A day of loss.
Every now and then, I turn around and suddenly have an “Oh Shit!” moment.
They are usually due to my own stupidity and the last 24 hours have been no exception to that rule.
The first Oh Shit happened last night at about 5:30pm.
I had finished the bicycle commute and just showered.
I was happy hour bound.
A cocktail at the end of my work week to take the edge off.. (Thursday is the end of my week. Odd story there.)
Put my pants on, and went to put my wallet in my pocket. (No pockets in my bike shorts.)
Left my wallet at work.
Made a call and got some coworkers involved in my little personal scavenger hunt.
Luckily, I keep spare cash at the house, so happy hour would be where I would await word of if I was only inconvenienced or truly screwed.
I was halfway thru my first libation when I got the text, life goes on, financially. My wallet was secured and waiting for me.
Suddenly, the drink tasted that much better.
Before I left, I decided to get some dinner to go.
As I was standing at the bar, waiting for my food, and surprise, having another drink, I met Betty.
Betty is the puzzle, in the conundrum, in the enigma.
Because there are parts that fit.
And parts that don’t.
Her hair is done in a “Gladys Kravis” mini boof hairdo from the 50’s.
Little old lady specs rest at the tip of her nose.
Her dress is a fashionable flower print moomoo, possibly a size 20.
Maybe in her mid to late 60’s.
I talked with her as I waited.
I was having a Dos Equis, one of my favorites.
Betty is having a vodka gimlet.
So you have the whole picture in your head of Betty, right?
Did I mention she has to full sleeves of tattoos?
It seems that Betty got a wild hair up her ass a few months ago when her granddaughter turned 18 and got a tattoo.
Betty loved it.
So, she turned on the new fangled “COM PEW TOR” that her son got her, and looked at tattoos on the internet.
And something happened to Betty.
I am not against tattoos, hell I have two good sized ones on my shoulders.
But Betty got an idea in her little squishy head and went on down to the local tattoo parlor.
And she told the tattoo artist to tattoo her arms with something that reflected life.
Those were her total instructions.
So the artist free-handed two sleeves in several sittings, giving Betty what she asked for.
Tattoos that reflected life.
The thug life.
To his credit, the tattoo artist definitely had some talent.
But, if I had to call it, the artist had a good amount of old school cholo and modern gangbanger.
The only other place I have seen tattoos this harsh was on convicts.
The “Laugh now, Cry later” theater masks are prominent on her left arm as it leaves the sleeve, with a picture of a beautiful topless young Latina beneath it. An evil clown with a joint sticking out of his lips has a gun to his head and just blew his brains out all over an 8-ball and a set of dice.
I was mesmerized at how wildly over the top this little sweet old lady’s tattoos went. On her right wrist was an angry pitbull being mounted by a larger pitbull.
Nobody went to the tattoo parlor with Betty to ask her what the fuck she was thinking that morning.
I am not against tattoos, but they should reflect your life.
Your thug life.
All of a sudden, my Oh Shit moment doesn’t seem like much.