They are 50/50 on whether I need stitches or not but 100% in agreement that I should not get stitches in Jamaica under any circumstances. And since I was leaving within 24 hours, no problem, mon. Plus my braids helped a lot in keeping the wound pulled together.

We finally come home. Not very burned (that is a seriously hot sunshiney place) but I look like I should be put in a body bag. I bruise very readily and massively and the backs of my legs were a wreck of black and blue from the trapeze. My palms and the bottoms of my feet are equally ruined and peeling from the trapeze. My scalp wound is doing quite well but is pretty obvious. And my ankle wound is looking creepy. Our daughters are horrified and cannot believe that I think I have had a great time. I call the doctor and get in that day. He laughs at my condition and calls in the nurses to take a look. He won't even go near my ankle just says "It's gone dirty. Here, take some antibiotics." And throws the prescription paper at me from across the room. AND gave me a booster tetanus shot as extry punishment for having too much fun.

The ankle wound finally heals and the scar. THE SCAR!!! I swear to God, hand on the Bible, the scar is in the shape of the island of Jamaica. Now is that a tattoo crying out for a home or what!? BigD and BiggerD beg me and beg me to get a tattoo. Mr. Pansy thinks it is hilarious but declares I may not have a tattoo between my head hairline and my feet. So I am left with only my feet and a thin strip of ankle area to get tattooed. It takes me two years to build up the nerve and even then I only agreed to the tattoo when BigD finally broke down and said she would pay for it as a birthday gift to me.

I am here today to testify: There is no such thing as a *Free* tattoo. Those suckers hurt like the dickens. Especially on the ankles/feet or wherever there are lots of nerves and bony areas. My so-called 9 tattoos are a lovely, typical suburban white housewife's ankle "bracelet". I foolishly got them all done at once so it took a couple hours because every so often I would yell my code word "kick". I discussed it with the artist before she started and told her I would have to have breaks during the process. Which feels a lot like a very dull jackhammer slamming into your flesh. "Kick" meant the tattoo lady was to back off and I would kick my leg around to calm down. A few deep "cleansing breaths" later, we'd go at it again.

I have three tattoos that are words in thug Classique Olde English script of Mr. Pansy's name and my two daughters' names. And then their astrological signs after each name. The signs look like Chinese characters and are for: Aries, Gemini, Pisces

That makes 6 tattoos. Then I have: a life-size red Betta fish (Siamese fighting fish) to represent me.

On the inside of my heel, below the big ankle bone, there is a: 1-inch red "crown"
It really is the capital initials MM, with an underline. Within the MM is a purple heart with 3 cracks in it. One "MM" stands for my best friend who got me through the pregnancy with Daughter #1 and all the mental illness that goes with being a pregnant legal secretary. The other "MM" stands for my best friend, The Portugese Washer Woman, who got me through the teenage terror years with Daughter #1 and all the mental illness that goes with being a legal secretary menopausal mom with her first teenage child. So it's my Crown of Creation with the purple heart to represent the wounds that only the people nearest and dearest to me could perpetrate upon me and still live. Because I love the bastard/bitches so.

Last, but not least, and the reason for it all: The island of Jamaica is above the "bracelet" on the front of my leg above Mr. Pansy's name. It is colored yellow, black and green and is over the scar itself.

So, it is possible to have 9 tattoos and they really aren't All That. Except for mine, of course. They are addicting, too. Oh, how I want more tattoos. But I won't. Sometimes the pining for something is more fun than the actual having so while I am not quite a tattoed lady I am still a Circus Freak.

The Portugese Washer Woman is the one who branded me as "that woman with 9 tattoos." She loves to tease me about my "horrific" quantity of tattoos since my first conscious memory of this most wonderful person in my life is: I had been working at the "Mr. Rogers' Brother" law firm for 2 weeks already so it's not like I didn't know her name. Regardless, I vividly recall going back to my desk one day and thinking "That receptionist certainly has a LARGE tattoo on her leg!" With a bit of shock, twinge of possible disgust, etc.

"That receptionist"???!! That is as bad as Clinton's infamous "That Woman".