Talladega Nights...and Days - Part 1

I was saving this for Trav-O at I Like to Fish, but apparently the Memoir Monday has become just another memoir.  Remember back in the day when we'd write down a story about ourselves, steal Trav-O's button, drink a beer, and call it all a win??? 

Anystabmeintheheartandmakemefeellikealoser, I'm sharing my damn memoir today.  No button, though; it's Thursday, not Monday.  It's been on ice long enough, boys and girls!

Talladega, Alabama.  April, 1994.  One of the infamous Three White Bitches (what we were known as by some of our college party boys), Hazel, moved there with her boyfriend shortly after graduation.  Because she was quite home sick and living in the armpit of hell, Hazel begged me to come for a visit.  While I wasn't all that interested in going to Alabama, and had no earthly idea where to find Talladega on the map, the offer of "free beer" sparked my interest.  See, Hazel's boyfriend ran a bar, and Hazel was his bartender.  Cha-ching!!

After work that day, my roommate, Erica, and I packed our bags and hit the road.  Now this was back in the pre-Google days, so not knowing in which direction to steer your vehicle was a pretty big deal.  We were living in Memphis at the time so we knew that we needed to head south.  That was about all we had.  Since I was the responsible one of the group (hehehe, it still makes me laugh just thinking about it), I stopped at a gas station (yes, those still existed too) and bought a map.  I drove while Erica navigated and manned the cooler.  Stocked with cold ones for our road trip.  I still can't believe I never got a DUI.  Another indication that me and the Big G are tight.

After only a few detours and 7 hours of a 4-hour trip, we finally reached Talladega.  I'm pretty sure it was pre-cell phone days, too, so we stopped at a little Mexican restaurant to call Hazel.  And to drink a few margaritas.  From this point until we reached the tattoo shop, things are a little fuzzy.  I guess all that partying did actually kill a few brain cells.  I do recall, however, that some sort of bet transpired between Erica and me.  She won, and we headed off in search of a new tattoo.

Erica had been wanting a tattoo for quite some time, but never could muster up the nerve to go through with it.  She needed a partner in crime.  I, on the otherhand, wasn't has keen on the idea.  Not that I didn't like them, but I was a chicken shit!  When I discovered that an actual needle was involved, I wanted no part of it.  With a little liquid courage, though, all things are possible.

When we arrived at the tattoo place, neither of us had a design in mind.  Let me rephrase that, Erica did not have a picture of her actual design while I had no idea.  I looked through book after book, but just didn't see anything.  Meanwhile, Erica was on the table having some cute little flower put on her hip. 

It was finally my turn.  I just picked one!  As if being a drunk girl getting a tattoo on her hip isn't silly enough, the tattoo chosen was ridiculous.  Thank God it's on my hip!  Every time I look at it, I am reminded of the dangers of drinking and tattooing.  Why didn't anyone stop me??  Oh, because they were drunk and thought it was a good idea too!!!

When I got on the table, I handed Mr. Tattoo Guy (why are they always big biker-looking dudes?) my design.  It was a Mickey Mouse.  Red pants.  Yellow shoes.  Stop laughing.

Not me.  Apparently, I'm not the only person in America who got drunk and tatted up.

No wonder they don't let drunk folks get tattoos anymore.  It has absolutely NOTHING to do with alcohol causing the blood to thin.  It is to prevent lawsuits!  Can you imagine a drunk guy getting Mickey put on his back???  He'd get the shit beat out of him!

The moral to the story?  Don't drink and drive.  To Talladega.  For a tattoo.  No wonder my son is obsessed with everything Mickey.  I've got to stop letting him see me nekked.

Stay tuned next week for my Nascar observations.  Remember...I was there for an entire weekend!