Fun Phobic Friday: Sleepvover addition

Today I had the strangest thought.

I actually entertained the idea of having a sleepover with Maya's good friend X. For a second it sounded nice and fun.

I don't know what came over me.

Now, Maya's friend X is a typical child who catches sick pretty often, like so many kids do. Without meaning to hurt X's feelings or that of her [acid test] mom, I'm actually always a dry-heaving wretching sweaty ball of angst a little afraid to see them, because  is seemingly always sick (we're talking coughing, congested, runny nose, and FEVERISH) when we get together. I mean, hey, it happens. Kids get sick a lot. But it's terrifying to me.

But suddenly I thought, "Hey, Maya's about that old. She's about old enough for her first sleepover. It could be fun, right? Fun by my standards? First we'd have her over and she's wander the house, checking out Maya's cool toys and putting her unwashed hands over EVERYTHING including the baby's toys that go straight in her mouth, and then we might mosey to the kitchen for a snack as long as they don't share food or touch hands,  then we could play with Maya's dollhouse for quite awhile followed by a trip outside to play in the mucky wet piles of leaves after which we'd have to scrub decaying foliage and squirrel poop off their hands, then we might do some arts and crafts and make noodle necklaces, followed by watching the movie Tangled, and for dinner I was thinking we could make pizza then purell the shit out their hands and then and cut out their pizza pieces with a star-shaped cookie cutter. Fun right? THen they'd play awhile longer, I imagine doing hand clapping games OH GOD, Finally popcorn before bed because what sleepover is complete without grimy, licked, bum-scratching, nose-picking fingers reaching into a communal bowl of popped corn, then bedtime.

We don't have a second room or bed so X could either share the bed oh God the chance of lice or we could put X on the floor on some big couch cushions covered by 15 fitted sheets and a washable pillow. The next morning we could have pancakes after washing last night's booger picking off their hands, and play some dress up or board games after which I'll sanitize every last piece, and wait until X's aid-test mommy picks her up. WHAT COULD BE MORE FUN.

After all is said and done, hopefully X won't tell her mommy, "Mom, Jo used hand sani 27 times on my hand we washed our hand a really lot, and she got really upset when I double-dipple my carrot sticks into the ranch dressing."

This was my actual train of thought:

Hey! A sleepover sounds fun. Just one extra kid. I can't deal. Woo hoo! I could do this. No big. I'll put on my big-girl panties and stock up on Purell and it will be grand.

Hmm. On second thought, it's the Acid Test kid. I love her to bits, but....

OSHITZ. The panic is starting to creep in. How am I supposed to do this?

Yeah. Pretty much fuggeddaboudit. God I suck as a mother.

Sounds like an absolutely dreadful lovely time.

What was I thinking?

At least if I ever did this I'm be somewhat in control of cleaning their hands and cooking foods to safe temperatures and not tainting the with dirty fingers as I served them.

If I switched things up and let Maya stay overnight at Acid Test's house, this is what would take place.

First, the girls would run up stairs to play in M's room. Then they'd immediately play with the turtle. The MOTHERFUCKING TURTLE OF ALL THINGS. The harbinger of salmonella. Without washing afterward, naturally.

They they'd probably go on with their bad selves to go eat a snack, a nice juicy wet sticky snack or oranges or apples, with salmonella hands, and if Maya had to go potty after this, no one would remind her or help her to wash or at least use hand sani. Then, they'd play with the computer, because they'd both very adept at navigating the computer. It's not a kids' computer, it's the real thing, where Acid Test's husband, one of the grimier people on earth, uses the mouse and keyboard. GERMIEST PART OF AN OFFICE OR A HOME OFFICE. Awesome. They they would play outside ad get grubby, the only saving grace here would be that they'd surely take a bath, because my kids gives her kid a bath most nights but see, my friend is a big, big fan of the friends taking a bath together. That's how Acid Test family rolls. I've seen her post Facebook pictures of her taking care of like four kids, all of whom are in the rub together. Fun for the kids, a damn near brain thrombosis for me. ALL. THOSE. BUM-BUM GERMS. *hyperventilates*

So maybe a sleepover was not the best idea. Sounds fun in theory, and someday my child will do it, but right now, you couldn't get me drunk enough or ply me with enough Xanax to allow it. Sigh.

I'm feeling panicky just typing this. BRB. Gonna guzzle some Purell.

I just can't win.

Why I Share My Dirty Little Secrets.

Or rather, my very very overly clean ones.

