If you met my parents, you'd be surprised. My father will tell you I was named for Saint Brigid of Ireland, to commemorate his own father's journey to Canada from Ireland as a young man. My mother will swear at Dad and insist that I was named for Brigitte Bardot, the freewheeling french sexpot starlet.
They have agreed to disagree and so they chose the easiest spelling. And thus, 1971 brought you Bridget. Me.
Half saint, half sexpot. Yes. Get it now?
And as further proof that I can be less stubborn than the rest of my family is, I went and did something extra smart today that I should have done (or maybe not done) a long time ago.
When I was twenty I got our zodiac signs tattooed on my side, a stylized Taurus for me incorporated into a Gemini symbol for Cole. It was a wicked tattoo but I didn't want it anymore. This is the part where non-tattooed people nod and say I told you so. Tattoed people will now cringe in sympathy and nod too, because cover-ups rock.
My artist here said he could cover it up, go a little bigger and do a new Taurus design with a Scorpio.
Er...well, um...
No worries. I vetoed that rather awkward suggestion and came home with a wicked Celtic cross, which took far longer and is a lot bigger than I expected but I am almost almost home now.
Happy Valentine's day to us. This will be a very good surprise. Because Jacob doesn't know, and boy did he ever hate that tattoo.
