If I Come Down With The Hooping Cough, Blame My Headache.

I've been having headaches for a month straight. Last night it got so bad, I went...DUN DUN DUN...


...To the ER.


I know right? In the words of one Travis Bickle: "All the animals come out at night - whores, skunk pussies, buggers, queens, fairies, dopers, junkies. Sick, venal."

So it took a lot to get me to go to the doctor after hours.

But my headache was That Bad.

So my husband takes me to our local ER, and while checking in, some guy in front of me is coughing. Mad coughing. Like, hysterical-coughing.

The receptionist hands the man a face mask and says he has to use it. He says, "Why?" She says, "Because you are actively coughing." Actively? More like hysterically. He says, "I cain't breev thoo no face max."  She says, "Sir, you have to wear this face mask. You are actively coughing." He holds it like two inches from his face and says loudly, "I CAIN'T BREEV THOO IT. I CAIN'T WEAR NO MAX." She insists he wears it, so he holds it somewhere in the general vicinity of his head and goes to sit down.

At this point, I am so flustered, so stricken with dread, that my eyesight narrows into tunnel vision and I literally started shaking and couldn't follow directions like "Sign your name at the bottom and date it." I ask, "What's today? What time is it?" because I don't know. Because there was a man HYSTERICAL-COUGHING ALL UP IN HERE. Whooping, if you will.

They tell me to have a seat. I pick a seat as far away from the hysterical-coughing man as I can. I sit down. My head is agony. My nerves are shot. I am cursing the very moment that I decided this apparent brain tumor required medical assistance. I start crying. Hysterically crying, you might say. I take out my hand-sani and use it, while sitting there sobbing, snot and red eyes and blotchy face and all. Ugly crying.

I rub the Bath & Body Works red-apple-scented hand-sani in ferociously, because it is all I can do. I cry. I cry because of my Headache of Doom, but also because there are sick people everywhere.

Fairly soon, thank God, I am taken to a private room. I say private, but of course what I mean is, a room with a billowing sheet hanging 'twixt me and the entire world. The nurse says she will be right with me.

I listen to the conversation happening outside the door billowing sheet. Then I hear it. The words I was desperate not to hear.

Whooping Cough.

The man they just brought in next door has motherfucking whooping cough. I knew it. I called it. The man what would not wear no got-damn face max. Has whooping cough. Super.

So as I lie there, trying to explain myself to an ENTIRE PANEL of doctors, who are grilling me, dissecting my every word ("Well was the pain sudden, or did it worsen over time? You first said it got worse as the day progressed, but now you're using the words 'sudden pain'--which is it??") as if I were just looking for a quick fix of morphine.

Eventually, they give me a shot of Imitrex in my shoulder. Now as you recall, I have a Liver of Steel. (Prior to this, at home, I'd tried a couple of leftover narcotics, colloquially known as The Good Stuff, but it didn't even touch the pain. It never does.) So I wasn't expecting Imitrex to work.

It didn't.

Forty-five American minutes later, they come by to check on me. They decide to give me THREE MORE SHOTS. Two painkillers (a certain kind that deals with nerve pain or something), plus one shot to offset the side effect of the first two shots. Siiiiiiiiiiiigh. The shots hurt almost worse than my headache.

Oh, and somewhere in here I get an MRI of my head. Bygones.

At last the medications have taken the edge off. My husband is allowed to take me home, under the doctor's orders that I get peace, quiet, and a cool dark room.

....BWAHAHHAHA!! SHYEAH RIGHT! I got two kids, honey.

Anyway, that was my big giant ordeal last night. And let's hope they process my insurance right this time, so I'm not billed for a claim + interest that they screwed up FIVE YEARS AGO.

And fingers crossed that I don't come down with The Hooping Cough. If I do, it's all because I had a really bad headache. :(

NOW GO GET YOUR FUCKING TDAP BOOSTER. 

Done.

Another cold.

Another infant with another cold. Another cold courtesy of Maya, who picked one up at school and gave it to her little sister. Another cold.

