The following text message exchange took place last night. Parentheticals added today.
Middle-Aged-Woman: Made Dad watch Dr. Horrible. He sez it has its moments. Promise tat will be small? (See where this is going? Dr. Horrible provided excuse for me to contact 18-year-old-Girl and beg, quietly, for her not to spoil her perfect skin with a tattoo)
18-year-old-Girl: Is ums a widdle nervous?
Middle-Aged-Woman: You have small shoulders.
18-year-old-Girl: How very true, my dear. (Does she sound like the daughter?)
Middle-Aged-Woman: U haven't promised yet.
18-year-old-Girl: "Promises are like pie crust--easily made, easily broken." (I was quoting Mary Poppins before you were born beeyotch)
Middle-Aged-Woman: not so easily broken, I think. (because I know my girl)
18-year-old-Girl: Mom you worry too much. (Notice how I'm keeping quiet here. Letting the guilt worm its way in, unnoticed)
18-year-old-Girl: What do you mean by small?
Middle-Aged-Woman: 2 - 3 inches across. (But you gotta be ready to strike while the iron is hot)
18-year-old-Girl: Its about 3.5 inches long. Get online Mrs. Fussy.
Middle-Aged-Woman: Sigh. (See the guilt skills I have?)
I had already seen the picture. A lotus blossom and the Sanskrit symbol for Om. And I was in bed and too
lazy tired to argue any further. Plus, she's 18 and it's not up to me anymore, and she's financing it herself. She called and reminded me of all these things, which I already knew to be true. It's just a mom thing, I guess.
But just so you know what I'm talking about, here is a picture of the perfect shoulders:
Here is the result (forever):