I've been asked by a couple people, why am I doing this? Because sometimes it hurts. It hurts to share a lot of the Things I Do. It's embarrassing. It's really, really embarrassing. (And I haven't even gotten to The Big One yet.) So why do I bare my soul to all of you? Many, many of you are people I've known for years, and who I know in real life, and the most you knew was that maybe I had a few little tics. Maybe you knew that I'm a "bit" of a germaphobe. Maybe you knew I washed my apples with soap, or soaked my strawberries in salt water.*

*That's a post for next time!

But all of a sudden, I come out with this blog and I'm confessing that I go nuclear on the house with Lysol spray after a guest leaves, or I refuse to allow my child to play at mall play areas, or I hold my breath when I walk by people, or I check that the back door is locked 27 times a night, etc. Suddenly I'm confessing to you things that are difficult to confess to. Why? Why do I do this to myself?

I've come across a few quotes recently that pretty much sum it up. Here's an oldie but a goodie:

"If you can't make it better, you can laugh at it." -Erma Bombeck

Well, Lawd knows I'm trying to make it better, but I'm having little actual success so far, at least as far as brain circuitry and chemistry is concerned. So, yeah, what's left but to laugh? And to try to make you laugh? My heart swells with pride when I hear that I've made just one of you smile. I love to make you laugh. I want to make you laugh. If that's the only thing I have control over, if that's the one thing I have success at, it's what I'll aim to do.

Here's the second quote that resonated:

"This is pretty much all I've got...And I'm not saying [it's] fun. Every time we meet, I complain. I moan. I get mad and throw a hot potato fit. But here's the things: I like telling my stories. It feels like I'm doing something concrete about it. When I leave, the concrete in my chest has loosened, melted down so I can breathe for a few days."  

-From The Help

This is pretty much all I've got. I don't see a lot of friends in person very often, and in fact the couple of friends who I do hang out with, they don't know about this blog. (See, of course, the Acid Test friends!) So it is here at Poop on a Hot Tin Slide, and to my poor poor husband, that I rant about germs. And the "doing something concrete" about it part is that I feel like I'm sharing something important--something important to me. I'm "spreading the word." I'm sharing tips 'n trix on how to be a little safer, a little cleaner, in my OCD Land. And I'm sharing what it's like in my mind, what the world look like to me. How scary it can be, and how it can be made better and less scary. And healthier for all!

I'm also trying to show people that even though I have a "disorder" of types, I can think clearly. I can have valid opinions (for example, on the dreaded Hygiene Hypothesis). Some people think my mind is clouded by OCD, that I can't see clearly through it or form an educated opinion because of it, but just because I don't like to shake hands with people doesn't mean I can't read research or formulate a concrete position on a theory.

I also hope to show people that just because I fall outside the realm of "typical" does NOT MAKE ME WRONG. The fact that I'm in the minority when I come home and immediately wash my hands does not make me wrong--in fact, I think it's a very appropriate thing to do. It's not the most common practice, but neither is taking off your shoes here in the U.S--while in Asian countries, it is. So who's to judge what's unusual or atypical? And if it is indeed outside the realm of typical, who's to judge if it's wrong?

I also blog because I have found a few kindred spirits. People saying, "OMG ME TOO! I THOUGHT I WAS THE ONLY ONE!" I love finding out that I am not the only one. Not that I should be the only one, people. Washing your hands and taking care not to spread Teh Sick is stuff we learned in kindergarten. I mean CUB OD. It's stuff we see on TV commercials. Stuff we see on signs all over doctors offices or workplaces. Messages in children's books. Entire shows devoted to the topic on Sid the Science Kid, for baby Jesus' sake.

. . .

Anyway. To sum up. I do this for me, to lighten the load. I do this for you, to make you laugh. And I do this for mankind, to save us all from bat flu.

Oh, plus, I'm dying for a little internet fame. Bygones.

Wherein the Paterfamilas Blogs About Life With Me & OCD.

Awhile back, I asked my husband to write a guest blog about what life with me is like. I wanted him to be honest. So he obliged. Here is his take on the matter:

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The other day Jo asked me to write about what it’s like to be her husband, what with all the stuff she believes and does when it comes to germs and such. So here it is. I’ll just start by saying I love her with all my heart, but there are unique…challenges…that come with that.

When we first met, I was among the majority of people who, while obviously familiar with the concept of germs, didn’t give crap about it. I’d wash my hands after using the bathroom, but aside from that I was a veritable libertine. I wore my shoes in the house. I didn’t always wash before eating. [Ed. Note: Jo, here. I also want to alert you that he didn't even have handsoap in the gee-dee kitchen and that this was nearly a deal-breaker. But my first gift to him was kitchen handsoap. That was love, baby.]