Another runny nose.

Another cough.

Another sinus infection.

Another ear infection.

Six weeks, three colds, four trips to the doctor, four rounds of antibiotics, four rounds of probitics at $20 a pop, one new humidifier, one pricey electric snot-sucker.

Six weeks of barely sleeping out of worry for the baby, because she's so congested she might stop breathing.


Another cold. Fuck this. I'm pulling Maya out of preschool. And dance class. And life.

Crack Her What??

Oh My God. If I wasn't laughing so hard, I'd be crapping my pants silly.

MJ over at Sweetwater Cloth took the time and energy to post this entry, JUST FOR ME. She mentioned this restaurant called Cracker Barrel, which I've heard of but have never had the pleasure of visiting. Go check out her post, then come back.

First reaction: DEAD ANIMAL HEADS. What could be more appetizing. Oh, and plz let's have you choose your live animal before they kill it and cook it too. Wait they already do that at places.

Second reaction: NOOKS AND CRANNIES GALORE. Our local Applebee's is alllllmost that bad, with all their kitsch, but not quite. Cracker Barrel wins for the most un-dustable, un-cleanable crannies ever.

Third, and strongest, reaction: THE PEG GAME. MJ, I swear to Christ before you ever said "Now, here is the part where I tell you that I'm not OCD, but the peg game seriously squeems me out," I was already breaking a massive sweat. Seriously. I have never, in all my days, seen something like that. And I don't know why it should seem so much worse than, say, the salt shaker. But I bet to 97% of my readers, this triggers some sort of squeem factor. Am I right? WHY? I ask you why? The same grubby hands that touch the Peg Game touch the salt shaker, and touch the ketchup bottle, and touch the door on the way out. Just saying. But yes, MJ, you nailed it, the PEG GAME. Oh God the Peg Game. I wanted to die when I saw this. Really? They expect you to crack your Maine Lobster and then make your move? FFS. Why don't you just suck on the pen when you're signing your receipt, while you're at it. 

And finally, my last reaction: the rocking chairs. It immediately made me forearms tingle with a grotesque heat. It made me want to break out the Sani-Hands 65% Alcohol wipes and scrub down my arms. I do not like things with arm-rests. I detest movie theater arm-rests. And as previously mentioned, after dining at a restaurant, if I have worn a short-sleeved shirt, I do INDEED break out the Sani-Hands and wipe down my forearms.

So yeah. Cracker Barrel kind of broke my brain. Must go bathe in bleach now. BRB. Later. Much much later.

How I Spent my Friday, Friday, Gotta Get Down on Friday

Let's say there's this girl. And she needs some fancier clothes for some upcoming events.

Let's also say this girl has rampant germ OCD.

And just for fun, let's throw in a new fact: This girl also has a severe phobia of lice and bedbugs.

What's the solution?

I KNOW, I KNOW!

VALUE VILLAGE!!11!3@!!

...Er, well, on second thought, that might not have been the best choice for someone like me.

Let me tell you, I am not too proud for Value Village.

I am just too OCD.

But anyway, because I have a sick twisted love and adoration for La Village and because I didn't want to spend $400 I went anyway. Honestly, I really do love to get clothes there. It's just that...it's just....well, I'm both a cheapskate, and someone with OCD. So yesterday, the cheapskate in me won out. :) To La Village it was!



OK. So when I've taken my older daughter there, then entire time is spent with my telling her, yes, as usual, "DON'T TOUCH! HANDS OUT!" I walk rigidly through the narrow aisles of clothes, and my anxiety meter explodes as Maya hides in the racks of dresses. I expect her to climb back out with lice and fleas and bedbugs visibly sproinging about her person.

And she drags her hand along through the clothes as she walks, and I'm thinking, "Maya! You don't know whose bum-bums those jeans have been on! Do you have any idea how filthy the seat of one's pants are??"* And then of course she'll touch her face or mouth or nose and it's more, "MAYA! HANDS OUT!!"

