Friday, March 30, 2012

Bear Blu...rrrrgggh.

So this has been making the rounds: 

Alicia Silverstone feeds her son, Bear Blu. Baby-bird-style.

There is not enough bluuuurrrgghhh in the world to express my feelings on the matter.

Wednesday, March 21, 2012

Oh Adam.

So I was watching Man vs. Food Amazing Eats, Adam Richman's newest show. I was amazed and impressed when I saw the restaurant owner preparing food with latex gloves.

And then...THEN, Adam stepped in to help.

Sans gloves.

Who knows what's on that fucker's hands?

Oh Adam, you handsome, disgusting bastard.

But then, I even lost respect for the glove-clad restaurant owner, when he was preparing the world's largest pizza dough by tossing it. Because that shit touched his arms and elbows, yo. And you KNOW he didn't surgeon-scrub his arms and elbows first.


Does it bother you when pizza dough touches the chef's arms, or worse yet, when they prepare it with no gloves? 

I know that shit is baked, but srsly, who wants baked E. coli and baked staph and baked nail grime and baked bum-bum germs?


ED. NOTE: In another show, I beheld this:


Adam, you may have redeemed yourself.

....On second thought, no. But it's a nice effort.

Friday, March 16, 2012

Pee-Pee Germs.

I will be watching this. Through my fingers. With a barf-bucket beside me. And some Xanax.

Sunday, March 11, 2012


So the other day I headed in to the Department of Licensing, for to renew my license. I was two weeks too late, but whatever.

First, I had to find the son of a bitch. It was hidden in a little hellhole of a strip mall. Signs would be nice, people. Signs stating "DOL! YOU FOUND IT! ENTER HYAR! GET YER NEW LICENSE RIGHT HYAR! STEP RIGHT UP! POPCORN PEANUTS CANDIED APPLES DOL, STEP RIGHT UP!"

Or at least a storefront sign reading, "Licensing." But whatever.

Anyway, after breaking two small sweats and U-turning all over creation, I found it. Then I had to find the fucking door. I'm not even kidding. I have never experienced this particular phenomenon before: Can't find the entrance. Can't find the right door. Are you serious? Is this real life?

Honest to God. I think I found myself entering one door only to exit another, then backtrack and enter the previous door and then suddenly find myself on the sidewalk. Took a turn round the corner, saw another door, and entered it, found myself in Taco Bell, then repeated the process only to find myself twelve sizes too large.

Honestly. WHAT THE FUCK. God help me I just want to stand in line for two hours so that I can lie about my weight, agree to donate my corneas, and be off. But whatever.

So I finally found my way awkwardly in, then had to ask like seven random pedestrians what the hell I was supposed to do from there. I was like, "O hai, you motherfucker, um, what's this partic'alar line for?" and "I need to renew my license, do you have any idea where I'm supposed to Christing go?" and "Where's the end of this here got-damn line??" (At which point I was told I had just totally cut and was in fact at the front of the line. But whatever.)

Then I tried to use the "renew online" computer option that was straight the shit out of the Paleolithic era. It has a mouse ball, ffs. A mouse ball. I entered my legal name, my birth date, my eye color, and the last four digits of my SS #. All right out in the open n shit. Meanwhilst, I was all paranoid that someone was watching me and gleaning my info so as to impersonate me later and steal my life and credit and eventually become me, SWF-style.

Oh, and ALSO I was freaking the fuck out over the germs. OH GOD THE GERMS. The rollerball, the keyboard, the enter-key, the filthy hordes, the masses...just...the...all of it...touching things...breathing air...I wanted to die. But whatever.

To top it off, once I'd defouled my pristine fingers and had attempted to renew online, it told me I was not eligible. Well FUCK YOU MISTER FUCKING 1997 ROLLERBALL INTRANETS. GOD. Now I have E. Coli and semen on my hands and no updated driver's license to show for it. Fuck you and the fucking manure-covered horse you rode in on.

Finally I found the right line, and waited for a bit, only to tell a greyed, aged, spent, disilllusioned gent, "I'm here to renew my license?"

He was all, *stamp* *click* *print* "Here you go." I was number R730.

And thus, I waited. Oh how I waited. I waited, then waited some more.

It was 12:27 pm.

I had previously scheduled an appointment with my therapist, my favorite little slight, gentle-voiced, darling Indian lad, Dr. P, at 3 pm in Bellevue, at least 45 American minutes away from my current locale. I thought I was golden.

Then I waited.


I continued waiting.