I’d get a cold once in a while, but figured it was just the cost of doing business in a fallen world. Whatever.

She gently suggested early on (not necessarily saying it outright, but often through friendly glances of disapproval, hard to explain) that if we were going to be a “thing” then I’d need to take some modest steps to make her feel comfortable at my place, and set the ground rules for visiting her place. Shoes off and washing hands when entering the ancestral manse were kind of the basics that were required. They were no big deal, and they were reasonable requests once I considered the implications of NOT doing those things.

So STOP RIGHT THERE and reread that last sentence, because it basically tells the entire story of Jo. Allow me to 'splain:

First off, I didn’t care about germs because I hadn’t ever cared about germs. I hadn’t thought about it, so I didn’t understand the implications. I was in a state of Rumsfeldian Unknown Unknowns. This is the blissful state most people live in, but which fills Jo with anxiety and, at times, contempt. Her anxiety and preoccupation gives her deep insight into a subject that most other people either never learned or simply ignore. In my mind, I didn’t know what I didn’t know, and I was OK with that. In her mind, for example, seeing someone leave the public restroom without washing their hands is an action bordering on moral depravity. In my mind, catching a cold is to be expected in the course of human events. In her mind, my catching a cold might be a sign of personal failure.

Using her "Acid Test" friends as an example, they were blissfully ignorant about germs and their potential effects. But Jo feels that everybody should be as knowledgeable and fearful about this stuff as she is, and when they aren’t she disapproves. She saw failure to respect hygiene. She didn’t consider that what was going on was just what was NORMAL at her friends’ house (however horrifying). They weren’t trying to make anybody sick, they weren’t (in their minds) being sloppy. They just didn’t consider it unusual. But what was normal for them made Jo cry all the way home. I, for one, enjoyed the meal. I think I had the shits for a while, though.

Another example: Last year my sister made a birthday cake for my nephew. We knew that she had made it while she had a cold. Despite that, I attended the party and had a piece of the cake. Jo stayed home, being very pregnant. [Ed. Note: Jo here, again. I stayed home because I was terrified of catching my sister-in-law's (and her kids') cold.]

A few days later, I caught that cold. Therefore, it wasn’t just bad luck that I caught a cold; according to Jo, it was a moral failure on my part to attend the party and not refuse the cake. (Note that while I likely did catch the cold from attending the party and eating the cake, the possibility that I could have caught that cold from a different source, like from work or a restaurant, wasn’t even an argument worth considering.) From Jo’s point of view, the act of eating that birthday cake was a direct assault on her personal (pregnant) health, and nothing would be able to convince her otherwise.

Secondly, the tricky part about this disorder (if that’s what it is) is that she can make the argument that she’s RIGHT. This isn’t like somebody who has an irrational fear of going outside, or heights, or pickles or whatever. Is it over the top to take a Lysol wipe to the restaurant table when compared to how the rest of the world behaves? Yes. Does doing so potentially make it safer to eat there? Yes.

I don’t know what the percentage decrease in the likelihood of catching something is when she does it, but there probably is one. So she does it. The irrational part comes in because the numbers don’t matter to her. If there’s a one in a billion chance that we’ve wiped the MRSA off the table that otherwise would have caused our kid to have her arm amputated, it’s all worthwhile. That’s an extreme example of course, but it illustrates what I’m getting at. Yes, she lives at the kooky fringe of societal norms, but she’s only trying to make us safer. So it’s hard to tell her to drop the effing bleach.

So back to life. It started out pretty reasonable. She’s always been hyper-conscious about germs, but she kept it contained. If she needed something done a certain way, she’d do it, and had modest expectations for other people. I figured she was just doing what she felt she needed to do to feel comfortable, so I didn’t pay much attention. I’ve always done what I can within what sounded reasonable to help out.

And I’ve come to appreciate the idea of what she’s doing. I like the idea that our house is kind of a haven from the public viral melting pot. I can lay on the carpet and be confident that nobody’s traipsed in any Walmart public bathroom dregs. I know that whatever we make at home is going to be cooked correctly. I know that all of our fruits and veggies are clean. We agree on the Hygiene Hypothesis stuff, and we agree that we don’t want our kids to be sick and that we can put it a little extra effort to prevent it. We have a nice, comfy home.

