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We had Thai food for lunch, but it wasn't the trip to the Thai restaurant where the old Thai lady called Big Daddy a wimp for ordering his food mild while I went for flaming hot.

We waited all day because I absolutely had to have Spider at Dream Catcher do my tattoo. Spider didn't work on a schedule. You just showed up and waited. And waited. And waited while an entire sorority pledge class screamed through getting their belly buttons pierced in the next room. And waited some more until finally, the shop closed, but since we'd waited for hours, Spider did my tattoo.

They closed the shop and cranked up The Lost Highway soundtrack. Spider drew the poppies from the photo on a package of Burpee Oriental Poppy seeds I'd bought at Wal-Mart. After years of searching for the perfect poppies, that's what I found. Yes, I still have the unopened seed packet, despite having the image permanently etched into my flesh.

There was another person getting tattooed. He'd been under the needle all day. A young guy who was about to ship off in the Navy, joined by his father, a Navy vet. The guy was having an angel the size of his bicep put on his arm to protect him while he served.

Why did I get the poppies? I've always been drawn to them. We had a patch of them in our backyard when I was little, and I thought they were the most interesting flowers, the way their petals were thin as tissue paper and softer than silk. The way the unbloomed seed pods would bleed white milk when squeezed, and how the dead pods would spill tiny black seeds. The fuzz on the stems and leaves.

The only time I've ever had an opiate in my body was a morphine drip, post-c-section, which I grossly underutilized. When I told people my tattoo idea, a few of them said that people would think I was a smack junkie. That's a little extreme, don't you think? But as a person who's always had sleep and insomnia issues, I liked the idea of carrying a symbol of sleep and oblivion on my body for the rest of my life.

After the inking, we went back to Big Daddy's place to partake in our beverage of choice - a magnum of Beringer White Zinfandel, consumed while listening to the Xanadu soundtrack before closing down Contacts, the gay bar where Big Daddy's bartender friend served us Kamikazees in beer mugs. I don't remember feeling the alcohol at all. I just remember feeling nothing but adrenaline that started bouncing through my system the second the needle hit my skin, and didn't stop until I finally fell asleep around 4 AM.

I'm pretty sure my next tattooing won't go like that. My initial reaction to that is sadness, because it makes me feel old and miss "the good old days". But then I remember - holy crap! That behavior kills 34-year-olds, simply because 34-year-olds have gained the wisdom to know just how stupid having that much fun is. The knowledge alone is enough to kill us.

Yes, there's going to be another tattooing. I don't know when. I've been plotting it for years. Poppies around my ankle. It seems a little unoriginal, but ten years later, I still love my poppies. I love what they mean. Not once have I regretted getting them, although they're looking a bit beleagured and could use a touch-up:

I love how my grandma, who wasn't supposed to know about the tattoo, told me it was beautiful when she was making my wedding dress. I love how Clara Jane has gone from chewing on it with her toothless gums to asking me to show her my flowers. I love how, after we'd been together for awhile, B. told me he regularly forgot about my tattoo because he was so accustomed to it. I love that when I look at it, it still stops me and makes me smile.

The summer after I got the tattoo, I was making one of my frequent visits to Acorn Books. The owner, who always recognized me, spied my sundress-exposed arm and said, "Did Spider do that to you?" I said yes, he did. He complimented Spider's work and said that he often came into the bookstore to buy art books.

"You do know that when you're 90 and living in a nursing home, all the nurses are going to call you Poppy because of that thing, right? 'Poppy needs a new diaper! Poppy lost her dentures again! Poppy's causing a rucus in the lunchroom again!'"

For some reason, I liked that image. Thus a nickname was born.

Ah, the children of the '90s are getting old. All of us Clinton-voting, Nirvana-listening, flannel-wearing, Lollapalooza-going, tattoo-taboo-busting kids are grownups. We're old enough to be narrowed down to stereotypes based on the music and fashion of the times. I don't regret much, although I did a lot of stupid things. I really don't regret the ink that was put into my flesh ten years ago tonight. It's one of my favorite memories and a part of me. No matter how ugly I feel, I have something on me that I'll always think is beautiful. I have a souvenir of my youth that's become more than a novelty. It's a part of me.

Now, who wants a Kamikazee in a beer mug? No one? Good.