This is a tale of tragedy and redemption, of struggle and victory. There were tears, there were laughs, there was lava and spitting unicorns and talking honey badgers. Yes, this is story about Gold Bond.
(Also, I was lying about the lava through honey badgers bits. Sorry.)
Our heroine, hereafter known as I, Hillary went to Walgreens last week to procure herself some cosmetics. While she was there rolling in her battle paints, she remembered she needed to buy some powder for her bodacious tatas. Being that I’m a top heavy kind of lady, I have to take care of my girls. Powder beneath the funpillows helps keep the skin happy and non-icky, and I’d heard marvelous stories about yonder Gold Bond. So, I went to the powdery place and was overwhelmed by the varieties of products on display.
When I spotted a sign that said, “NEW!” I knew I was doomed. I’m the worst kind of impulse buyer, and so I grabbed the above-pictured aerosol can and brought it to the register. As I don’t want to admit to the husband that I spent too much money on my rainbow-colored facemakers, I’m just going to say, “WOW, A HUNDRED AND FIFTY BUCKS FOR A SINGLE CAN OF GOLD BOND SPRAY? HOLY CRAP. AT THAT COST, THIS STUFF BETTER BE AWESOME.”
I got home and decided I had to try it out right away. I’m such a child when it comes to new stuff. I removed the cap and turned the bottle over to read the instructions to see if this particular goodness required shaking pre-dispensing. Somehow (probably because I’m a moron) my hand hit the trigger. This wouldn’t have been a problem if the goddamned nozzle wasn’t pointed straight at my face. Out comes a torrent that blasts me in the mouth, on the nose, and in my eyes. It doesn’t hurt immediately, but oh — about twenty seconds later? — the menthol kicked in and there was agony. Gold Bond powder spray does not belong in your ocular orifices. It doesn’t belong in your mouth or up your nose because THAT. SHIT. BURNS.
I wandered around the house alternating between screaming, crying, and stomping my feet. Basset hounds scattered as I, Hillary had what can only be categorized as a Grade A Conniption Fit. When the burning sensation finally abated after, like, fifty-fucking-years, I managed to open my eyes so I could begin the laborious chore of washing off the powdery shit. One glance at my reflection and I actually managed to laugh. The Gold Bond stuff comes out of the can as a clear liquid, but it dries to a powder, and I was now Stevie Nicks on her fattest day. Snow Princesses represent, yo, because I looked like I’d used my face to bulldoze a mountain of cocaine.
I washed it off, but suffice to say, round one of I, Hillary versus Gold Bond went to the Gold Bond.
After that particularly harrowing introduction to the product, I approached it with the caution it deserved. It’s a chemical weapon when put in the wrong places, dudes. But little did I know when put in the right place? It’s the best thing ever. FAST FORWARD A WEEK. I’d been using the Gold Bond where it was actually supposed to go and it was doing wonders for my incredibly sensitive, annoying-as-crap-to-maintain skin. Happy boobs! Woo! Yesterday, I got out of the shower and proceeded to use it because that’s the best time to apply it. About two minutes into the process of powdering, my phone rang. As it was someone I actually wanted to talk to, I rushed to the bedroom to don some undies so I’m not on the phone bare-assed naked. Yes, I know the person on the other side of the phone can’t see me but it’s the principle of the thing. Anyway, I picked up the phone. I was fine for about ten seconds, but then the tingling started. I must have had some of the dried spray powder on my hands when I put on my undies because there was suddenly this really weird burning sensation in the NO-ZONE. It wasn’t pleasant at first, more like how I’d imagine having a raging case of gonorherpesyphilis must feel, but then it went cool because of the menthol in the powder and . . .
Let’s just leave it at I WAS REALLY DISTRACTED FOR THE REST OF THAT PHONE CONVERSATION.
Round two of I, Hillary versus Gold Bond also went to the Gold Bond, but I was totally okay with that this time.
And now to the crux of the post. Sort of. I had to share my Gold Bond story with my girlfriends because I work from home and I don’t get much in the way of social contact so stop judging me, and Claire, who is the greatest great that ever greated, says, “Hey, when I worked at Bath and Body Works, we had this menthol body wash that used to sell out all the time.” I do my research, read the reviews about folks feeling “refreshed” and “invigorated” after using the product, and realize that LADIES EVERYWHERE HAVE KNOWN ABOUT THIS AND NOT SHARED IT WITH ME! FIE. HISS. SPIT UPON YOU, LADIES. SHARE YOUR SQUEAL PARTY WITH THE REST OF US.
Being the consumer whore that I am, I ordered a bottle and then I ordered two, because if I’m going to go adventuring in Tingle Town, I want to bestow this gift upon Lauren, too. I can say with not a little bit of confidence that I am an awesome friend to have. I not only want to make my best friend happy, I want to make her pants happy, too. Because I, ladies and gentleman, am a rock star. A Gold Bond rock star. Yesssss.