And it’s not like she’s terrified of being unclean. She’s A-OK with dirt. She’s willing to play in the dirt with the kids and the kids get filthy from playing outside and she has absolutely no problem with it. She’s not even really afraid of Maya being adventurous and getting scrapes and bruises. She’s not that kind of helicopter mom. Her anxieties and fears are wrapped up in germs and viruses. So it’s not like she’s limiting childhood or family fun time. The complications we deal with really revolve around eating and licking stuff that could have come from somebody’s ass or nostrils. If that’s not a factor, things are pretty normal.

By God, she'll have a frosting fight and love every minute of it.

Having said that, I really noticed a ratcheting up of the anxiety after we had our first kid, though.  That was when she started getting really anxious about taking the baby to other people’s places. She couldn’t control the environment as well as she could at home. And when people would visit, she started getting nervous about them touching stuff (especially the baby's toys) if they hadn’t washed hands, of if they had washed hands but then sneezed or touched their cell phone or camera, etc. After people would leave, she’d whip out the Lysol and assault doorknobs and baby toys and remotes that they’d touched, and replace any hand towels they’d dried their hands with. It made me sad, because it meant she’d been on edge the whole time they were there, watching what they were touching and tracking their movements and committing them to memory and not enjoying the company of visitors. And after the pregnancies, it hasn’t gone away. And now that I’m aware of these feelings she has, it’s stressful for me to go visit family or have visitors over or generally do stuff as a family, because I know how anxious she gets.

And there are new things popping up every so often. New procedures to be followed. New things that occur to her that could be risky in some way. News stories about outbreaks make me feel dread, not because I’m afraid of us getting sick, but because I’m afraid of HER getting afraid of us getting sick. And they worst part about actually getting a cold these days sick isn’t feeling sick. It’s knowing (without her actually having to say it) that she thinks it should have been prevented somehow in the first place, and that it’s because of my own damn failure to wash effectively or something that got me sick.

In a nutshell, living with Jo I've learned to become much more vigilant about germs and illnesses. I can see what she sees, I understand her reasons and her thought processes, but she definitely feels the intense anxiety on a much deeper level than I do. I see her points, I see those germs, but I don't have the fear. 


But this is just the way life is in this household, and we deal with it. Our physical health is better for it, but it's at the expense of Jo's mental health quality of life.

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Thank you, dear husband. Even though life with me can be tough, and sometimes I ask you if you washed your feet well today or if you cleaned the top of that soup can before opening it, I'm glad you think I'm worth it. :)

P. Much.

I swore I'd never discuss this with you, and that if you tried to blather on to me about it, I would kick you in the slats. But a good friend's blog post got me thinking, and when you get me thinking, you get me ranting, and I cannot be stopped. So here we are: Discussing The Hygiene Hypothesis.

The link I am responding to from is my buddy Darlena's blog, ParenTwin, which you can find here. She's planning a "rebuttal" of sorts, so I will be sure to link you to that later. :)

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Recently, Darlena was posting about the dreaded First Time at the Cesspool Preschool. Her poor kiddos got sick p. much immediately.

Now, this is not uncommon. Everyone talks about how as soon as your kids start daycare, they're going to be sick p. much constantly. If they start preschool and have never been in daycare, they're also going to be sick p. much constantly. What is their reasoning? "Because they've never been exposed to these germs before."

In Darlena's case, though, her kids have been exposed to tons of stuff, stuff any typical kid has been exposed to: germs that would make my skin crawl and my OCD spiral out of control, because I am not the typical mom and my kids aren't allowed to be the typical kids. Darlena is an extremely active mother, and her kids get a lot of exposure to the world at large--she runs a billion errands a day and takes her kids along, she takes them for walks, they're at the park p. much all the time, and they have had more playdates in their little finger than my kids have had in their entire life.*

*Pretend this metaphor made sense. Move along.

So, her kids have been exposed, like most kids. Maybe not to daycare, but to shopping cart handles, public restrooms, diaper "incidents," potty chair "incidents," playdates with other little kids, and surely poop on a hot tin slide or two. Her kids do not live in a bubble. If anyone's do, MINE do.

And yet, her kids got sick immediately after starting school, as is typical. Why? Surely they've been exposed to plenty of germs and colds before. Why isn't the Hygiene Hypothesis working here?

Because it's p. much bunk.

Oh, and please recall:

"A theory has been extensively tested and is generally accepted, while a hypothesis is a speculative guess that has yet to be tested."

Sorry, hypothesis!!