*This is why I also gag violently am uncomfortable when someone hops up and sits on their kitchen countertops. I'm like, "Are you even serious right now with that shit?"

Then when it comes time to try on the clothes I've selected...oh boy. Here is how it goes.

1. I try at all times to not step on the floor. If I have to take my shoes off to get some pants on, I step out, pull the leg up, and then step back ON THE TOP of my shoe, just so I don't have to get my socks dirty. Yesterday, I was wearing flip-flops, so it was much easier to just either keep them on (as I tried on skirts) or step out, pull up a leg, and slide my foot back into my sandal. And my feet aren't the only things I worry about getting nasty as I try on pants. Trying on pants is gross. Just pure gross. Their crotch on your crotch. I said a quick prayer to the Patron Saint of Pubic Lice, took a deep breath, tried on the jeans, and then whipped them off as fast as I could.

Holy shit. Even as I was typing this, and I swear to you people this is the truth, a commercial came on the TV in the background for pestworld.org, talking about bedbugs. How did they know? How did they know?!?

Anyway.

2. I try at all times to get my child to NOT TOUCH! She wants to touch the hangers and climb up on the little seat and put her hands on the mirror and such, and even that is too much for me. Why does she move so much? Why couldn't I have given birth to a metal soldier?

3. I freak out about my hair. I have very long hair right now, and didn't bring along a pony-holder. So as I'm easing these shirts over my head, all I could think of was "lice lice lice lice lice lice lice lice lice lice I'M COLONIZED!"

4. After making my purchase, and getting in my car and using preposterous amounts of hand sanitizer, I drive home. And the very second I am home, entering through the garage into the laundry room (well, but pausing to wash my hands first), I strip bare-ass nekked (because I've put MY clothes on after THEIR clothes have totally germed up/liced up/bedbugged up my body, so my clothes are contaminated too). I throw the Value Village clothes in the washer on hot (and later do my own clothes separately on hot), and dry them on hot too. While they are washing, I dash to the shower, still naked as a jaybird, and scrub. If my daughter has come with me, into the shower she goes too, and we scrub right along together.

5. I wash my hair twice with a deep-cleansing shampoo, and then I put about a gallon of super slick, slippery conditioner on my hair and leave it on for as long as I can. I heard one time that one way to kill lice is to put mayonnaise--yes mayonnaise--on your head for a long time, because it literally suffocates the lice. So in my mind, I was doing a mini-version of that. I slathered my hair with conditioner, then scrubbed my face and body with Dial, then took a long leisurely time shaving my legs. Then I brushed through my slick hair, imagining that I was brushing out all manner of bedbuggery, and finally rinsed. Eighteen hours later, my shower was done. heh.

So while I love me some Value Village for their wild & crazy deals, it's a truly anxiety-riddled ordeal to go there. I can't tell you how grimy I feel when I leave.

And that, friends, is a tale of what it's like for a girl who has OCD and a phobia of creepy-crawlies to visit her local Value Village!

Really, Rebecca? More like:

I feel like I need to go shower after just writing this.

I Think It's High Time for Another "Things I Do" Post.

So to continue the very, very non-exhaustive list of Things I Do, today's installment is:

Things I Do: Restaurant Edition.

My anxiety reaches some of its highest heights when we visit a restaurant, especially a certain one that we frequent once a week for Trivia Night. It's a family-friendly pub, so we tote along the chitlins. And while in theory it's nice for this here stay-at-home-mom to get out of the house once a week, in actuality it really does cause large amounts of stress. But at the same time it's fun, because, TRIVIA NIGHT! I do love me some trivia. Also I love money. And we win a lot. :)

But at restaurants, particularly this one, here is a partial list of Things I Do:

