Page 11 of Nuts

I found tattoos fascinating – if they were the right tattoos on the right person. Percy’s tattoos were interesting, and he had no product branding on him, at least not that I could see. I wondered what percentage of tattooed men had beer – or other similar product tattoos – and if I was out of line in my thoughts.

After searching my memory for anyone else with a beer tattoo and coming up with nothing, I decided Blane’s tattoo was, in fact, ridiculous.

“You know, I really like Noxzema Skin Cream, but I’m not going to get their logo tattooed on me.”

“Must not like it as much as I like Budweiser.”

“I guess it’d either be that, or I have more common sense than you.” I shrugged. “Who knows?”

“Definitely not the common sense thing,” he said flatly.

“Yeah” I slumped my shoulders and gazed down at the floor. “You’re probably right. Girls have smaller brains than men. It stands to reason that we’d have less common sense.”

He looked up from admiring his King of Beers tattoo. “Seriously?”

I gazed beyond him, and blinked a few times, and then met his wondrous gaze. “It’s true, I read a study. Girl’s brains weigh, on average, 25% less than a man’s. It’s sad.”

His eyes slowly widened. “Doesn’t surprise me.”

I was hanging shit on him, and he was too dumb to figure it out. It was no wonder I wasn’t attracted to guys anywhere close to my age. Although they were technically men, they were really nothing more than boys who could legally vote and buy cigarettes.

I desperately needed a real man in my life.

But. I had no idea where I was going to find one.

Chapter Four

P-Nut

Wearing a two-button blazer, a navy skirt, and navy heels, my mother looked like she could be headed to a business meeting. She hadn’t worked a day in her life, and even if she had, she was well into the age of retirement. She was dressed no differently than she’d dressed her entire life, and neither her age nor her deteriorating mental state prevented her from continuing that tradition.

She sat in her recliner with her eyes glued to the most recent episode of Lauren Lake’s Paternity Court. It was one of the many shows she insisted upon watching daily, and her doing so seemed to keep her mind occupied.

I carried the tomato soup and grilled cheese into the living room and set it on the tray beside her. “Time for lunch.”

“It seems like I just had breakfast.”

“You eat lunch with Lauren,” I said.

“I know that,” she snapped. “It seems like I just had breakfast. This day has just flown by.”

It saddened me to see her in her current state. In so many ways she was still the mother that raised me, and in others, she was slowly becoming less and less like her former self.

She glanced at the tray and then at the television. “Tomato?”

“Tomato soup and grilled cheese.”

With her eyes fixed on the show, she swiveled the tray over her lap. “My favorite.”

During the week, she ate the same thing every day for lunch. Each day, she acted like it was a huge surprise. On the weekends, a woman stopped in to help out. Oddly enough, on those days, she was openminded enough to eat anything she was given.

“That’s why I made it, ma. I know how much you like it.”

“I haven’t seen your brothers for days,” she said. “I wonder what they’ve gotten themselves into?”

My three brothers lived a few thousand miles away, and hadn’t seen her in years. Too busy was the standard response, but I don’t care anymore seemed to be closer to the truth.

I was born when my mother was 42, and although I wasn’t a mistake, the pregnancy that preceded her menopause wasn’t planned, either. I often wondered if it was the difference in age that kept me close to home, or if it was the fact that I simply cared more than they did about the welfare of my family.