Now, I know that any visit to the DOL turns into an HOURS-long ordeal. But I was going at noontime on a weekday. Surely that counts for something?

Turns out it doesn't. I waited. How I waited.

Meanwhile, there was assault to my every sense, from every direction. As I had found myself a seat among the unwashed masses, I thought I had chosen wisely. Then, not four minutes later, a couple made their way to the seats in front of me. I watched with disinterested interest, then observed the woman to cough. And cough. And cough. Oh how she coughed. She coughed. I was all, "Shit on a shingle. I cain't win."

The I started observing the people around me.

To the right: An ancient white-cropped lady, with lovely delicate features, but with a dry hack.

To the left: A largely man wearing red tights, which would not stop sneezing. O GOD.

To the far right: A sweating, bereddened person which kept snorting down their phlegm and coughing up crud.

To the far-left: A small child of about three who had the world's worst croupy cough. Bark. Bark. Bark.

In addition, I observed many a person wearing purple dreadlocks, or wearing what was clearly last week's ensemble, or wearing electric-blue skinnypants and an orange faux-hawk, or wearing size XXXXXXL, saggy, befouled yellow sweatpants. But whatever. No judgment here. Carry on.

Anyway. I literally spent the vast majority of the time trying not to breathe. Do you know how hard that is? You sense that someone to your left has a terrible cold, so you turn to the right, lower your eyes, and halt your breathing when they cough. Or you know that someone to your right should be at home in bed, eating chicken soup, consulting their pharmacologist, and they're sneezing every 1.5 minutes, and you are cursing your very God, asking Him Why Have You Forsaken Me, and you are questioning your very will to live, but you've already committed 45 minutes to this shit, so you have to stay?

It's hard out here for a germaphobe.


As 2:15 pm came ever closer, I started to think, "This was all a waste. I exposed myself to the dregs of society just to have to pack up and leave before ever earning my silly fucking temporary paper license, cuz I gots to leave like NOW."

But I stuck it out.

Part of the time, my attention was occupied by a twosome whom I had previously thought was "a couple," but who turned out to be mother & son. The mother didn't look a day over 24, and neither did her son. I was all, Wuh fuh?? But this man called her Mom. Now, unless this was the world's sickest who's-your-mommy relationship, she had indeed birthed him from her strawberry-blonde loins. I was fascinated. Except that they Kept Fucking COUGHING. God DAMMIT. Is no one, nowhere, healthy at any given moment?? JFC.

Finally, at 2:19 pm, although I had to leave at 2:15 pm, my number was called. I made my way nonchalantly up to desk #7, even though I knew all eyes were on me, as all my eyes had been on everyone before me. I kept thinking, "Does my ass look big? Do my new highlights look brassy? Shit. They're all judging me, as I once judged them for having The Common Cold or pants a size too small. FML."

Then as I approached desk #7, I realized there were more horrors in my future. In order to renew my license, I had to Press My Very Fucking Forehead against they "Eye Test Machine," letting the woman at the desk know whether the flashing lights were inside the box, outside the box, or on both sides. I had to let her know what the letters were, left to right. I had to let her know what colors I saw. All this required that I press my very brain on a germified, coldified, fluified, face-oil-ified nasty forehead presser. I attempted to zoom throught that shit ASAP. I was all, "RIGHT!LEFT!RIGHT!BOTH!E, G, F, Z!OUTSIDE!INSIDE!!FOR GODSAKES GREEN! RED! MOTHERFUCKING BLUE!!!!!11111111!!"

Finally I was granted my license renewal--not that anything has CHANGED, you motherfuckers, except my goddamn weight, yes, I know I am not 125 U.S.LBS anymore, sheeee-it, I've grown two kids in my belly, and I am still 5'4", and my middle initial is still E., and my eyes are still blue, my hair is still brown, except I got some kickass blonde highlights last week, BUT I DIGRESS...

Anyway. I got outta there at 2:19 pm, giving me 39-41 minutes to make my hour-long drive to make my appointment with Dr. P.

The Lord JC Hisownself was wif me. He was all, I'm your man. Because, I made it to the appointment on time.

Then I proceeded to cry my eyes out in Dr. P's office, telling him how much I suck as a mom, how often I want to smack the taste out of Maya's mouth, and how I constantly want to fucking beat the shit out of my kids all because I want some peace and quiet to read some blogs and catch up on LiveJournal.

Dr. P. upped my dose.

God bless you, Dr. P.

