Soldiers on Skates, Puking Kids, Pee Puddles, and Nut Balm
Wiener chaffing is the worst.
If you’re still reading, you’re either morbidly curious or have some pretty questionable fetishes. Nobody should be reading this. And I definitely shouldn’t be writing it. So, of course that is exactly what I’m going to do.
I’ve had a rather unpleasant 24 hours.
My wife, Dawn, scored free tickets to the opening night of Disney on Ice in Minneapolis. After I got home from work yesterday, we rounded up the kids, hopped in the van, set the GPS, and started the 90 minute trip to the Target Center. Our first stop was the McDonald’s drive-through for coffee and some cheeseburgers to tide us over.
About an hour into the drive, I heard a sound that immediately made me think a water pipe had broken. Just as quickly, I realized we were in a minivan. Minivans don’t have water pipes. What they do have, on occasion, is a projectile-vomiting child in the backseat. It’s a special feature that we paid extra for. The re-purposed McDonald’s covering the interior of the van – and exterior of our son – was an added bonus.
We made an emergency pit stop at Target, where Dawn sprang into Super Mom mode. While I tried not to gag, Dawn cleaned up the van and our child, bought him fresh clothes, and cured Polio. I suggested we cut our losses and head home, but our spewing son assured us it was momentary motion sickness and he felt much better.
Before the untimely breaking of the water pipe, we had been on pace to arrive right around the time the doors opened, an hour before show time. Our layover in the Target parking lot burned around 40 minutes, leaving us just enough time to get to the show, pick up our tickets at will-call, and find our seats before the opening act.
Because of our GPS’s female voice – and who knows what other reasons – our kids have nicknamed it ‘Lola’. Back on the road, we dutifully followed each digitized direction from Lola. We were making excellent time, and had actually gained a few minutes, when Lola turned on us. I suspect that Skynet is real and that they are behind Lola becoming self-aware and bitter.
I won’t bore you with the details, but if your GPS ever tells you that a “sharp left” is coming up – and you’re on a freeway – what it is actually asking you to do is whip a Dukes of Hazzard-style u-turn, into oncoming traffic. I can only assume what follows is nuclear war and/or killer robots arriving from the future.
Lola’s betrayal was swift, severe, and successful. We got to our seats just in time to see the end of the first act which, of course, was the one the kids were most looking forward to. Fortunately, the rest of the show passed uneventfully, with no further eruptions from Mt. Vomit. Although, I was slightly unnerved by the Toy Story Army soldiers performing synchronized pirouettes. There are just some things I don’t want to see a man in uniform do.
Fast forward to this morning. I woke up before my alarm, showered, and was absentmindedly drying off while replaying the disaster from the previous night in my mind, when I felt a sharp sting in my southern region. Again, I will spare you the details. Let’s just say that sensitive skin + rough towel + unsupervised friction = bad.
I quickly searched the bathroom for some form of miracle balm and found a tube of A+D Ointment that we had leftover from when our kids were in diapers. According to the label, it:
- Treats and Prevents Diaper Rash.
- Helps Heal Dry, Chafed Skin.
- Protects and Soothes Minor Cuts and Burns.
We had a winner. I gingerly applied the ointment and enjoyed some temporary relief – until I got dressed. As soon as I moved, I realized it was going to be a very long and painful day unless I added a buffer between me and my clothes. Running late, and desperate, I grabbed the first Band-Aid I could find, which was one of the colorful Band-Aids we use for the kids. It did the trick and I really didn’t expect anyone at work to be inspecting my nether region, anyway. That’s more of a Monday activity.
I hustled into the kitchen to make some coffee and prepare my lunch, and stepped smack-dab in the middle of a puddle of dog urine. My sock promptly absorbed the liquid, like a sponge sucking up water. Really disgusting, poorly-placed water.
I went to the bedroom for a fresh pair of socks, only to discover that the only clean pair available was the pair with the non-existent elastic, which I only wear for emergencies. Begrudgingly, I put on the socks while the dog responsible for the kitchen puddle looked on in bemusement from her newly-conquered spot on my pillow. I shot her a look that was intended to make her spontaneously combust, kissed Dawn goodbye, and headed to work.
The moral of the story: cheer up, Buttercup. Your day could always be worse. You could find yourself wearing defective socks on your feet and a neon purple Band-Aid on your junk, driving a van that smells of vomit-scented Febreeze.
Oh, and if you ever meet me in person, I’d really appreciate it if you could try not to let that be your first image of me.