We lugged our big cooler, towels, paraphenalia and music down to the beach as a few clouds starting rolling in. [Sidenote: she's afraid of shark attacks, so she really wanted to lay out at one of the pools belonging to a beach hotel, which makes going to the beach seem rather ridiculous, if you ask me. I did manage to get her in the water up to her waist, though, before I started throwing chopped up fish guts around her]. By the end of the first hour, the sky had turned black and we were not nearly drunk enough to head home. Given my track record for all things impulsive, it should come as no surprise that we decided to get matching tattoos.
Our last name starts with a Q... as much pride as we have in it and our heritage, you would think it's a powerful, mystical name, that simultaneously inspires awe and fear. All my aunts (5 of them) and many female cousins have changed their middle names to our family name once they get married, just because we love it so much. My sister and I decided to get matching tattoos using a logo my graphic artist aunt Susie had designed years ago. My chickenshit sister that I love, who already has a tattoo, told me it was the most excruciating pain imaginable (she might opt for adoption instead of childbirth) and made me go first. It honestly didn't hurt...much. Well, and when I was a medic in the army, we used to practice drawing blood and giving i.v.'s to one another so perhaps my perspective is slanted. She called me a badass...and I liked it. She whined a bit when it was her turn (shoulder location, but opposite sides) but Sean told her she wouldn't get a certificate unless she piped down. I'm seriously considering framing mine and sticking it up on the wall behind my desk.
We are gonna be SUCH a hit at our next family reunion.
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