You know your closer to breaking a hip than being hip when...
In February I turned 37. I know, it's hard to believe. But it is true. And with that advanced age (yes, the exact word they'd use if I were to become pregnant: "advanced maternal age") comes a modicum of wisdom. Remember now, just a modicum, though.
My little nugget of knowledge came in the form of a realization that my mother can no longer ground me for doing stupid stuff. That's right. I'm 37. I have three kids. Three dogs (well, now I have three anyway). A husband. A beautiful home... with a mortgage to prove it. I am a grown up. And she cannot ground me any longer. I am free to do stupid stuff and I don't have to hide it (because, mind you, I always did stupid stuff, but then I had to go through the whole hassle of hiding the stupidity and there are just some things that cannot be hidden.) Armed with this knowledge I made a lifelong dream a reality.
I got my nose pierced.
But alas, my dear readers, I was a bit late in achieving this goal so gaining my nasal jewelry wasn't without the humiliation that you've all come to expect from the Fat Housewife. Au contraire, mon ami, it was rife with humiliation. By the way, I haven't a fucking clue what that really means as I don't speak a lick of French, but it sounds pretty cool, doesn't it? That's what people with nasal piercings talk like. Cool talk.
When I first told Mike of my intentions, his comment was, "So, you're going to be the wife with all that shit in your face?" See Pulp Fiction for reference on this one. Then, I came down with the never ending sinus infection from hell which required no less than three weeks on antibiotics. Not exactly the best time to get a nose piercing, ya know? But while I was waiting for my mucus to change from a bright green streaked with blood (sorry about that if you were eating, but ya know, it's never a good thing to come to this blog and eat anyway), I talked it up to everyone I knew, probably so that I wouldn't chicken out. In my gabbing on about it, I found another middle aged housewife yearning to be hip: my friend Nicole. To be totally truthful, unlike me, Nicole isn't trying to regain her youth and be cool. She is willing to get the piercing as it is held in Indian beliefs to help with fertility and childbirth and she's planning an IVF this June.
Finally, I figure I'm well enough to plunge cheap metal into my face and pay for the privilege. We set the date and drag all three of my kids and her three year old son with us. Now, in Hawaii I brought my kids in tattoo places several times. It was no big deal there in the land of the laid back. But here, apparently, there are uptights who like to make laws preventing children under the age of 13 from entering such places. Laws that escaped me... and my friend Nicole, a former lawyer turned homeschooler.
So, envision if you will, two fat housewives trotting with four kids, one of which is a sleeping baby, into a tattoo parlour at 2:30 in the afternoon. The place was packed with people all under the age of 22, I swear. When we walked in, it was alive with chit chat and laughter, the humming buzz of tattoo guns throughout the store. But one look at us and it was as if someone said, "EF Hutton" (and when I make that reference it really dates me). All stopped what they were doing and looked up at us. I mean, every. single. person.
"They [pointing at the kids] cannot be in here," said a smiling young man with shit in his face. "At all," he added, just in case I was so old that I didn't understand that they couldn't even be in there just a a little bit. Ya know, us seniors sometimes don't understand.
"Okay," I replied, trying hard to act cool and calm and devil may care all the while blushing so hard from embarrassment that my crows feet must have stood out like scarlet footprints. "Can I... uhhh... ya know... ask you a question?"
He just looked at me and pointed to the door, but I wasn't about to throw in the towel that easily. You know me, I can't bow out with any grace left. I must be totally humiliated for it to be mission accomplished in my book.
"We... ummm... wanted to get our noses pierced... and I uhhhh..." I stammered.
The dude with the shit in his face kept smiling as he said, "The piercer doesn't work on Mondays."
"But I called ahead, on Saturday, and was told he works Monday through Saturday. That Sunday is his only day off," I replied, again refusing to leave with even a shred of dignity. Then I repeated, "Ya know, I mean, I called ahead," as if that would make all the difference and because I called ahead the piercer would magically set all things right, including making me 15 years younger and 30 lbs thinner and without the belly sag that an almost 11 lb baby leaves behind. Call or none, it did not matter.
"Yeah, he tattoos on Mondays. Come back tomorrow after two."
And with that, we marched our illegal offspring out of the tattoo parlour, utterly dejected, feeling old and fat and housewifey. Well, at least I did. Nicole seemed to be unscathed, self esteem in tact and all. But she is a year younger than I. That could account for it.
Today, we ventured back sans kids but plus one more fat housewife (you know us crazy homeschool moms love tattoos and piercings). No one really noticed when we walked in, and we weren't the oldest in the shop -- there was another woman there at least a few years older than we. Of course, she was there with her teenage daughter who was the one getting the piercing. But no one stared at us anyway.
We filled out their forms swearing we wouldn't sue them if our noses fell off and, of course, in my paranoia about looking for all the world, or at least this particular tattoo shop, a pathetic old woman trying to recapture her youth, I totally messed up where I was supposed to sign. Then, and this was the best, they carded us. You know. To make sure we were, ummmm, like over 18.
Dumb ass that I am, I asked if I could just show them my crows feet instead. Self deprecating humor, I prefer to call it.
Regardless of my wrinkles, they took my ID and my $60 (who would have thought it would cost so damn much of Mike's money to get some shit in my face?) and gave me a pink sparkly stud for my nose. It looks pretty cool, I must say, even on an old hag like myself.
My little nugget of knowledge came in the form of a realization that my mother can no longer ground me for doing stupid stuff. That's right. I'm 37. I have three kids. Three dogs (well, now I have three anyway). A husband. A beautiful home... with a mortgage to prove it. I am a grown up. And she cannot ground me any longer. I am free to do stupid stuff and I don't have to hide it (because, mind you, I always did stupid stuff, but then I had to go through the whole hassle of hiding the stupidity and there are just some things that cannot be hidden.) Armed with this knowledge I made a lifelong dream a reality.
I got my nose pierced.
But alas, my dear readers, I was a bit late in achieving this goal so gaining my nasal jewelry wasn't without the humiliation that you've all come to expect from the Fat Housewife. Au contraire, mon ami, it was rife with humiliation. By the way, I haven't a fucking clue what that really means as I don't speak a lick of French, but it sounds pretty cool, doesn't it? That's what people with nasal piercings talk like. Cool talk.
When I first told Mike of my intentions, his comment was, "So, you're going to be the wife with all that shit in your face?" See Pulp Fiction for reference on this one. Then, I came down with the never ending sinus infection from hell which required no less than three weeks on antibiotics. Not exactly the best time to get a nose piercing, ya know? But while I was waiting for my mucus to change from a bright green streaked with blood (sorry about that if you were eating, but ya know, it's never a good thing to come to this blog and eat anyway), I talked it up to everyone I knew, probably so that I wouldn't chicken out. In my gabbing on about it, I found another middle aged housewife yearning to be hip: my friend Nicole. To be totally truthful, unlike me, Nicole isn't trying to regain her youth and be cool. She is willing to get the piercing as it is held in Indian beliefs to help with fertility and childbirth and she's planning an IVF this June.
Finally, I figure I'm well enough to plunge cheap metal into my face and pay for the privilege. We set the date and drag all three of my kids and her three year old son with us. Now, in Hawaii I brought my kids in tattoo places several times. It was no big deal there in the land of the laid back. But here, apparently, there are uptights who like to make laws preventing children under the age of 13 from entering such places. Laws that escaped me... and my friend Nicole, a former lawyer turned homeschooler.
So, envision if you will, two fat housewives trotting with four kids, one of which is a sleeping baby, into a tattoo parlour at 2:30 in the afternoon. The place was packed with people all under the age of 22, I swear. When we walked in, it was alive with chit chat and laughter, the humming buzz of tattoo guns throughout the store. But one look at us and it was as if someone said, "EF Hutton" (and when I make that reference it really dates me). All stopped what they were doing and looked up at us. I mean, every. single. person.
"They [pointing at the kids] cannot be in here," said a smiling young man with shit in his face. "At all," he added, just in case I was so old that I didn't understand that they couldn't even be in there just a a little bit. Ya know, us seniors sometimes don't understand.
"Okay," I replied, trying hard to act cool and calm and devil may care all the while blushing so hard from embarrassment that my crows feet must have stood out like scarlet footprints. "Can I... uhhh... ya know... ask you a question?"
He just looked at me and pointed to the door, but I wasn't about to throw in the towel that easily. You know me, I can't bow out with any grace left. I must be totally humiliated for it to be mission accomplished in my book.
"We... ummm... wanted to get our noses pierced... and I uhhhh..." I stammered.
The dude with the shit in his face kept smiling as he said, "The piercer doesn't work on Mondays."
"But I called ahead, on Saturday, and was told he works Monday through Saturday. That Sunday is his only day off," I replied, again refusing to leave with even a shred of dignity. Then I repeated, "Ya know, I mean, I called ahead," as if that would make all the difference and because I called ahead the piercer would magically set all things right, including making me 15 years younger and 30 lbs thinner and without the belly sag that an almost 11 lb baby leaves behind. Call or none, it did not matter.
"Yeah, he tattoos on Mondays. Come back tomorrow after two."
And with that, we marched our illegal offspring out of the tattoo parlour, utterly dejected, feeling old and fat and housewifey. Well, at least I did. Nicole seemed to be unscathed, self esteem in tact and all. But she is a year younger than I. That could account for it.
Today, we ventured back sans kids but plus one more fat housewife (you know us crazy homeschool moms love tattoos and piercings). No one really noticed when we walked in, and we weren't the oldest in the shop -- there was another woman there at least a few years older than we. Of course, she was there with her teenage daughter who was the one getting the piercing. But no one stared at us anyway.
We filled out their forms swearing we wouldn't sue them if our noses fell off and, of course, in my paranoia about looking for all the world, or at least this particular tattoo shop, a pathetic old woman trying to recapture her youth, I totally messed up where I was supposed to sign. Then, and this was the best, they carded us. You know. To make sure we were, ummmm, like over 18.
Dumb ass that I am, I asked if I could just show them my crows feet instead. Self deprecating humor, I prefer to call it.
Regardless of my wrinkles, they took my ID and my $60 (who would have thought it would cost so damn much of Mike's money to get some shit in my face?) and gave me a pink sparkly stud for my nose. It looks pretty cool, I must say, even on an old hag like myself.
posted by The Histrionics of a Fat Housewife at 8:05 PM
8 Comments:
YOU ARE GROUNDED
love ya
mom
Fuck yea, Heather! I'm proud of you. So, how did it feel having it done?
LMAO - who are you calling fat woman!
It looks great, although a little painful IMHO. :-) It must be in the air as another friend (41) just had her belly button pierced. It's a piercing frenzy! lol It makes me wonder what I can go out and have pierced. I am such a follower, you know.
I hope the sinus problems don't come back any time soon. I've always wondered how in the world people with an earring in their nose, blow said nose? Enlighten me!
I was 40 when I got my nose pierced. And a little drunk, which is suppossed to cause the establishment NOT to do the deed, but I think the guy was afraid of me. Fat, forty, drunk, driven to the (empty-at-the-time) shop in a mini-van. Looking every bit like the soccer mom who has had a couple too many (hey! those pints were on special).
I'd kinda like my eyebrow pierced, but dayam....the nose hurt enough, I don't know if I could take the brow.
you guys looked so cute with those nose piercings! It's almost tempting me to do it. heh. Go do tattoos next, and I'm totally there with ya.
I got mine for Christmas 2 years ago 37 years old-LOVE IT! Tattoo is next when I hit my -100 lbs gone goal-should be by the end of summer!
I NEVER THOUGHT I WOULD BE THE TATTOO TYPE BUT I HAVE 4 OF THEM AND STILL WANT MORE THEY ARE SOMETHING YOU CAN NOT GET ONE OF! I GOT MY TOUNGE PIERCED AT 30 AND GOT MADE FUN OF BY SOME AND OTHERS WHERE SHOCKED!! I DO NOT HAVE IT ANYMORE DUE TO THE FACT MY HUSBAND DIDNT LIKE IT BUT WHAT CAN I SAY IT WAS COOL FOR THE TIME !! I DONT THINK ID DO IT AGAIN(I HAVE A WAY SMALL TOUNGE)LOL BUT TATTOOS ALL THE WAY!!
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