I’ll be taking off for Florida on Thursday for my Dad’s services.
Quite frankly, I’ll be glad when it’s all over. The sense of loss will never completely go away, but this past week has been a bizarre whirlwind. On the drive into work, I actually had to think about what day it was.
But last night, I enjoyed a time-out at Insight Studio in Chicago where I got my memorial tat (of a seahorse) commemorating my father. The job (coloring included) took about 25 minutes, performed by the lovely and talented Jennifer Trok, and was fairly painless…or at least as much as a tattoo can be. To distract myself, I babbled to Jen about everything from Cubs baseball to the artwork on the studio walls - of which (regarding one painting just a few feet away) I asked: "Is that supposed to be Batman?"
Jen responded: "No, I think that's a guy being tortured by demons."
I said: "Are you sure? It looks like Batman."
Jen paused, looking up from her needle, and answered: "Put your glasses on."
Me (a few seconds later): "Well, just call me Velma."
At any rate, I felt much more sorry for a girl beside me who was getting her first tattoo - a large claddagh on her lower back. Try as I might to distract her mind during the job, beads of sweat soon formed on her temples, and tears rolled down her cheeks. But I'll give this gal full credit: she gutted it out like a US Marine.
I’ll be checking in from Florida during my trip where I'll be showing off my brand-new ink to any nutjob on the street who'll listen.
Until then, take it sleazy…beazy...
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