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For those of you who've inexplicably been dropping by here for a while, you'll recall the joy that was had during Mr. Z's Wart-tastic Foot-a-Palooza of Winter 2006. Multiple trips to the family doc, with the freezing and the slicing and blood-curdling screaming... wait, am I still talking about warts or have I shifted to some sort of Bill-Kurtis-hosted Jeffrey Dahmer news magazine on the Biography channel?
Anywart, flash-forward a coupla years and, surprise, we find young Miss O following in her brother's papillomavirus-infested footsteps. Two mongo wartzillas growing on the tips of her tiny toes, like a couple of plantar-unicorns... shoe-nicorns, if you will. We've been futilely battling them for a few months, with those fucking worthless Dr. Scholl's wart pads, but the good doctor must've gotten his goddamn degree in Grenada, 'cuz theose fuckers ain't doing shizzle.
Miss O has been to the real doc once, so far, and the Old Lady was the lucky chaperone the first time. It was, apparently, a "fucking nightmare," what with the girl screaming bloody murder and the Old Lady and the nurse having to physically restrain her during the freezing procedure (which also didn't do shit, by the way.)
Well, guess who gets to take her to visit number two, tomorrow? Give up? I'll give you a hint -- it rhymes with "crabbydab." Yep, after school tomorrow, it's round two in the battle of "Miss O vs. Anyone-who-tries-to-get-near-her-fucking-toes"... and their tympanic membranes. That girl can fucking scream with the best of 'em. If Sammy Hagar had been an almost-seven year old girl who had warts on his toes, he wouldn't even come close to out-screaming her. (But he'd still grow up to, one day, sing on Van Halen's album OUWART12.)
The thing is, she used be fucking fearless when she was younger. She'd wipe out, get up and dust herself off, and then run off to wipe-the-fuck out again. (Remember, the crabbykids aren't the most agile of spawnages.) But she had a shitty experience when she got her ears pierced last winter -- one of the earrings was ripped out by an overzealous towel-drying once -- and things rocketed down the ol' shitter after that.
And nothing really helps. I try reasoning, bargaining, BRIBING... nada. I can get her nice and calm... have her laughing and joking around, and then the doc walks in the room and it's like the goddamn Texas Chainsaw Massacre in there. And the thing that kills me is, after it's all over, she's fine. She's like, "Oh, gee... that didn't hurt." Meanwhile, there's blood spouting out of my fucking earholes, the nurse is catatonic and weeping in the corner and the doc is injecting lidocaine into his own jugular.
But, we've gotta go tomorrow just to ensure that her foot doesn't end up looking like the Elephant Man's head. Although I could always just slip a burlap sack over the thing and rent her out to the circus. Money is tight in our troubled economy, but people always love them a good freakshow.
Hmm. Another one of them parental dilemmas I always seem to find myself in...
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