Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 64337 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 214(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64337 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 214(@300wpm)
But I have a consult for a giant back piece for my friend, Pierce, from the gym next week. If he decides to go for it, that’ll be a bump in income for at least the next few months. With tattoos of that size, you can’t complete everything in one visit. You have to give the skin time to heal in between. Even the sleeve on my arm, which is much smaller than Pierce’s back, took three, five-hour sittings to get everything just right.
But it was so worth it. I love my tattoo, with the flowers swirling around my bicep and the skull tucked beneath pink-and-yellow peony petals.
My mother, however, hates the skull with the same fervor with which she loves Jane Fonda. She hates tattoos in general, but the skull really took it over the edge for her. Even when I explained that it was a memento mori—a reminder of death fine art painters have been incorporating into their work for centuries—she insisted I should have it removed.
She said it was “tacky and masculine and morbid.”
But I think being reminded of death every time I glance down at my arm is a good thing. It reminds me not to waste a minute of the precious life I’ve been given.
Which reminds me…
Grabbing my phone, I collect Mr. Prickle’s from his position on the shelf above the sink and head outside to soak up some autumn sun while weighing my options.
“On the one hand, it’s a big expense,” I say, setting Mr. Prickles in the center of my outdoor table before curling into a cushioned chair and drawing my thick robe tighter around me. It’s barely fifty degrees, but I know winter will be here before I know it, and coffee on the back porch will be a thing of the past until spring. “But on the other hand, it’s thirty percent off.”
I turn my cell, showing him the email that popped into my inbox last night. It’s from a company offering rock-climbing tours that I started following a few years ago, mostly to support Wendy Ann’s friend, Lilac, who started the venture right after college. Part of what I love most about rock climbing is the chance to be alone with my thoughts or in the company of one or two good climbing friends. The thought of joining a ten-to-twelve-person tour, with no idea who I’m going to be stuck in close quarters with for three days isn’t a selling point for me.
But I’ve been dying to check out the Golden Spire bluffs down south, and they’re on private land. The area is only accessible through a tour or by making reservations over a year in advance.
“Thirty percent off, and I could mark the bluffs off my list without having to plan ahead,” I tell Mr. Prickles. “You know I hate planning ahead.”
Mr. Prickles chuckles a little at that.
What can I say? He knows me.
But Wendy Ann knows me even better and Lilac, the owner of Rock Out Climbs, is one of her best friends. If anyone can get the “behind the scenes” scoop for me, it will be my little sis.
I punch Wendy Ann’s contact on my phone and put my cell to my ear, not surprised when she answers after the first ring. “Good morning, sunshine,” I say in response to her cranky-sounding hello. “How’s Monday treating you so far?”
“Mom woke me up at four-thirty doing aerobics over my head,” she says. “And I haven’t heard back about any of the applications I put in last week.”
“It’s still early. Just relax and do something to keep your mind off the waiting. Like, say… Oh, I don’t know, maybe a favor for your favorite sister.”
She harrumphs. “You’re not my favorite anymore.”
“What? Why?”
“You didn’t come over for dinner last night,” she whines, though I told her that I’ve been skipping Sunday dinners. It’s just easier not to fight with Mom if I’m not around her all that much. “I was alone with Mom and Dad and all our happily married siblings. It was awful. I felt like a third wheel times ten.”
“We only have six married siblings. Plus Mom and Pops, that’s seven. Seven happy couples, mwuah-ha-ha,” I say, doing my best Count impression from Sesame Street.
“Well, it felt like ten, and half of them were cranky and hungover from the wedding reception and the other half were giving the first half shit for being hungover. And then Christian cheated at Monopoly and Mel pounced on him like a spider monkey and Freya the ferret tried to bite his balls because she thought he was a threat. Then Keanu Reeves got into the garbage again while we were all distracted.”
“That dog and garbage,” I mutter. “He has a problem.”
“He does,” she agrees. “He ate something that made his butt smell terrible and got one of the foil wrappers from our baked potatoes stuck on his head. Barrett and I had to chase him around the pasture for almost an hour to get it off. It was exhausting.” She sighs. “I didn’t get to sleep until almost eleven for the second night in a row.”