Listen, I totally agree that there are certain things kids need to be exposed to. Dirt, grass, plants, well, all of nature. Dust. Animals, along with their animal dander. Things like this. But there are certain things that never, ever benefit anyone. The stomach flu. E. coli. Salmonella. Staph. MRSA.

Even things like the good old common cold or the flu. (1) How, exactly, do these bolster one's immune system; and (2) why, according to so many people, must small children be exposed to such yucky things?

Let's examine (1). Say your toddler catches a cold. She is snotty and coughy and snivelly and miserable for a week. She can't sleep because her nose is all stuffy, and if she can't sleep, neither do you. Everyone is miserable when the kid is sick. Or, even worse, let's say your tiny baby catches a cold. She doesn't even know what's going on and has no tools to deal with being sick. She can't be told, "Here, blow your nose" or "This soup will make you feel better" or even, "Honey, I know how bad you feel, but you'll get well soon." She can't even take any medicine for it! All your baby knows is that she can't breathe.

So, has this cold helped either child? Colds mutate constantly. You never become immune to catching them. Because the next one is going to be one you have never encountered before.

And if catching colds helps us avoid catching colds (a ridiculous statement in itself), then why don't we ever "grow out of it"? If we attend daycare as kids and are constantly coming down with something, and the go through school still getting sick here and there, why as adults do we still catch colds? Why as old people aren't we completely immune?

Again, because colds mutate. And catching one does not mean you will become magically stronger and not likely catch the next one. We will catch colds ALL OUR LIVES. For many people, 2-3 a year, or eve more, for their entire existence, p. much as a rule.

So. On to part (2). If we are forever going to be catching colds, why is it so important that kids are exposed so young? Everyone always spouts off about how great and wonderful it is that kids get sick. "They're strengthening their immune system! Hoorahhh!!" But if we're gonna catch colds, why not do you utmost to prevent them from happening to your little tiny ones? Why not try to wait until they are older and stronger, and mentally/physically better able to deal with them and understand that they're sick?

If you had your choice, would you want your 2-week-old baby to catch a cold? No way, right?

Well, why, then? Why wouldn't you want her to? Wouldn't it help her? Give her a nice headstart on the good old immune system? No. It would be fucking misery, and possibly dangerous to boot. Babies can choke on phlegm in the night or become so stuffed up that they die. Silently. It happens. Your non-OCD mind might not worry about a baby dying from a cold, but mine does, because I have OCD but also because it happens. A good friend of mine almost lost her daughter right there at the doctor's office, after taking her in for a regular ol' case of the sniffles. Her two-year-old suddenly turned blue and had to be taken in an ECNALUBMA to the next-door hospital and be resuscitated. Anecdata, yes, but true, and fucking scary.

So why is it so great for a 6-month-old to catch a cold? Or even a two-year-old? And why am I the crazy one for disinfecting my daughter's restaurant table, or keeping her away from sick family, or not wanting to take her to the McPlaguePlace McPlayPlace?

My older daughter, Maya, has only ever had like two colds in her life. One was when she was 7 weeks old, when my sister-in-law thoughtlessly brought her two very, very sick kids to a family get-together. We all caught that cold, and not only were we miserable, I was terrified for my infant. I basically kept vigil over her and never slept until she was better. So how did this cold benefit her? She could still catch another at any point.

But she only did one other time (funny enough, thanks to the same oh-so thoughtful sister-in-law). Just those couple of times, because we take great pains to wash and sanitize our hands, teach her not to touch her eyes, nose, or mouth when out of the house, and to maintain a clean home or clean environment, wherever we go.

According to the Hygiene Hypothesis, my kid should be sick all the time, because we put forth such effort to avoid contact with germs. My Purell Kid should catch every virus we run into because of an immune system that was never allowed to develop. But she's never sick.

Whereas certain friends of mine (theee very friends mentioned in my blog post, "The Acid Test") are sick All. The. Time. All the time. ALL THE TIME.

And they never wash their hands. Seriously, like, never ever. Not when coming home. Not before eating. Not before cooking. Not after shaking hands. Not after playing at the Children's Museum of Every Virus Known to Man. Not after pooping. Not after touching raw meat or turtles or the floor of a Wal*Mart. Never.

If you took my family, and their family, we'd p. much disprove the Hygiene Hypothesis right then and there. They are exposed to so many germs you'd think they'd have developed chainmail fucking ARMOR against colds and flu. You'd think germs would cower at the sight of them. You'd think our friends would see germs and be like, "Dude, we've HAD you before. We've rolled in you. We've eaten you. We've rubbed you in our eyes and noses. WE PWN YOU."