Tuesday, March 6, 2012


My friend Ches asked me this:

I'd like to hear about the births of your babies and how you felt staying in the hospital. Was it stressful? Or did you not even care because, you know, you just gave birth and all. :) Did you obsessively watch the nurses/doctors to make sure they washed and hand sani-ed before they came into your room?

Oh boy. This is a great question, and MAN does it bring back memories.

So, in a nutshell, I spent the entire time in the hospital freaking the fuck out.

Because of germs.

And to make matters worse, I had to stay in the hospital a full three days. That was a lot of hours of freaking the fuck out. Because of germs.

First of all, I printed out a sign and hung it on the hospital door: "All visitors: Please wash your hands when entering."

Oh yes I did.

Second, before giving birth, I had used Lysol wipes on things like the bed railings and tables and such.

Bag of Lysol wipes:

Third, I repeatedly Purelled my hands while in labor. WHILE PUSHING MY BABY OUT.

This is me, rubbing my hands together briskly for 30 seconds.

I also had good old Sani-Hands everywhere. 

Like, everywhere.

I watched every doctor and nurse like a fucking hawk. Only about 1 time in 400 did a nurse ever use hand sani upon entering, even though it was right on the wall. Kind of like my bathroom at home.

It made me CRAZY that they didn't use hand sani. But I was too chicken to speak up.

Even during the fraction of the time that they did use hand sani, they would come in and use the computer to check my stats, etc, and that keyboard and mouse had been handled by people who hadn't cleaned their hands, so it was kind of pointless.

They'd also use pens and stuff, and I would cringe and think, "Do you know how filthy that pen is? And now you're going to touch my hours-old baby?"

At one point, the nurse came in and said she was about to give my baby her first bath. I asked, "Do you usually use the sink for that, or a basin?" She said they always use the sink. The sink where people had been washing their dirty hands. Where I'd brushed my teeth and spat. Etc. I said "FUCK IF YOU'RE DOING THAT WITH MY BABY, BISH"  "I'd really prefer it if you used a basin."

She complied.

When Maya came to visit, I washed and Purelled the very skin off her hands.

But isn't this precious?

Maya even got into the swing of things using Sani-Hands to wipe off everything she deemed germy.

I was also concerned about the doctor not wearing a mask during the birth, but I guess that wasn't a huge deal.

I was impressed, however, when the doctor asked the nurse to take his glasses off the top of his head and put them on for him, instead of him touching them (glasses are among the filthier things in this world):

I sure hope there is no vaj showing in any of these photos.

So this just shows you a portion of the anxiety I went through. Then I had to contend with visitors and being afraid that people had colds, etc. Everything about everything about being pregnant and giving birth made my OCD go haywire.

Friday, March 2, 2012



So, I do believe I've lost my JoJo Mojo, baby, yeah.

Not sure what precisely to blog about these days. Got any ideas? Questions? SHOOT 'EM MY WAY. Help me help you. Or just HELP ME. Cos I am SPENT, son. Spent.


I did want to say, my newest "how did I ever live without it" item is the automatic Purell dispenser. Yeah, the kind you see in hospitals. You know, the hands-free kind:


You heard me. I have an institutional-sized automated Purell robot on the lilac walls of my guest bathroom. Also known as Maya's bathroom. Why?


Why, Redux? So that Maya can more easily dispense the proper amount of hand sani, instead of getting barely any from the pump and throwing my whole world for a loop.

See, in eons past, I would hear Maya fussing about in the lavat'ry. Then I'd hear a flush, after which I'd wait a tick and then scream out, "DID YOU USE HAND SANI? OMG DID YOU!?! DIIID YOOOU??!?!!?"

Now, see, I just wait and listen for that mechanical robotic "AsqueeEeech!" that announces that Maya has indeed used the hands-free automated Purell dispenser. That "AsqueeEeech!" is music to mine ears.

Now, occasionally, this is what I hear: "pee pee tinkle" "flush" "AsqueeEeech!" "AsqueeEeech!" "AsqueeEeech!"  "AsqueeEeech!" "AsqueeEeech!" which means that Maya has abused the automated hand sani, using a tad too much. But she's a lady after my own heart: can you really have too much hand sani?


Anyway. The dispenser is nailed and adhesed tightly to the guest bathroom wall.  Now that I also have my "Jesus and Germs Are Everywhere" sign posted front & center at the doorway of my home, people will definitely, definitely think I have gone FULLY, fully, 100% bananas.

I guess the only thing I still need is a sign on my front door reading: