Gotcha

So, tomorrow's the big day, and I tell you this only so I can tell you how I used that fact to scare the hell out of my mom this weekend. On Thursday, I burned the living shit out of my wrist on the toaster oven, and, because I'm an idiot, I forgot about it when I took a shower Friday morning and accidentally scraped off the blister or scab or whatever, leaving a giant, open wound - nice, right? I happened to have a giant bandaid/patch affair for just such an occasion, so I doctored myself up, and Olive and I headed down to San Antonio. On the way there, I hatched a plan, and here's the conversation I had with Mama Turista within the first five minutes we were there:

MT: What did you do to your wrist?
LT: (smiling) Nothing.
MT: WHAT did you do?
LT: (smiling) Nothing!
MT: Well, what is that? What did you ... Oh my GOD! Did you get a tattoo?!
LT: Yes.
MT: WHAT? WHY?!
LT: It's just something I always wanted to do before I turned 40.
MT: Oh my God. I can't believe you did that. And WHY did you do it there? You always said you would do it where the judge wouldn't see it. Oh my GOD! And just what in the hell did you get?
LT: Um, just a heart and some flowers. (Not at all what I would actually get, but that's another story.)
MT: (pause) I just can't believe you did that. (pause) Did you really?
LT: No, I burned it on the toaster oven.
MT: Well, thanks for just about giving me a frigginass heart attack.

Oh, and the whole exchange took place while she was on the phone.

Later, she admitted that I had gotten her but good, and that, in the grand scheme of things, a tattoo isn't really that big of a deal. Yeah, right.