Jun 26, 2016

Thank God for Grandmothers — and Fake Piercings



     I got my first piercing, a tongue piercing, when I was seventeen and the procedure of going about it was about the same as it was with my other piercings and tattoos: I alerted my mom six months beforehand, saying, "Mom, in six months, I'm piercing my tongue," and she didn't take me seriously. I then warned her a month before, saying, "Mom, in a month, I'm piercing my tongue," and she didn't take me seriously. I then notified her a week in advance, saying, "Mom, in a week, I'm piercing my tongue," upon what she said, 'Don't be crazy,' but when I told her a day before the date I pre-arranged with the piercer — she lost her mind. Lost. Her. Mind.
     Of course all that pandemonium was to no avail since I don't tend to buckle under bullying, so she tried a different approach: she tried to bribe me, "I'll buy you that CD player you want, we'll go and get it tomorrow!" Admittedly, that was a shrewd move on her part but it was futile — I had a job, had one since the age of 15 actually, and a scholarship, so I said, "Thanks for the offer, mom, but I'll get the piercing and that CD player all by myself." Which I did. The CD player about a week later and that tongue piercing the next day. But not all by myself, I must confess.
     Since I was seventeen, I didn't have a driver's license yet, so I had to get myself a ride since the piercer was an hour-drive away and my brother, eight years my senior, lent me a helping hand. He proved to be helpful in other ways as well ...
     When we got to the shop, the piercer asked me how old I was and since I was underage, her next question was: "Does your mother know about this?"
     "Well ... yes. Yes, she knows."
     "Does she approve?"
     "Well ... yes. Yes, she approves."
     Eyebrow raise.
     "You can ask my brother, he's the one who drove me," I added hastily.
     She stepped outside in the waiting area and asked my brother: "Does the mother approve?"
     My brother took one long, meaningful look at me, then turned to the piercer and said, "Well ... yes. Yes, the mother approves."
     "Okey-dokey," said the piercer and that was it — fifteen minutes later, I was on my way home with a pierced, swollen tongue and was, much to my brother's delight, unable to pronounce 's' or 'r' for the next week. My mom freaked the fuck out when we got home by the way.
     With that last sentence in mind, it might surprise you, though, that she was the one who took me to get my second piercing a couple of months later. It might not surprise you, though, that she fully denies this fact now and claims to have no recollection of the incident whatsoever (repressing painful memories, mother?), but the weird thing is, I too am starting to forget that I ever had anything done. For example, I'm walking around a grocery store when I all of a sudden see some grandma staring at me. Of course she then quickly looks away but still keeps furtively glancing in my direction until she turns in another aisle, so I nudge my boyfriend, "Do I have something on my face, like some booger or something?? That granny kept gawking at me."
     "Sure you do. A bunch of metal shit, remember?"
     "Oh ... that. Right." Thanks for the reminder, grandma.
     But not just other people's grandmothers, my grandmothers have also been useful memory nudgers. I've already talked about one of them some time ago, but recently the other one stepped up to the plate as well. She is severely demented, bless her infinitely kind and gentle soul, and every time she sees me, she tries to pull 'some specks of dirt' off of my face only to then cringe when she realizes those specks of dirt are piercing my flesh. So maybe senile dementia isn't so bad after all?
     OK, I'm only desperately trying to find the silver lining here, yes, but her forgetfulness does nonetheless remind me time and time (and time and time) again that I have 'a bunch of metal shit' on my face which is highly welcome since I've been feeling really boring lately because all the metal shit on my face and elsewhere feels extremely commonplace to me so now I'm contemplating a few options. I had some other piercings already and took them out, so I'm not really looking into that, I'm actually curious about something completely different: elf ears. First, I mentioned that to my boyfriend drunk and as a joke, but since he was (and still is) totally against it, I'm more and more intrigued, muahahaha. But seriously. I'm thinking about getting a plug, fuck it. I just have to wait six months — even though I don't necessarily have to, I still want to, out of respect and consideration, alert my mom first, remember? Until then I'll just have to survive with my fake septum ring and grandmothers looking at me like I'm walking around with full-on war paint.



     Thanks for stopping by and looking and reading (obviously) my mishmash jumble of pot-pourri-like craziness, it means the world to me. Therefore, you're welcome to pop by again next week to see what's new on the blog — I post once a week every week, most likely somewhere between Wednesdays and Sundays. But beware, I'm not signing and sealing that in blood so your best bet is to follow FPS via email (or Twitter, Instagram or Facebook) to never miss an update. Or simply come by again sometimes!




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