How’s Your Mom I t was not that it was hard to get to the party. It was just a matter of twisting every single person’s arm in my family, finding swimming suits, a last minute run to Target for a gift, and agreeing to only stay the very minimum amount of time. It was not that staying at the party was all that hard. There was only a little complaining that the party was princess-ed out. There might have been a little dry heaving in there somewhere. Maybe a little blood and a few tears, but who is counting? The conversation was an airy and light, “my husband recently had a double stroke and is impotent and not meeting my needs” kind of thing. Tattoos were the furthest thing from my mind when the subject came up, really. The varying virtues of a small wrist tat and an eight-incher up the wazoo really did not faze me. Probabl...