Part One: In Which Alimartell is a Dumbass.
Each year I cover Fashion Week in Toronto, and – sadly – one of my most favorite parts of the entire week is the giant swag bag filled mostly with things I will never use, such as aqua-colored mascara and double-sided tape and dry shampoo. I have, currently, several bags filled with this stuff under the sink in my bathroom, collecting dust and taking up precious space for the things I really need, such as Q-tips and toothpaste and tampons (I live on the edge, people.) Last week, I decided to go diving into the bags looking for hidden treasures; something that may be of use to me. I came across this bottle of tanning spray.
(You already can see how this story ends, yes?)
Well, so, I thought…why not? I have zero tan to speak of, and summer is basically over, so let’s just have a good time and see what happens here.
So, I sprayed a little on my arms and a little on my legs and realized that this was the crappiest product to ever exist because post-spray, I was exactly the same color as I was when I started: mayonnaise. For five full days my skin remained white and I realized that I was destined to be fair-skinned forever. But then! This is where is gets interesting. On Saturday, we TOOK A BOAT to Centre Island to spend the day with our friends and our combined seven kids. The day was lovely and I have some great pictures to show you (once I forget about THE BOAT). But, about two hours into the day, the husband turns to me and says,
“Why do you have a fingerprint on your arm?”
“WHA?” I say, confused.
“Oh, it’s everywhere, Ali. Over here. And here. And here.”
So, it seems that the spray tan worked, but just had a FIVE DAY DELAYED REACTION.
It seems that sleeveless and short shorts are out of the question until my zebra-like. oompa-loompa-esque skin evens out.
The lesson here, you guys?
THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH MAYONNAISE. It’s a perfectly respectable summer skin color. Willy Wonka may disagree, but then again, remember that frightening scene on the boat where everything goes all psychedelic and Willy starts singing that creepy song? He’s probably not quite the guy you want to take advice from. (Come to think of it…maybe he’s why I DON’T LIKE BOATS.)
Part 2: In Which Alimartell May Have Contracted a Deadly Disease
One of my many impressive skills, including being able to sing all the US states and capitals and being able to touch my tongue to my nose
includes being able to control my bladder for hours on end. Now granted, after birthing three babies out of, you know, my special lady place (TM @Metalia), I am not as limber as I used to be. But, I can pee once before getting ON A BOAT at 11am and not pee again until getting OFF THE BOAT at 9pm because no one wants to use the bathrooms on a busy, tourist-filled island.
No one, of course, except for CHILDREN. They, unlike their mother, have an uncanny ability to need to use the bathroom at the most inopportune times and the most inopportune places. Grocery cart full of shopping? Check! Basement of a disgusting gas station in the middle of middle America? Check! You name it; we’ve visited it. We could have a reality TV called “The Most Disgusting Bathroom In The World” and my son Joshua could host in a blue button down shirt and hat.
Anyway, so, my daughter Emily, who actually, to her credit, has a camel-like bladder typically. But, truth be told, it takes special skill to be able to go 10 hours, especially when you have a super paranoid mother like she does “You have to drink OMG I don’t want you dehydrating! Drink! Drink! Drink!”
So, we stood in line. Sandwiched between a woman with the very worst body odor I have ever caught wind of ever in my days on this planet and a women with a child who felt the need to try to cut in front of Miss Emily and me and I was not having ANY part of that…so I taught Emily the art of body checking. When it was finally our turn, 26 minutes after we got into the line, we grabbed the first stall we could, which, of course, DID NOT LOCK. I held the door shut so Miss Emily could take care of business. And then it happened. My flip-flopped foot
STEPPED IN A PUDDLE IN A GROSS PUBLIC BATHROOM.
You guys. I don’t even.
I just don’t even.
We washed our hands about 12 times and ran like hell out of that bathroom. I lifted a child who was drinking out of the fountain and planted him on the side of the fountain and used my bendy skills to hoist my foot into the water fountain to try to wash some of the tuberculosis and other possible diseases from my poor feet, but I’m afraid at this point, it’s a lost cause. My feet are probably going to have to be amputated at the ankle, which is a shame, because they are the only non-Ooompa Loompa parts of the my entire body.