And yet it is my family who never gets sick. Why? Because we wash our damn dirty hands.

Now, back to Darlena. This is not to compare her to my "Acid Test" friends at all. Not remotely, because no one else could possibly be that bad. :)

But because Darlena doesn't suffer from OCD, her kids have been exposed to a typical, normal amount of germs. They've been healthy, they've been sick, and so it goes. Yet at their first exposure to preschool, they caught the sniffles.

My turn is coming up soon. My daughter enters preschool in mere days. Will she catch a cold right away?

MAYBE.

But am I glad that she has not had a dozen colds in her almost-four years?

YES.

Because they would have been of no help. We would have had a sick, miserable child on our hands, for no reason, because the next cold to come along would be a new, mutated one she had never been exposed to anyway, and she could catch it too, if we weren't careful with hygiene.

If we can agree that kids who have been exposed to a lot of germs, AND kids who have not been exposed to a lot of germs, BOTH get sick pretty frequently when beginning daycare or school (which seems to be the consensus, since whenever daycare or preschool is mentioned, the response is always, "Ohhh, prepare for constant runny noses and coughs"), then I ask you, what was the point of all the colds your kid had when they were much younger?

Being exposed to certain things does absolutely no good whatsoever. These are things like the stomach flu or all the nasties that live on commoly touched surfaces, like staph or shigella. Who ever heard of becoming immune to E. Coli or being unlikely to catch it next time you're exposed to it? Or having had food poisoning so many times that now you are untouchable? Not to mention, frequent handwashing and all-around good hygiene has drastically reduced illnesses and has extended our very lifespans.

One source says of this theoretical idea that too much cleanliness has led to an increase in asthma or allergies:

"It is in fact well established that poor sanitation practices contribute to high infant and child mortality rates in underdeveloped countries...[Thus,] A decrease in hand-washing increases the incidence of infectious diseases which may more than outweigh the benefit of a possible reduction in immune disorders."

Being exposed to certain things can be important. These things are dirt, dust, and animals. Early exposure can and does help prevent many allergies.

But being exposed to colds and flu does not "help build your immune system." Because you will never be immune to colds and flu.

If your kids are gonna get sick, it's better to have it happen when they are older, stronger, and more able to cope with being sick. And, of course, it's best to just try to avoid getting sick altogether.

It's just common sense, people. We learned it in kindergarten. Wash your hands.

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And now for one last treat, I bring you this gem. A month or so ago, I was visiting the public restroom *shudder* at the local UW Bookstore . The stalls were all full, so I was waiting my turn. And as I waited, a boy, aged approximately nine years old, crawled, Army-style, out from under the handicapped-stall's door. Crawled. Belly-down. Hands palm-down. Face-down. Slithered. On the restroom floor. The public restroom floor. His mother said nothing of it, opened the stall door, and exited. Naturally, without washing their hands.

Many of you probably recoil in horror at imagining this, even though you aren't OCD Like Me. Why the horror? Isn't that child just bolstering his immune system? And if you say "no, that's just fucking gross," why do you think it's such a wonderful, immune-system-strengthening thing when kids catch colds or other nasties off other public surfaces, which in all likelihood are even filthier than that restroom floor? Why?

My motto: Avoid What You Can, Deal With What You Can't. And I prefer that we all avoid as many illnesses as possible. But that's just me.

P. much.

The Acid Test.

This is a hard one to blog about, because it involves a dear friend of mine. She doesn't know about this blog, though, so don't worry your pretty little heads or wring your grimy little hands.


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So lately I've been wondering if I'm "getting better." See, I was seeing a shrink for awhile, not for talk therapy but for hardcore meds, because this has gone on too long and there are parts of it that are too much for me to bear. The weight of this can be crushing. And none of it, I feel, is something I can "talk through." So off to Mr. PhD it was, at $300 an hour. It's cool, we gots mad insurance though my husband's badass job, right?*


*I discovered a month later that Mr. Dr. is not a preferred provider, so we owe the $300 deductible and 20% of every other visit I had, whereas usually every medical visit of any kind is completely, 100% covered. Surprise!deductible.  Shitballs.

Anyway, at first Mr. Dr. was aiiiight, starting me off on a regimen of meds that he felt would work. He also quite literally prescribed, on a prescription pad, one hour of pure alone-time, each and every day, where I could do whatever I wanted, in total peace. I straight-up laughed in his face. Do you have children, Mister Doctor? I wanted to inquire.


