i only wear white when it rains

You're bathing with THIS guy.

Ask any mother the meaning of maternal sacrifice and she need only point to her stretch marks and not-yet-lifted breasts to show you.

Long after we’ve lost the 50-cough pounds we gained during pregnancy and managed to endure enough Music with Mar classes to make anyone want to stab themselves in the ear with a Play-Doh knife, the sacrifices continue.

My daughter is now six, and I still marvel at what I’d do for this persuasive little person.

Take this weekend for example. Somehow our trip to Magic Kingdom turned into an inaugural visit to Typhoon Lagoon: one of Disney’s two reservoirs for liquid waste.

My daughter has developed a penchant for swimming in subzero temperature waters. A desire I think one loses roughly after the age of eight. So once I failed to convince her that Epcot and a convertible when she turns 16 was way more fun than swimming in Arctic cesspools, I found myself sporting a completely impractical bikini top (natch), paralyzed by the pimpled backs of strangers I knew I’d soon be “bathing” with in the park’s ridiculously dangerous wave pool.

A few glacial waves into the morning my fear of incurable skin diseases was overcome by paranoia that one of the typical turkey leg-eating Disney goers would crash into my 40-pound child splashing around like a water fairy blissfully unaware of the pool’s bacterial load. So I strategically positioned myself in front of her knowing I’d lessen the impact of whatever sort of beast washed over her with every wave. It was then that I spotted a man who I’m convinced could be mistaken for the Loch Ness Monster based on neck length alone. While I wondered how it was humanly possible for his torso to be as tall as it was round, he stared back at me licking his smacks like Chilly Willy eyeing Smedley-turned hotdog.

Sure as my nibbies were frozen into icicles stabbing holes into my string bikini, the next wave brought Nessie crashing into my cerebellum with the force of a tequila hangover. Once I surfaced from the Tsunami of blubber and hair, I looked around to first make sure my child was afloat. Only after I established that she was still breathing, did I assess my own shattered parts.

“Can we take a break from the wave pool?” I begged my little fish. “Mommy may or may not have a skull fracture, broken clavicle and six bruised ribs.”

My daughter agreed to the break, but only because just seconds earlier she realized that she needed to use the restroom. Judging from the look of alarm on her face and the knowledge we both had that the wave pool comprises 90% urine, I knew that her emergency would require a complete shutdown of Typhoon Lagoon if we didn’t exit that pool. Now.

So we Olympic hurdle jumped our way over Nessie’s offspring to exit the cesspool in search of a restroom, located (mother bitch!) on the other side of the park and nowhere near the lockers which housed our only footwear. Now would be a good time to admit that I contemplated which would be more disgusting: my daughter defecating in her swimsuit or me entering a public restroom barefoot.

Fortunately for her self-esteem, I did not mandate a detour to the lockers and instead beelined straight into the slimy-floored bathroom that I’m pretty sure will guarantee a toenail fungus so severe my nails will grow up instead of out.

Luckily, we made it. Sort of. I would be remiss if I didn’t include the part about me taking her swimsuit bottoms and scrubbing them out with fistfuls of hand soap in the Typhoon Lagoon showers so that we could return for another round of wave pool torture.

Now brace yourself for this: I entered the bathroom barefoot for the rest of the day. Sure, I was on tiptoes and more than a little grossed out, but even for a germaphobe like me, wearing sandals after already using the facilities without them seemed a bit like wearing a condom with a guy I already had sex with several times without. Logic screamed, “If you have heel herpes, sandals can’t help you now!”

So after a day of shivering and contemplating what sort of infectious diseases we’d bring back as souvenirs, my daughter and I finally made it to Magic kingdom for an evening of fireworks and a few shows.

As we sat watching Mickey’s PhilharMagic 4D for the 800th time, I caught a glimpse of her giggling as she reached out to catch the rubies Ariel threw to the audience. And I think it was in that moment of beauty and wide-eyed innocence that I realized getting neck fucked by the Loch Ness Monster was a small price to pay for her joy.

I don’t know what the actual percentage is of delays out of Liberty International Airport, but my personal record is approaching 300%.

This overheated, Sanka-serving abomination is like the Venus Flytrap of travel.

Everything seems dandy (albeit curry scented) until you pass through the 2-hour long security line naked and arrive at your Starbucks-free gate. Where 5,000 Affliction-sporting passengers are clamoring for a cup of instant coffee and a cream cheese bagel because that’s all there is. Unless of course you’re hungry enough to salt an “I heart NY” T-shirt, which I might do in a second to protest the lack of restaurants. Suffice it to say I’d settle for a salt water taffy kiosk at this point.

Here in terminal A, you should know there is only one bathroom with three sensor toilets that attempt to flush the tampon from the woman before you down into the NJ water supply, but instead just tear it apart and then cough it back up as a gift to you for waiting patiently in line. I guess maybe the lack of dining options can be a blessing.

Not until you arrive at this standing-room only gate with no first class club do you realize the oily haired man laying on the floor uncomfortably close to your Burberry messenger bag is fresh off a NYC subway, clearly eager to fly to a place where hygiene is completely superfluous. You resist the urge to tell him, “You’ve arrived, my friend.”

I finally score an empty seat facing the Hudson News stand equipped with three men’s interest magazines (Popular Mechanics anyone?) and a man telling the airport’s hotspot to “Fuck off” because he cannot log on to it after furiously tapping away at his iPad for what seems like hours.

The proximity of my head to the man seated behind me is disconcerting at best because I actually smell his unwashed hair. And besides looking into an ear canal filled with wax, there is nothing that turns my stomach more. It might be time to offer my seat to an elderly person and earn some good karma points in the hopes that I can cash in and get the fuck out of here this week.

Just as I’m about to get up to flee Sir Stinky Scalps, iPad starts to speak to me.

“Are you goin’ to Tampa?” he asks.

Finding the pores on his nose, as large as peppercorns, distracting, I pause for a second and stare.

“You look like you’re from Florida,” he adds.

I can’t help but wonder what looking like being from Florida looks like. Is it that I’m blonde? Less than 300 pounds? Not wearing a diamond-encrusted nameplate?

I tell him I’m going to Tampa. “If we ever get there. ” And then secretly will the airport’s WiFi to work so that I can slip away and attempt a potty break in a toilet that doesn’t look like a crime scene.

“You look like this girl I know named Stephanie.”

“Oh,” I answer. Wondering what his Biore strips look like.

“Yeah, she works at Sebastian’s in Clearwater.”

I’m intrigued since I immediately assume Sebastian’s is a topless bar and he’s going to proposition me for a blowjob any second.

“Yeah,” he explains. “It’s like a convenience store by Feathersound. You know…by the gas station.”

I sink back into my chair, never thinking that he could surpass the BJ proposition with something even more insulting.

To be fair, New Jersey is not kind to me. The toxic waste in the water might make for the best bagels and pizza dough, but it also deposits enough poison on my hair to turn it a brassy shade of pee. My face has been so swollen since I arrived last week that I actually resorted to applying Preparation H in the mornings so that I look less like a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade Float. But…

“A convenience store?” I ask. “I look like someone who works at like, a 7-11?”

Why can’t I look like somebody smart? Sure, maybe I wouldn’t feel exactly beautiful if my twin was the Pinellas Circuit Court judge, but at least I’d be confident she had all her teeth and could make change for a dollar.

As Biore Boy rambled off more detail about Stephanie than anyone wants to know (widow; husband was multimillionaire who committed suicide, et al) I realized that I should not be conversing with random travelers who were just in the down dog position over their iPads.

So I’m bidding my friend adieu and heading to the T-shirt stand. I just hope they have Dijon mustard.