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Mama's tipsy met sober's topsy while Brunhilda snickered, "I told you traveling with them wouldn't be a picnic!!!"

 

My daughter eventually spilled the ink that she and two close friends underwent matchy-matchy scroll type designs along the left side of their respective torsos.  In retrospect, I should be thankful it wasn't a tramp stamp, or the usual Buddhist quote expressing words of unattainable bliss or 'turn the other cheek' inspired minutia.  When the reveal of the curly-que design was unswathed, I came to the realization wax-on-wax-off was not a possibility. I died a little inside as Bruni snidely whispered "I foresee a belly ring installation as her next body defacement project."  

 

I tried to stifle my inner disappointment at the reveal party of three with, "I hope to God the three of you went to a reputable tattoo parlor using properly sterilized equipment."  My statement of inquiry was immediately met with a slightly slurred, yet peppy, "We didn't go to a shop, Mom, Bridgette's brother did it!"

Brunhilda fainted as I swigged the last of the Merlot and excused myself to call my husband from the hotel's plush hallway at midnight.  As soon as he picked up the phone I blurted, "You're NOT going to believe what YOUR daughter did!!!" That catch phrase would be my go-to opener for several of my calls home that weekend, forever dubbed Nashville Trashville.
 

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The following morning and harboring a fresh outlook, we ventured off to the Pancake Pantry for breakfast.  We had read about the mouth watering Nashville haunt before leaving Phoenix and couldn't wait to try their renowned pancakes. Parking near the icon proved challenging. Thirty minutes of figure eights in our AvisPayThis beater, we decided on an 'iffy' location sporting a vague parking violation sign. We took a chance, hoping Nashville's version of Rita the Meter Maid was sleeping in. 

We were finally seated and began the thawing out process after waiting in a long line wrapping the outside of the old brick building,  The six inch decorative scroll sidled up next to me as Brunhilda constantly chanted "You need to make an appointment for the rebel the minute we land in Phoenix for a blood test to rule out HEP3--- or worse!!!!" Her incessive chattering inside my head made it difficult to focus on the menu. 

Nirvana and warmth found me a short time later in an overwhelming plate of sweet potato pancakes baked with magic flour secretly milled in the Great Smokey Mountains, by I presume, smoking elves.  What tattoo?  What kids?  

Bruni suggested we find a tattoo parlor after breakfast so I could have "Nirvana is unachievable when traveling with your adult children" tatted across my ass--"That would show them!"  I responded with a heady smackdown. "Fooooook This Shit" seemed more fitting.  Bruni insisted if I continued eating at this pace, her tattoo suggestion would have plenty of available canvas.  She is a rude little snot.

About an hour later, we departed the restaurant as four hunkalicious men entered it.  My daughter could hardly contain her admiration of their striking good looks, and I was happy to see her back in the game.  What ex?  

We hit a few downtown shops, where my daughter found a snappy winter jacket.  She hesitated about the hefty price tag, but decided to make the purchase. It would make a lovely accompaniment to her wedding outfit later that evening, and be perfect for our mild Arizona winters.  By the time we returned to the rental car a few hours later, it sported a snowy windshield along with a bright orange parking ticket compliments of No Mercy Rita. The first thing out of Bruni's mouth was "You should have listened to me."  I reminded her advice often falls on deaf ears, just like "Please don't get a tattoo." 

It was naive of me to make the assumption that our second night in Nashville would go any better than our first.  Squealing tires signaled my son speeding off for the Nashville bar scene after dropping us off at the Church of the Assumption.  Thanks to two large tour buses transporting out-of-towners from the church to the downtown reception venue, he was free as a bird until he received our 'time for pickup' text later that evening.

I was a few decades beyond participating in bar scenes at this point in life, but the plan was for us to join him later and hit a few bars. Brunhilda just hit the ground laughing recalling "the plan."

As soon as we entered the church, my daughter was immediately summoned by the bride's father, excited to see that she had made the trip.  While they visited, I waited in line to sign the guest book when I noticed the four hunkalicious men from The Pancake Pantry standing just five well-dressed people ahead of me.

When my daughter rejoined me, I motioned with my eyes and a quick head nod (it's a family thing), as to the odds of handsome squared attending the same wedding. I also imagined her tattoo'd torso doing a little happy dance at the sight of Nashville serendipity.  Little did I know, McEwen's forty year karma lurked across town, awaiting my arrival.

The wedding was lovely, and after arriving at the reception atop a downtown high-rise, I settled in and sent my daughter off to enjoy a fun, festive night without me tagging along.  I received periodic text updates throughout the evening from the "cool kid section" of the ballroom as she mixed with old friends as well as her new ones.  Unbeknownst to me, she also mixed wine with other alcoholic beverages.  Brunhilda smelled the stench of puke in our very near future. 

I busied myself taking pictures of the flowers, the sights, and making small talk with the other guests at our table. When it came time for the bride and groom to take their leave hours later, it was obvious my daughter had taken hers through too many drinkies and was exhibiting outward signs of drunkie.

With the overuse of the cell phone camera, my battery had been reduced to near nothing, so I quickly texted my son that we would need a pick-up ASAP as his sister was teetering on fall-over.  When I directed her to the table holding the wedding couple's guest mementos, she nearly took out the entire display while trying to focus on the shiny objects of graciousness.

Witnessing my daughter balance red wine, whipping rim to rim without a drop of spillage from a long stemmed goblet, while clad in stilettos and a short dress, was nothing short of inspiring. The frenzied rim to rim circling took me back to Eric Heiden speed skating in the 1980 Winter Olympics--round and around and around and around.  

Brunhilda snapped it didn't end so well for Eric, and it wasn't looking that great for the potential tattoo-aholic swaying before us, either.  I conceded and sent another frantic S.O.S. to her brother for an A.S.A.P pickup as my energy bar took a dive to 6%.  

While trying to determine where she might have left her brand spanking new $200.00 jacket of five hours, and purse containing her ID required at the airport the following evening, the tatt'ed drunkie was approached by group of funsters including the hunkalicious four inviting her to join the after-party on Printer's Alley.  Brunhilda thought the reference was uncanny considering the big reveal the night before.  

Fear ran through my innerds as Brunhilda screamed "THAT'S IT---IT'S TIME TO PULL THE MOM CARD, GRAB HER AND TELL THEM SHE CAN'T  PLAY ANY LONGER--SHE HAS TO GO HOME AND CLEAN HER ROOM!!!"  

I reminded Bruni she was twenty-two years old; her room was sixteen hundred miles away, and wondered if anyone in the group was a potential rapist.



--to be continued.