• We usually park in the lower parking lot, and take the elevator up with the kids. I use the bottom of my shirt to press the elevator button--it's just second nature--and I didn't even really think about it until one day I saw my three-year-old do the exact same thing. I laughed so hard, then I cried a little inside at the tiny germaphobe I was inadvertently creating, but then I laughed again. Because I couldn't believe she was so observant, especially with things I make no spectacle out of doing.
• Upon arrival, before letting Maya touch anything ("DON'T TOUCH!"), we immediately break out the tub of antibacterial Sani-Hands and wipe down the table. This seemed appropriate when Maya was still a baby in a high chair (which we'd cover with a high-chair cover, natch), because her hands were all over the table and then they'd go straight in her mouth. But we still do this now that she's approaching four years old (although I always look around in embarrassment before and as we do it, because I feel like people are thinking we are nuts, much like you non-OCDer are thinking this very second). But do you know what? You would start wiping down your table if you saw what comes off on those wipes. If you place a disinfecting wipe flat on the table, and put your hand on it to wipe the whole bitch down, do you know what you find on that wipe? A completely black handprint. The tables are positively grimy. Every time we wipe them down, we stare at disbelief at the blackened wet-wipe.

Lest you think I am exaggerating, on two separate occasions I took photographic evidence, just so that I could show you, faithful reader. Observe what remains on your restaurant table after it is everso hastily wiped down with a germ-ridden damp rag by a nonchalant waiter being paid minimum wage to keep your eating area clean:

I mean, what could even CAUSE that much grime? Are people changing their babies' shit-filled diapers on the table? Are people table-dancing in their farm boots? Are people's hands and arms really this dirty??* And this is a very respectable, very pleasant, very nice, and, to the naked eye, a very clean-looking joint. But behold what appears where you least expect it. Christ on a Saltine.

*Yes.

One article summarizes my thoughts quite well:

Surface Testing Reveals Restaurant Tables Have Higher Germ Count Than Changing Tables Or Shopping Carts 

"In tests conducted by Dr. Chuck Gerba, professor of Environmental Microbiology at the University of Arizona, restaurant tabletops had more than double the bacteria count of the diaper changing tables tested. The analysis showed that changing tables had 106 colony forming units (CFU) of bacteria per square inch, while restaurant tabletops turned up 268 CFU per square inch.

'We knew that tabletops were problem areas,' said A.J. Mesalic... 'But we were surprised by how high the germ count was in comparison to the other surfaces tested. The preponderance of research tells us that surface germ protection is necessary. Sure adults are exposed to the same problem surfaces, but our immune systems are fully developed. Still these harmful microbes can make adults very sick as well.' 

According to Dr. Gerba, there is a minority view* in the public and medical profession that says germs are ‘good for you.' 'In fact, our studies have shown that many of the germs we find on public surfaces, and even in the home, absolutely will make children sick with no meaningful benefit of increased immunity,' he said."

God bless you, Dr. Gerba.

*"Minority view" my ass, though. The got-damn Hygiene Hypothesis is the New Black. Everyone's spouting off these days about how antibacterial soap is slaughtering our children and that kids need to lick the bottom of their shoes and give Eskimo kisses to the neighbor kid who has a snot waterfall on his face, all in the name of building their immune system.

