Tattoodles

Last Sunday, after Logan's little attempt to get some underage ass, I got a call from the Colombian. He wanted to know if I wanted to "accompany" him to get a tattoo, which really meant that he needed a ride. I drive a hard bargain, so I made him agree to pay for the gas and it was settled. Right after I went to the Sex and the City movie I would pick him up. I had never seen anyone get a tattoo before, except on Miami Ink of course, so I was pretty excited. I was also nervous. I think the nerves stemmed from the fact that the idea for the tattoo came from me. Let me paint a picture: South American guy with a hot body adorned with a crucifix. In my opinion, all that was missing was a little ink. How hot would a cross or some Catholic virgin or something be? So I told him that he should get a tattoo with the inflection that perhaps only a native speaker would recognize as purely impulsive. It was one of those things that you say and that you mean, but you didn't necessarily mean to say, because it starts something that you didn't necessarily mean to start. So, as we drove to Minneapolis, I asked him approximately a billion times if he was sure that he wanted to do this. A tattoo? It would be there forever. It would hurt. It could get infected. He just shrugged and said that he was sure.

So we made it to St. Sabrina's, where I went with Jenny Boe to get my lip pierced when she lived in that neighborhood, and we checked in. We waited, him impatiently and me nervously, for Pedro to make a stencil of the "Death Before Dishonor" tattoo that he was going to get across his back. It wasn't something Catholic like I had hoped, but it was just about as original. I guess it's a military thing. So Pedro finished the stencil and we went upstairs to get down to business.

I think that Pedro was surprised to see the Colombian's scars when he took off his shirt, both the long one along the left side of his back and the ones that cover his left arm. He was like, "What happened man?" The Colombian told him that he was in the Colombian army and that he was injured fighting the guerrilla. Just like that. Said in a matter-of-fact tone dissimilar to the one that I would most likely use in that situation. To me scars are like little trophies of toughness. The one on my knee? Yeah, I got that bustin' a move on my purple rollerblades back in the day. You can't even see it? Wait until I get a tan. That one on my shin? Fifth grade. Nasty fight with a razor. Apparently I was applying too much pressure. Pedro did ask some questions, but the Colombian gave short answers to those, too. He had been shot five times, and had twenty-eight surgeries total. Yes, there were still bullets inside his body. At that moment I remembered the awe I felt when I had heard all this for the first time. I was reminded that this was a very unique person with an incredible story. I liked that he didn't milk the story for attention, even though it wouldn't really be wrong if he did.

As luck would have it, Pedro was pretty cool. He was very nice like I had hoped, and he was fluent in Spanish, as one might guess by his name, but probably not by his looks. His dad was from Boston and his mom was Chilean, and he had spent several years of his childhood living in Chile. He was a guest artist at St. Sabrina's, but was booked out for months at the shop in Portland that he owned. My roommate, Jen, wants to move to Portland so I thought of her and figured I should get the name of the shop in case I am ever in Portland and need a tattoo.

After the tattoo, the Colombian and I went to Chipotle. It was the same Chipotle that Jenny Boe and I went to during her lying phase. She was wearing an ITALIA shirt and the guys working asked her if she was from Italy. She said she was. They asked her what part and she said the north part. She is from a town of sixty-three in southern Minnesota. This was around the same time that a girl at the mall asked her where she got her skirt and she said that she made it. Completely untrue. She doesn't even sew. It was an entertaining stage to say the least. Anyway, I went first in the Chipotle line and because the Colombian and I are only friends now, I paid for my own food. That is what I do when I am with my other friends. He called me out on it and asked me why I didn't let him pay. I told him that I had money and that I could pay for my own food. I have noticed that I always try to assert my independence when I am with him. Like making him agree to pay for gas so I wouldn't feel like he was using me, even though I really wanted to go with him to get his tattoo.

The ride home was very pleasant. There was good conversation and no arguments or power struggles. I felt like I used to about him. Then the meaning of him having his tattoo forever and my going with him occurred to me, and because I am a person who says what she thinks, I told him. Unlike so many times when we try to communicate, there were no misunderstandings. He got it right away. He could never forget me, because there was a permanent reminder right across his back.

