Pediculus Humanus Capitis. *scritch scritch scritch*

OK. So. Lice.

I think the first time we got lice--and you know this is gonna be a good story if it starts with "and the FIRST time we got [a plague]"--was when I was about seven and I went to after-school daycare at the Young Men's Christian Association.

We suddenly had a mandatory "lice check" one day, and lo and frickin behold, I "tested positive." I was stunned. Lice? What? Me? I got sent home. We treated the situation the best we could. It was all new to us, but my poor single mother dealt with it in between working 8 billion jobs and shit.

I remember that the YMCA had a couple more random checks as well, and I got sent home another time too. Talk about humiliation. You go into the nurse's office and you don't return. HMMM. WONDER WHY. WHERE'S JO? LICE MUCH?

When I caught The Lice (and I will forever blame this one girl Gwen and her licey ways), my family did everything that we should have done. We repeatedly shampooed our hair with Rid, we sprayed the carseats, the hairbrushes, and combs, we froze the cloze, we bugbombed the house while we stayed in a Travelodge motel (forever after referred to as The Lice Motel). But if you recall, our house was the Pit of Despair, and we had clothes and laundry and mess and junk and crap and bullshit everywhere; i.e., plenty of places for those crafty lice to hide.

At some point, through heroic efforts, we kept the lice at bay, but only temporarily. It seemed a battle we were always...er, battling.

The next major lice war I remember, it was when I was in 5th grade. I had newly discovered boys, a certain boy in particular. I was in love with one Mitchell Marchant. Love, I tell you. Young young love.

I had also discovered the phone. (This was before my phone phobia.) I was on the phone all the time with Mitchell. I would hide in my mom's room for some semblance of privacy, since that was the farthest that the phone cord would stretch. This was before cordless phones, child, and long, long, long before cell phones. We would talk until the wee hours. And by that I mean 8 pm.

Well, one day at school, the nurse was doing her rounds, and it was time for one of her mandatory lice checks. Got-damn those mandatory lice checks. One by one, she took everyone into the back of the room and carefully combed through their hair with a pick and a magnifying glass.

My turn came.

LICE!! FUUUUUUUUUCK!!!

I was sent home in the middle of the school day. I was mortified. Because that only meant one thing. And worse, Mitchell knew it only meant one thing: His 5th grade telephone girlfriend had lice.

Well, my family did the old routine lice treatment: shampoo, spray, bugbomb, Lice Motel. Rinse, repeat. RINSE, REPEAT. After a few bouts of it, we were done. Again.

Then came 7th grade. And gym class. After (sooooo not) sweating it up during gym, all the girls wanted to share my awesome Sassy hairbrush, since I was the only one who ever thought to bring one. I obliged, wanting desperately to be cool. And like Gwen in those YMCA days of yore, Megan Hughes proved to be my downfall. One day, I noticed how good it felt to deeply brush my hair. I kept brushing. And brushing. Scratching, if you will. And the next day, Megan Fucking Hughes was sent home with lice. And guess who had shared my brush the week before, in gym class? Megan F. Hughes.

That day I went home and looked at my scalp up-close-like in the vanity mirror.

Wham. Lice.

SHITBALLS AND A HALF.  Would it ever end? Fuck you forever, Megan Fucking Hughes.

And this was particularly bad timing. My brother was being baptized that very night. We had found out like two hours before that we had lice. That's right, he was about to become a CHILD OF GOD and here I was, realizing we had a PARASITE OF SATAN on our very scalps. And I was the one who had to tell him. I have to say, he took the news graciously. You can't very well accept the bread of life and the salvation of God and the peace of the Lord and then flip the fuck out on your little sister for catching lice for the 84936584378th time. We treated our hair, prayed to the Patron Saint of Bloodsuckers that headlice couldn't be transmitted via baptismal font, and hoped that we were done with this shit.

Thank you sweet tiny God, we were.

It never happened again.


Finally, victory. Headlice? GTFO!!

Anyway, it may have taken 84936584378 times, but it was at this moment at the age of 12 that a phobia was born. From this point on out, every request to borrow my hairbrush was denied. DE-MOTHERFUCKING-NIED.

People hated and resented me because of it. I was a veritable gym class pariah. It was mortifying at such a tender age. But I stood my ground and said no, you may NOT borrow my hairbrush. I was as afraid of lice as I was of someone vomiting. If I saw someone scratch their head, I was instantly on red alert. But because of that, we never caught lice again.

