On Friday evening I arrived for dinner, shortly after seven-thirty. Before I had a chance to say hello, my mother’s eyes zoomed in on the tattoo, and she immediately began a masterful verbal attack. First, she accused me of being under the spell of despicable drug lords, then of being seduced by alcohol and ended with a question concerning my mental health. In a rational tone I stated that I hadn’t experienced a mental hiccup and as an artist I didn’t need to partake in drugs or booze for inspiration. Then flippantly, I pointed to the tattoo and reminded her that Aphrodite was her favorite Greek goddess. Quickly, my mother refuted my assertion by stating she preferred Venus, the Roman Goddess. That’s not what she proclaimed, four summers