So, last night I had to say goodbye again. I would be lying if I said all these goodbyes have been easy for me. I said goodbye to my best friend Jenny Boe a few weeks ago. She is spending the summer in Venezuela. Two weeks ago I took another of my closest friends, my roommate Jen, to the airport for her flight to Copenhagen for a nursing internship. It has seemed like months since she left. But last night I had to do it again, only this time it is not just for the summer. The Colombian is going home, and as dysfunctional as whatever relationship we have is, I care about him and am going to miss him. The goodbye, like many things in life, did not go how I wanted it to. I was not beautiful, and eloquent and cool about it. I didn't say anything funny or important. I just got mad and started crying, and once I started I didn't stop. That was it and now he is gone. I know that the way Portland reminds me of my roommate Jen, and St. Sabrina's and vicinity reminds me of Jenny Boe, there will be things that make me think of him. But for now I am feeling alone in Rochester, anticipating Africa, thinking about Colombia and waiting for my heart to come back from Denmark and Venezuela.

Declaration of Independence

Today, after having a particularly grueling phone conversation with the Colombian, I decided to delete all the men from my phone that I do not want to talk to ever again. Would I really ever need the numbers of those two little Mexican guys that I met at Aquarius? I did see them again, but it was at Hy-Vee the next day, and it was a complete coincidence. I was just there buying ingredients for Grandma's chicken broccoli recipe. Nope, they could definitely be deleted. And the amazingly hot T? He was only interested in a one time thing, and I blew that by getting so drunk that I was put on a chair outside the bar with a bucket between my feet. My hair was not spared when I put that bucket to the use for which it was intended. I think I might have even pissed in my pants a little that night. Definitely not sexy. Thank God T and I parted ways somewhere between tipsy and alcohol poisoning, and that Jenny answered my phone and declined on my behalf when he called later. I could delete him too. He isn't from around here, and I do not think that bringing home random guys from bars is a good idea anymore. It seems a little "Secret Lives of Women" to focus on my wellness by day and random sex with strangers by night. I guess G Hollywood's number could go, too. He had nothing to offer but a nine-year old daughter and a demo CD, and he couldn't even find that in his, excuse me, his sister's car when he wanted to give me a copy at bar close. And then there was Rick. The forty-something divorcee that bought Meghan and I drinks all night on St. Patty's. He was super nice, but had more baggage than Louis Vuitton. Did I mention that he was over forty?

I was a deleting machine and it felt so good. So I decided to do what I came to do. I deleted the Colombian's number from my phone for the second time. I don't know how it is in Colombia, but in the US our days contain twenty-four hours. So, after canceling his plans with me again because he cannot spare any time to spend with me between his two hours of English classes and his gym time, I decided that the disappointment that I feel every time he does this is not worth it. I am the one who has a demanding job, college courses and volunteering commitments. I fit in time at the gym and time for myself. I am willing to make time for him, but he can't make time for me. So when he tried to convince me to see him on Sunday instead of today, I had made my decision. I told him that I would not be seeing him on Sunday, or ever as a matter of fact. He said that he'd see me on Sunday. I told him emphatically that he would not. He told me he'd call, and I told him I would not answer. He said he'd leave a message. Damn, he got me there. He tried to make me feel guilty when he asked me if I was going to say goodbye to him. I told him that I was saying goodbye right then, and that if he had anything to say to me he should say it, because it was the last time that we were ever going to talk. He said he'd see me Sunday.

I need to stand my ground. No matter how tempting, I cannot be that girl that says one thing and does another. Unfortunately, I have been her in the past and always feel like shit when I am, because positively reinforcing a man's manipulation and pleas does not help me, nor the plight of women in general. I decided that my failed relationship is not a failure, but a success. As is the case for a lot of people, I think. Ask Tina Turner or my roommate Jen. Both made fabulous comebacks after ditching the losers they were with. I am lucky that I live in a society where a man is an option, not a necessity. I have the freedom to make my own money, my own decisions and even my own babies, all in a land where vibrators abound. I like men, though, and have faith that there will be better ones in my future. If there aren't, hell, I'll just be the crazy single aunt to my brother's future kids. It's a job that I know I'd be good at, and every kid needs at least one.