Tattoo III: A trip to the ATM

So, in case you missed it, here is part I and part II of the story. Both are essential reading should you wish for this chapter in the tattoo show saga to make any sort of sense.

Anywho.

When we left off, I was holding an icepack to my 2YO Doodle’s forehead and checking him for symptoms of a concussion. (In case you were wondering, teaching a toddler his colors and how to count to ten come in very handy for these instances.) He had quieted down and his concerned sister was getting a little bored at waiting for his swelling to reduce.

So, I asked my friend, Steve, to go ahead and take Boo around to a few booths while I kept Doodle out of the fray. I figured they’d flip through a few sample books and talk to a couple artists and we’d catch up with them with no problem.

Ten minutes pass and Doodle appears to be fine and ready to move again, so we take off in search of them. After a few aisles, I can’t find them. I call and text and we rendezvous at the center display where some pacific islanders are tattooing old school sans electricity (i.e. tapping).

“Do you wanna tell your mom, or do I have to?” Steve asks Boo.

Boo gives me a guilty look and quickly averts her eyes to her shoes.

“Well,” Steve says to me. “You can either give me $75 or feed me for a month.”

“What?” I ask. “What happened?”

I am told the tale of how “she who loves all things shiny and pretty” reached across a table filled with jewelry and accidentally knocked over a pair of earrings onto the concrete floor, breaking one of the matched set of amethyst quartz crystals.

Of course she couldn't have broken anything that I could wear.

“How much?” I asked.

“They retail for $300.”

Yeah. This is pretty much where I hit the concrete floor and the roof at the same time.

Yep. I’m dragging this out. Come back for Part IV tomorrow to see if I’m still the mother of two.