Last weekend we were at Target braving the back to school crowds. At checkout, Eric picked the line. In all the lines around us, people that started after us were soon signing their charge slips and headed out the door while we still languished in line hell.
“You pick checkout lines as well as you pick movies,” I said. He was, after all, the man who had made me see Nacho Libre with him in the theater.
“Oh, I think you’ll agree this wait was worth it,” he replied. He smirked.
He gestured with his thumb, and looked a little like Arthur Fonzarelli when he did it.
I craned my neck around the motionless line of humanity in front of us. My eyes landed belly button level on the voluminous breasts of the cashier, breasts that hung to her hips. But it wasn’t her breasts that caught my eyes. It was the tattoos on each of them that she displayed with a Size XXXXL scoop-necked top. On her right was an elongated funhouse mirror version of Yosemite Sam, who probably started out normal sized twenty years before. On her left was a similarly distorted Tweety Bird. Each tat had writing below it: a name and a date. By enormous strength of will, I tore my eyes away and back to my husband’s.
“OMG,” I whispered.
“OMG,” he agreed.
“Can you read them?”
“It’s a boy’s name and date on one, and a girl’s name and date on the other.”
Just then we heard the person ahead of us ask her about them.
“This one here’s for my son, and this one’s for my daughter,” the cashier drawled. She beamed as she pointed to each.
I know my jaw fell open. Her children. She was displaying commemorative tats on her free-flowing gunny sack breasts of each of her kids.
“That’d be a way to keep Susanne andClark in line,” Eric said. “You could threaten to tattoo their names and faces on your breasts if they screw up during high school.”
“Maybe it would be more appropriate to threaten to tattoo one of them on each butt cheek, if they were butt heads,” I said.
“Then we could call them butt faces, and it wouldn’t be derogatory,” he agreed.
By now we had reached the front of the line, so we stopped our conversation and held in the giggles long enough to make it to the front door of Target.
“I wonder if someone could make temporary tattoos for you like that?” Eric asked. “It would be pretty funny.”
I didn’t answer. I was already mentally sketching two tattoos and staging a family Christmas photo around the art work.
And I thought the family portrait tattoo across a man’s back — with his wife younger, prettier, and 70 pounds lighter than she was in person — that we saw at Schlitterbahn a few weeks before was the tackiest thing I’d ever seen. At least he hadn’t had it done on a sagging body part.
Leaving you with these horrifying mental images, I bid you adieu and wish you a great week —
p.s. So, what’s the worst tattoo YOU’VE ever seen?