I liked him a lot at first, but then he started rubbing me the wrong way. After a few less than stellar visits, one time I showed up at the bum-bum crack of 4 pm, my precise appointment time, and I waited in the office, alone, no receptionist in sight, for 25 minutes. Eventually Mr. Dr. emerged from his office with his previous patient, unapologetic, and soon after, we set about having our session. Our session had been scheduled as a 30-minute block that time. At the end of the appointment, he said to me, clearly irritated, "We got a little off track today. This went on for almost an hour, so next time we need to stick to the timeframe." I was struck dumb and just stood there and nodded, then waddled off with my tail twixt my legs like a dog what doesn't even know that it did something wrong.

When I got in my car, 1.5 minutes later, my car clock verified that it was 5 pm on the nose. Our appointment had run 35 minutes, max. More like 32.5. Not one hour. I was like, "Is HE the one who needs meds? Did he not realize his previous patient ran 25 bloody minutes over?!" It actually really upset me, for days and days, and kept me up at night! (I couldn't let go of it, for some reason, and actually considered emailing him to say, "Kind Sir, are you not aware that it was the extreme tardiness  your previous patient which caused our 30-minute session to end at such a late hour? I demand an apology within the fortnight.") So that kind of put the last nail in the coffin. I didn't want to see him anymore, and certainly not at $300 a MF hour.


So instead I started seeing my general practitioner, whom I generally love anyway. I figured, if this was all about brain meds, and the psychiatrist got me started, she could continue from there. She ended up disagreeing with some of his thoughts and choices of meds (what's so wrong with taking large doses of benzos? o hai five klonopin and 6 xanax!! Er, never mind), and we worked out a slightly different med situation. I have been and will be continuing to work with her. I've been feeling better at times, and when the moment came where I thought to myself, "OSHITZ, Maya picked a crayon off the floor of the restaurant and then continued to use it, eh, fuck it, who cares!!!", I thought, "Hey! I'm getting better!!"

Well, then came the Acid Test. 

A couple months ago, I hung out with a friend and her kids at their house. Both her kids are often sick. They are a family that just doesn't put the same importance on handwashing as I do, and it seems that everyone almost always has some illness or another. But because I know how often their kids get sick, every time I see one of them grab Maya's hand and trot off to go play their room, that vise inside me tightens. My brain sweats. My heart races. I want to scream out "NO! DON'T TOUCH HER!!" This sounds irrational, and yes, I GET THAT IT IS TO YOU, but it is not irrational to ME.* And I cannot stress enough to you how often and how badly these children and their parents get sick. It is one fever after one snotty nose after one deep hacking cough after another. Rinse, repeat. So every time I get invited over, or my friend wants to get all the kids together to play, I die a little.


And every time I visit them, almost without fail, the very. next. day, my friend Facebooks that her kids have fallen ill. And I think to myself, "Fuckshit!! I'mone die of teh plague." 


*No, you don't have to tell me that this is my brain making excuses for my behaviors. I am aware that I have a disorder. However, many if not most of my behaviors and actions (handwashing, affinity for Lysol wipes, etc.), I will stand firmly by, disorder or not. There is right and there is wrong, and while I can be "extreme," I am also most assuredly right. pthtbhtbhb. 

So a couple months ago, this friend (whom, honestly, I dearly love, despite her differing ideas and opinions on hygiene) invited us over to graciously cook us up a chicken dinner. After welcoming us into her home, she wanted to hold the baby, and she knows me well enough to understand that the Hot Tin Slider House Rules state in no uncertain terms that if you want to hold the baby, you wash your hands first. So God bless her, she washed her hands. After she held little Naomi, we all went into the kitchen to help with the meal. She started the chicken.


And listen. I don't mean to throw my friend under the bus. I am only here to report on what I saw, what I as someone who has OCD sees and notices. That is what this blog is about. What do I see, through my eyes? What do I notice, as someone who is obsessed with noticing germs? 


And here is what I saw and noticed: chickin-drippins, they was getting everwhere. And her chicken-hands were mixing up the salad I brought, and touching the counter, and opening doorknobs, and all over the refrigerator, and so forth. She would use her hands to open the lid of the garbage can that literally had streaming ribbons of wet God-knows-what on it, and then shove something deep inside said garbage receptacle, and then carry on with food prep. The chicken sat out a good two hours before being cooked. She also kept using utensils (spatulas, fork-prongs, grabby-things, etc.), that she had dug out of the sink. The sink, FFS, where other dirty dishes lie, where raw meat has dripped, where hands have been washed overtop (well, OUR hands anyway), where all manner of epic, epic germs live. The sink, where an estimated 500,000 bacteria per square inch wriggle and writhe and mock me. Jesus mother of Mary. So, our chicken dinner got cooked up with a filthy sink spatula. Awesome. My soul cried.


