I'll Just Leave This Here.

*dies a thousand deaths*

Monday Musings: Praising Jesus Edition.

Do they chlorinate baptismal pools in which people are immersed body and soul? Because, I mean, Holy bum-bum germs! (If you will pardon the pun.)

Do they ever clean out the inside of decorative baptismal fonts from which they scoop and pour water? All those priestly hand bacteria and cradle-cap crap and Protestant sneezes.

Is it OK to be pissed off in church when the person behind you is sniffling and sneezing and coughing their brains out? Does it make the baby Jesus cry when you think angrily, "Couldn't they have praised the Lord from HOME today?" Does He command you, "But I say, do not rise up against an evildoer! If someone sneezes upon your right cheek, turn and offer the other cheek also"?

Do you ever think about how many germs are passed betwixt people when sharing the Peace of the Lord following the sermon?

Influenza be with you. 

"--And also with you."

And on the eighth day God created hand sani. 

Thanks be to God.

In Which I Hyperventilate.

So I thought it well and good to inform you that in addition to being a germaphobe, and of course an emetophobe, I'm also a hypochondriac. In the nicest, most awesome possible sense of the word, of course.

When my big toe hurts, I tell my husband, "I think I have toe cancer." I am only 24% kidding. When I feel a twinge in my side, I'm almost positive it's appendicitis. When I walk into a room and can't remember what I am in there for? I am damn-near certain it's early-onset dementia.

When I grow a new freckle? Fucking melanoma, man. (Of course, this isn't unreasonable, as I am pasty white, have blue eyes, was born of Norwegian & Swedish heritage, entirely lack the ability to tan, have had tens of major sunburns in my life, and have in fact had skin cancer before. Behold, the battle wounds from having a basal cell carcinoma removed from my neck.

I told everyone it was from a particularly nasty bar fight. STAB WOUND 2007

Anyway, point is, my emotions tend to be...slightly overexaggerated. Although, the main problem is that all my fears are Based In Reality. When my big toe hurts and I'm sure it's cancer? Well, someone gets toe cancer; why not me?

When I feel a twinge in my side and I'm sure it's appendicitis? My brother's best friend's sister's mother's cousin died from a ruptured appendix, so what if I decide my side-ache is the result of a bad burrito con carne and then it exploded (the appendix, not the burrito), causing my very demise? WHAT WOULD MY CHILDREN DO WITHOUT A MOTHER? .....Oh, I'm just ovulating? Bygones.

When I forget what I am doing and I know in my heart it's Early Alzheimer's, or Alzheimer's Yet To Come? .................Fuck it, I'm not going to blame it on hypochondria: I DO KNOW I'm going to get Alzheimer's. I do. I will. Watch me. You just wait. Seriously. I'm not even kidding. I sound like I'm kidding. I'm not. It's not that I want it; it's just that it's going to happen. Mark my words. Quote me. Wait for it. Srsly.

Anyway, hypochondria: Yes, to some degree. Fears based in reality: Absolutely. And does all this make life even harder? Hoo boy.

***

My hypochondria extends to my kids, naturally. When Naomi has a sniffle? She will die in her sleep of mucous asphyxiation. When Maya says her back hurts? It's leukemia for sure. When there's a glint in their eyes in photographs? RETINO - MOTHER - FUCKING - BLASTOMA. Shit.

I mean goddamn, wouldn't you be worried? :( And yes, I took her to the eye doctor. Clean bill of health. 

Chalk another one up to hypochondria by proxy.

***

Today, I am 84% certain that Maya has something dreadfully wrong with her. Because she has been complaining for weeks that her eyes hurt terribly. So in my mind, that's head cancer. CANCER OF THE HEAD.

...Probably she just needs glasses. Or maybe, she has seasonal allergies?

In any case, things suck for a germaphobe/ emetophobe/ verminophobe/ disposophobe/ aichmophobe/ acrophobe/ chemophobe/ hemophobe/ gelotophobe/ insectophobe/ glossophobe/ harpaxophobe/ bacillophobe/ mysophobe/ rupophobe/ decidophobe/ automysophobe/ mycophobe/ hodophobe/ melissophobe/ consecotaleophobe*/ spermatophobe/ decidophobe/ thalassophobe/ proctophobe/ radiophobe/ nosophobe/ xyrophobe/ dystychiphobe/ agliophobe/ dromophobe/ chaetophobe/ helminthophobe/ phobophobe hypochondriac like me.

* Just kidding, I don't have a fear of chopsticks. For the most part.

...Life so hard for Baby JoJos.

Peace, Love, and Bum-Bum Germs.

Why is it that my hands feel exponentially more filthy after shopping at Trader Joe's than after I grocery shop at any other place?

After blowing a cool hundred U.S. American dollars at TJ's, I got in my car and could not use enough hand sani. And then I raced home, not to dive into the new channa masala I bought, but to vigorously wash my hands thrice.

OK just kidding--I raced home to dive into the channa masala.

And the spicy spinach pizza. And the fresh strawberries and blackberries. And the veggie chips. And the lime chili cashews. And the watermelon FruityFlakes. And the sushi rolls. And the Purple Moon Shiraz.

But ALSO to wash my hands. Because seriously, my hands felt hot and squirmy with the bum-bum germs of 10 million hippies.

Fair-trade dark chocolate on a hot tin slide.

Good thing I also bought delicious lemon hand-soap at Trader Joe's. I went through about 1/4 of it.

Before diving into my channa masala. Braaaaaap.