She got a freaking tattoo! The nose piercing last year wasn’t enough. She had to get a Celtic arm band tattoo. She’s not even Irish.
I blame Janice for this—introducing liberal ideas into our home like some greenie on a mission. Still, when I told her, I expected her to be upset. I should have known better. “Everyone should be able to do whatever they want to their bodies,” she said. “It’s her body and her choice.”
Back in the old days we didn’t have choices. You either did what you were supposed to do, or you were put out of the house.
A freaking tattoo! My father would have used his belt. And I would have understood. Normal woman don’t get tattoos. They’re for biker chicks or women with weird hair.
“It’s my body, she said. “You don’t own me. I own me. It’s an expression of my rights.”
She’s got rights. She can vote, can’t she? Why does she need a freaking tattoo?
I blame Janice for this, introducing tofu and yoga into our home—the two goddamn things that have ruined this country. Now, mother and daughter go off yoga-ing together.
I wish I had a son. He would’ve introduced football, wrestling and NASCAR into the family. Good ol’ American-family sports. We could’ve gone bowling together. Not yoga-ing. We could’ve joined a league and worn those cool shirts with our names embroidered above the front pocket. We could’ve had a few beers together. We could’ve been a real family.
Instead we have greenies, tofu and freaking tattoos.
I blamed Janice for this. I stuck my finger in her face and shook it up and down. “Janice,” I said. “I’m not happy! Your mother has gotten herself a freaking tattoo and it’s your goddamn fault!”
Gerard Bianco is a playwright, author, jewelry designer, artist and filmmaker. he holds an MFA in Writing from Albertus Magnus College.