• We wash after handling the menu and deciding on our cuisine du jour. Have you ever seen anyone wash a menu? Funny, I haven't either. And have you ever noticed that they are streaked and grimy and fingerprinty with God knows what? Yeah. F to the Y to the I, they contain an estimated count of 185,000 bacteria. Enjoy browsing the food selection and then relishing your Santa Fe Burger, licking delicious e.coli, staph, rhinovirus, enterococcus, and shigella off your juicy digits.
• We handle the ketchup, salt, and pepper with a napkin. All the above-mentioned bacteria and viruses, plus so many more, can and usually do appear on these things according to many a study. Sometimes Maya reaches for the condiments on the table, and I have a massive freak-out and scream quietly, "DON'T TOUCH!!" (Which by now you can certainly tell is a favorite phrase in our family, and we employ it regularly.)
• We do not use the lemon slices in our iced tea, nor do we let our lemon-loving child eat them. You have no idea what is lingering on them, but you might want to read up.
• When using the restroom, I use two layers of toilet-seat covers, placed ever so slightly off-center from each other. (Have you ever sat down, only to feel the insufficiently-sized seat cover shift under your weight, and feel the horrifying sensation of cold porcelain on your bum-bum? Well I have, and that was the last time I ever used just one seat cover.) Two seat covers seems to do the trick of covering all exposed toilet seat areas. And when I take my preschooler in to go potty? Sweet Jesus. First of all, I say a quick prayer to the Patron Saint of Public Restrooms, because using them is one of my most anxiety-ridden experiences, especially with a child. So when Maya goes potty, the first thing I do is tell her 14 times, "Don't touch ANYTHING." Then, I use FOUR seat covers (sorry, environment). I first place two covers half on the seat, half hanging down in front of the seat, because otherwise her legs touch the bowl of the porcelain god. Then on top of that, I place the two off-center seat covers for her to sit on. Then I have her drop trou, and I pick her up by her back and the crotch of said dropped-trou, and place her in one firm motion on the covered seat. When she is finished, I pick her straight up off it, lest she wiggle or touch it. Then as I flush with my foot (sorry, people stupid enough to flush with their hands), I tell Maya no fewer than eleven more times, "Don't touch anything." Then I go wash thoroughly. And since she has touched nothing, because I have trained her well she is a wise old soul, rather than risk using the restroom sink, I just take her back and use hand sani on her.
• I REFUSE to use the strip of toilet paper that is already hanging from the dispenser. I tear off whatever toilet paper is hanging down and toss it, then use "new" TP.
• The handwashing process, of course, is thus: First I roll down excessive amounts of paper towel (sorry again, environment). Then I turn on the water, use soap, and scrub up extremely well. Then, leaving the water still on (still sorry, environment), I rip off the paper towel, dry my hands, and then use said paper towel to turn off the faucets and open the bathroom door to exit. Sry 2 say, this is the only acceptable way to wash your hands in a public place. And if they have no paper towels but only blow-dryers? First, I curse the restaurant owners, their sons, and their sons' sons (a klebsiella plague on both your houses!), and then I use whatever means necessary to not touch the faucets (a handful of toilet seat covers in lieu of paper towel, or my sleeve, or in the worst case scenario, my wrist, which I will later disinfect).
• And when all is said and done, and we are finished eating, we get in the car and apply large doses of hand sanitizer. This is before arriving home, washing our hands, and using yet more hand sanitizer.
• Also, if I have worn a short-sleeved shirt to the restaurant that night, and thus my arms have rested on the table, I use alcohol-based Sani-Hands wipes all over my forearms. Yes. This one is a hard one to admit. Because, hello, embarrassing. But fuck! You saw what was on those tables!!

So you can see that going to a restaurant is quite an ordeal. Sometimes I'm not sure that it's worth it, with the undue amounts of anxiety it causes me. But I do love me a nice Reuben sandwich, the free desserts we win, and oh yeah, taking home the $$ POT $$, baby, because we kick some major bum-bum at trivia!


This article sums up my thoughts nicely and tidily:

"7 germiest places; Germs lurk on menus, lemon wedges, condiment and soap dispensers. Don't touch that dial - better yet don't touch anything, especially if you're germ-phobic."

"Better yet, don't touch anything" are the words I live by and are the most precious gift I could give my children. Er, I mean, will cause them to become paranoid psychotics like me.

Next up: Things I Do, Hotel Edition.

Because Wouldn't This Permanently Fuck Up ANYONE?

You know what? Maybe all this self-evaluation, exploration, introspection, and reflection is bullcrap. Maybe it didn't start with my filthy, fruit-fly infested dump of a house. Maybe it didn't start with surprise!water breaking. Maybe it didn't start with watching doctors at their own doctors' office exit the lavat'ry without washing their fucking hands.

Maybe I am trying too hard.

Maybe it all started with that one time when I was 18 and was on a roadtrip with my two best friends, and somewhere down near Smith River, CA, we picked the least expensive motel we could for the night, and upon settling in for some sweet dreams, we found a human turd under the duvet cover.