Occasionally, she'd exit the kitchen to go help her daughter blow her nose, or help her son wipe his bum-bum after he screeched out, "Mom, I poooooped in the potttttty!!"


Not to mention, there was a pet turtle. GOD IN HEAVEN A TURTLE.* Kid #1 was touching it and letting it crawl all about. I kept trying to quietly get Kid #1 to wash his hands, but he wouldn't. 


*Salmonella central.

In addition, my friend's boyfriend/babydaddy was sneezing, and both the children were looking feverish. The boyfriend actually asked his listless son at one point, "Are you feeling sick?" Cue my total mental meltdown. My heart shrunk ten sizes that day.


Then Kid #2 wanted to play with the baby. If you remember the Slider House Rules, you'll know that I make no bones about it, and I told her that she had to wash before doing so. But she'd wash, then come over and yank at the baby's hands for a few minutes, then go roll all over the carpet, yank a boogin out her nose, scratch at her wee bum-bum, shove a hand down her crotch, possibly even go pat Turkey the Turtle, and then come back for more baby touching. I didn't know how to stop her, without looking like a paranoid mental patient having heart palpitations and a severe case of dry-mouth. Which I am and was.


Now listen again. None of this makes my friend or her family BAD. It means they don't see what I see. My friend was raised differently, and she does not suffer my disorder, and she just plain and simple doesn't worry about the things I do. And again, none of this is to say "Wow, what a terrible person she is." It is to try to share MY experience, to show it to you through the eyes of someone suffering from intense germ anxiety. To show you how my eyes act as a Crimestopper Chopper 4 helicopter pilot with infrared night goggles, where germs are the hot-blooded robbers on the getaway. I see them. I see the germs, I feel the germs. I see everything, and it causes horrible anxiety.  


And that anxiety can ruin everything. Even lovely evenings with true friends, whom I love regardless of sink germs, and who love me regardless of the fact that they see me as totally apeshit bananas crazy in the noggin. My beautiful friend, she can be a saint to put up with me sometimes, I swear. This doesn't mean I don't wish she would take care with the chickin-drippins though. 

So the day was full of all the things I fear most. Raw-meat germs. Bum-bum germs. Escherichia coli germs. Sea-creature germs. BOY GERMS! Just kidding, I'm not six. And most of all, cold and flu germs. Sigh.


Alas, what should have been a pleasant dinner with a favorite couple and their darling children turned out to be something that caused me to panic. I played along, joked, laughed, talked, even forced down a few bites of Chicken Con Staphylococcus Aureus (an exotic recipe she picked up during her travels) (I kid, I kid), but inside I felt miserable. 


And I was just waiting, waiting for the next day, when I knew that my friend would be Facebooking, "My poor darlings have come down with 103-degree fever, Roseola, purple spots, Dengue fever, black hairy tongue, severe food poisoning, cold sores, pink-eye, swine flu, and The Grippe!"


Finally we made our exit. I make light of it, but all the way home I sobbed. I cried. I cried from the pressure that had been building up inside me. I cried because I was afraid. I cried because I'd wanted to have a good time and my disorder simply wouldn't let me. I cried because I feel helpless and hopeless. I cried because my friends are so generous and beautiful, and yet I can't always be comfortable around them. I cried because I don't want my infant to get black hairy tongue.


Now, granted, I don't usually feel THIS much anxiety when visiting other people. (So if you're my friend and you're reading this, honestly, my OCD-meter is not turned up this high when I am with you. Because you are not this particular couple with their particular couple-o-kids.) But it's still not fair that I couldn't enjoy myself. It's not fair that I spent the entire time panicked. It's not fair that I can't let Maya play with her two little best friends without wanting to scream, "OK, BUT DON'T TOUCH EACH OTHER!!"

And it's not fair that nothing's going to fix this. There is no pill I can take that will make me forget that there are germs on things. There is no pill I can take that will let me dreamily lounge around on my dear friend's deep, cozy velour couch (OMFG LICE) with an icy bev in hand, happily chatting away whilst her children are hacking and snotting seven feet away and playing Ring Around the Rosie with my daughters, hand in hand. There is, it always seems, no hope.


Because that day was the Acid Test. Are all my pills working? AM I GETTING BETTER? AM I??










No.