stacy b-log

"I think I'm gonna get a tattoo."
"You're what?"
It's Friday night. Pat and I are sitting in the New Orleans Arena, waiting for our nephew to take the stage with his dad. A bowl of crawfish etouffee steams between us.
"Yeah, I think I'm gonna get a tattoo. I've been wanting to get something with a Louisiana theme, and now we're here, and it makes sense to get a Louisiana design in Louisiana. So yeah, I'm gonna get a tattoo."
Fortunately, my husband does not spit his beer across the table. My friend and partner-in-crime / misadventure Kellee nods like a bobblehead.
"Are you really? Are you serious? That's so cool! What are you gonna get? Are you gonna do it this weekend? I've always wanted to get a tattoo but I'm afraid it'll hurt - but now you're gonna get one! Can I watch? What are you gonna get? Have you picked out something? This is so cool."
"No! No! No! You don't just walk into some French Quarter tattoo parlor and get inked up like some drunk sailor on shore leave," Pat says. "You have to find artists you like, get recommendations, talk to people, do research - you don't just stumble drunk into some place and get a tattoo just because you're in New Orleans."

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It's Saturday morning. Hungover and chagrined, we stumble into the French Quarter toward the Cafe Dumond in search of a deep-fried, powdered-sugared plate of goodness. We spot a girl tending to her shop sign, her arms sleeved in ink.
"Let's go ask her!" Kellee shrieks. Before Pat can protest, we're looking up and down her arms, asking questions.
"If you really want to get a tattoo while you're in New Orleans, you gotta go to Electric Ladyland," she says, pointing to the intricate calligraphy trailing around her forearm. "They're here in the Quarter and they're the best in New Orleans."
Pat shakes his head and rolls his eyes. We drop the subject, eat our doughnuts, drink our coffee, put him in a cab to the airport and lose ourselves in a melancholy city (more on that later).

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It's Sunday afternoon. Two hangovers from four Pat O'Brien's hurricanes, one four-hour Ultimate Swamp Adventure air-boat tour, three alligators, one dead nutria-rat, a half-a-dozen raw oysters and a half-hour nap later, Kellee and I are walking through the Quarter toward the St. Charles streetcar terminus on Canal Street.
"So are you serious about getting a tattoo?"
"Yeah, I'd like one - I've been thinking about it for a while - ever since I started watching Miami Ink on Discovery a couple years ago... and I'd been thinking about getting something related to Louisiana. At first I was thinking a magnolia, but they're white and I don't think the ink would work out, but now that we're in New Orleans, I'm thinking about a fleur-de-lis - you know, rebirth of the city and all that. And I'd want to get Mardi Gras colors to commemorate the krewe and..."
... and I almost walk into a lamppost... with an Electric Ladyland bumper sticker attached to it. No phone number, just an address. Kellee consults her map.
"It's not far..."
"Let's go!"

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They close at 8. Two-hour wait... at minimum. I ask for a fleur de lis. They give me a binder full of them.
"Call back at 5 and we'll see if we can fit you in," says Shelby, the girl at the counter. "That design? You're looking at $180 - $200 or so. Cash only."
"If it's meant to be, it'll happen," I say. We make our way back to the street car line, stopping first at an ATM to empty my checking account. We ride up through the Garden District. See Anne Rice's house (former orphanage, go figure). Clackety-clacking back into the Quarter, we call again.
"You said to call back at 5. It's 5."
"Try back at 7. We're slammed."
We make our way back to Bourbon Street to drink "Hand Grenades" - apparently the "other" quintessential New Orleans adult beverage behind Pat O's hurricanes. I smell boiled crawfish (which I cannot get in Arizona and which I had been craving our whole trip).
"It's a sign!" Kellee says.
I eat three pounds. It's 7. We call back.
"First-come, first-serve, baby."
"But you close at 8."
"We got an artist who's gonna stay here until the last one. But we're not taking anyone after 8, so get on over here."
We buy two more Hand Grenades and hoof it.

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It's Sunday night. 7:45. I want a fleur-de-lis with a Mardi Gras crown and beads. Full color. Big as my hand. We're looking at a 2-hour wait.
"Go on across the street to the bar and have a drink. We'll call you when it's your turn - but don't drink too much. Drunks won't hold still and they bleed too much... and you can't bring your drink back in here. You have to drink it out on the curb, so just go over there and stay there till we call."
Pat calls. I hem and haw... yeah, had a nice time at the Swamp Tour... no, we're just hanging out in the Quarter... had a Hand Grenade... oh wait, my phone's beeping, uh, I think it might be my Aunt Diane. Lemme let you go. Love you! Bye!
"Stacy, it's Shelby. That tattoo you want? Full color, that size? $260. Cash only."
SHIT. Kellee has me covered. They throw in an extra "free" T-shirt for my trouble. It's only 8:30.

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It's Sunday night. 9:45. My phone buzzes to life. I look at Shelby and at Adam the piercing guy. I'm the last one in line.
"Terry says he's feeling fine."
"Yeah, but I don't want to be the last one... you know, I don't want to have my body permanently altered by someone who's tired and wants to go home and make sweet love by the fire to his woman... and instead he has to be drawing his 15,000th fleur-de-lis on some tourist from Arizona by way of Shreveport."
"Talk to Terry. See what he says."
So I talk to Terry. Tell him my story. I'm a Louisiana girl. My husband and I founded the first and only Mardi Gras krewe in the state of Arizona - we have a parade and everything. I really want to get a fleur-de-lis to show off my Louisiana roots.
"What part of Louisiana?"
"Shreveport - and I know you folks in New Orleans think Shreveport is East Texas but I know from Texas and Shreveport is still in Louisiana."
"I'm not dissing Shreveport. My Dad's from Shreveport. I've spent some good times in Shreveport. ... And I want to do this tattoo. Seriously, I like you and I like your story. This is going to be a beautiful tatttoo."
"Well, then, let's do it, Terry!"

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First question everyone asks: Did it hurt? Duh.
Second question everyone asks: What did it feel like?
Like dragging a hot scalpel through your skin. Like two hours of consecutive hornet stings. Like someone is carving your flesh with broken glass. But there are waves of pain... it comes and goes. You ride it and just when you get used to it... a) He changes the needle and has to color it in, which is a lot like doing calligraphy on your butt with a razor-blade or b) Kellee starts to wail about how painful and agonizing it looks, and "How can you stand that? It looks like it hurts so much! I don't think I could ever do this. It just looks awful. I can't believe how much you're bleeding! Can you feel that? Do you want me to rub your shoulders?"
"You can't rub her shoulders - I'm working here."
"But it looks like she's in so much pain."
Yeah, I am, but it's much worse when you talk about it... now you have to step away and go outside and have a drink because you're wearing me out. Here's how it feels:

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It's Monday morning... at 12:30 AM. We're done.
Terry gives me the instructions for the "care and feeding" and he gives me a warning.
"We're putting a bandage on it now, but I don't want you sleeping in it. So you stay up for at least 2 more hours. Take the bandage off. Wash it - no wash cloth, no soaps with fragrance, just skin on skin. Put lotion on it - no fragrance. Then take a Benadryl - it'll help with the itching and go to sleep. You wash it twice a day for a couple weeks. It'll itch. It'll scab. Don't pick at it. Don't panic, just take care of it. It'll heal up fine. That's a nice tattoo - lemme take a picture of that. Congratulations."

Here's the aftermath...

Yes, it hurt... and yes, I'd do it again in a heartbeat... and yes, I'll post a picture when it's all healed up.

Laissez les bon temps rouler!