Bad Ink

Have you ever seen that show, Bad Ink? I came across it on Netflix and couldn't stop watching it. The show takes place in Las Vegas. Dirk and his sidekick, Ruckus, help people with really bad tattoos. That's what gave me the idea.

My daughter-in-law, son-in-law, and all four of my children have at least one tattoo. I felt like messing with my kids. What better way than to tell them I was getting inked?

I have a history of screwing with them so they don't fool easily. This was going to take everything I had to pull it off, but you should never underestimate me.

It started out with a group text to my three daughters, "OMG, dad said I could get a tattoo!"

I expected their initial responses of disbelief. But I was just getting started.

"I don't know what to get," I said, "I have to hurry and decide."

My youngest daughter jumped into action, "Mom, you need to think about it first, go home and wait until you really know." 

"I can't decide between a butterfly and a bat," I text back, "help me decide, quick."

The three girls started texting back and forth to each other. They joked about me getting some crazy tattoo,  speculating that I might be under the influence of one glass of wine too many, or that we stopped at some seedy tattoo shop and what I was going to get was a disease.

And this is where my genius really starts to show. I stop texting. A few minutes go by and they start trying to reengage me.

So I text, "This is dad. She's already in there. Do you really think I'd bring her to a sketchy place?" Pretty good, huh?

The texting quiets down.

"If we don't see a picture, it didn't happen," my oldest daughter responds for them all.

No more texts from me for a good hour and a half. I rummage through my desk drawer and find what I'm looking for - a black sharpie.

"Here," I tell my husband, "draw a bat on my hip."

He takes the marker and starts drawing. He pauses, draws some more, then keeps drawing.

"I just want a simple bat shape," I say.

"I can't draw," he complains.

I take a look in the mirror. His efforts have resulted in what appears to be Dracula wearing a dress drawn by a four-year-old.

"What the hell is that?"

"I told you, I can't draw."

"They'll never believe that's a tattoo."

I grab a piece of paper and draw a very basic silhouette of a bat. "Just draw it like this."

He tries again, this time on the other hip. He seemed pleased with his efforts.

I look in the mirror. Hmmmm, it looks a little strange but he's got the basic shape. It will have to do. I smudge a little red lipstick around the edge to make it look sore. Now all I needed was the final touch.

"Do we have any gauze pads?" I ask.

I told you, you shouldn't underestimate me. We take a picture that looks like I'm peeling back the gauze pad over my freshly tattooed hip. 

I text the picture and wait. It doesn't take long.

Youngest daughter responds first, "I can't believe you did it mom!"

"OMG, it looks like dad's mustache," my middle daughter says.

"Where's the pic?!" oldest daughter responds, panicking, "I didn't get it!! Send it to me someone!!"

Ha! Got 'cha. We laugh, and laugh, and laugh.

I ended up with sharpie stains on my hips for a few days but it was totally worth it. The next time I try to pull one over on them, I'm really going to have to pull out all the stops. 

Darci McIntyreComment