But that doesn't mean I am not still paranoid to within an inch of my life, especially now that Maya's in school.

And no. You may not borrow my hairbrush, EVER.



I leave you with this:

101 Ways for an OCDer to Enjoy a State Fair.

So after my poor tot woke up sick, saying she had a tickle in her throat, she spent the early morning coughing and sneezing right and left, with a runny nose. This went on for like two hours, and then, voila, gone. We wondered, "Was this Sudden Onset Allergies?" It was weird. She seemed all better.

So after a very rough start to the day, when she seemed totally back to normal, we carried out our original plan of going to the fair!



...Another great choice for a mom with OCD. Why do I do this to myself? I get all KINDS of great ideas, don't I?

So we loaded up and went to the Evergreen State Fair. I've always loved the fair, LOVED it. Even just a few years ago, but that was before we had kids. (Because when I am responsible for only myself, I know that I'm not going to put my filthy hands in my mouth, or suck on the armrest of a ride, or drop my corndog and then eat it anyway.)

And actually, I still find myself looking forward to it, even WITH kids. But then we go to the fair and we end up dirty, dusty, sweaty, sunscreeny, and covered with possibly some of the most virulent germs around. Not to mention likely contact with other people's puke. And there's the smell of puke. And the smell of onion rings. The smell of puke PLUS the smell of onion rings. And I wonder, "What was I thinking??" Good times.

Anyway, we got there and the first thing we did was have a deep-fried Oreo or two. Because I'm health-conscious like that. Then we took Maya on the carousel. Well, my husband did, because that was how we spent the day--splitting up to take Maya on rides or go on one ourselves, while the other held down the fort with the baby. Sucks that when you have tiny kids, you and your mate can't go on rides together, but oh well.

MY CUTE KID, LOOK AT HER

 Doing her best Popeye the Sailor Man (actually, just showing off her matching tattoo):

And just so Naomi doesn't sue me for emotional neglect later in life, a picture of my other darling:

(I had wrapped the carseat/stroller buckle in a blanket, because when it's unbuckled, it drags on the ground. And I didn't want her touching it. More OCD Tips 'n Trix brought to you by Jo.)

My first ride was that one where you lay belly down and you go up and down around in a circle, like you're some kind of Superman. Exciting; thrilling; GERMS. You kind of had to rest your chin on the...chin rest, and grab the bar below you, but I'll have you know I did neither. I arched my back so that no chin germs would sully my person. Anyway, the ride, with modifications, was funnish. Except that, I had to take my flip-flops off before the ride started, and as I flew round and round like an enhanced Clark Kent, I saw pile after pile of human vomit on the cement below. And when the ride stopped, I had to tiptoe back to my flip-flops, trying desperately to avoid the omnipresent piles-o-puke. So that kinda sucked. Or blew, rather.

Then after that, I went on one of those thingers that takes you up into the stratosphere and drops you. You know, one of these guys:

Because I'm safety-conscious like that.

It was a blast, but of course, 90% of what I was thinking was, "OFUX THE GERMS ON THE HANDLES." Then 9% of me was thinking, "Dear sweet baby Jesus don't let me die." One percent of me had a blast.

At some point we foraged for food, and I had some fairly tasty nachos supreme. First I wiped my hands with two alcohol-based Sani-Hands wipes, then I followed it with a jigger of hand sani gel. I also wiped off the packets of hot sauce with Sani wipes. Then as I ate the beans, I couldn't help but think of how refried beans are a major source of food poisoning. Eh, a little of the old Clostridium perfringens never hurt anyone. Er, or something. Anyway, the nachos were yummy. And I'll keep you updated on the next 24-48 hours.

Maya, however, was being a little pest three years old, and her hands were everywhere. She kept touching the picnic table we were sitting at, which was literally filthy to the naked eye. It looked like it had bird droppings, drool, food driblets, nasal effluvia, and regurgitation all over it. It was FILTHY. I kept telling Maya not to touch it, but she was being a little pest three years old. It really bothered me. Or rather, bothered my OCD. :(

The baby was hungry, so I re-sanitized my hands 29837493 times, then prepared a bottle and fed the child. She also kept swinging her hands about and once actually touched the abhorrent table. I tried not to cry. And every time I held her (after using hand-sani, of course), I still felt like I was contaminating her. Like her legs and arms and bottom were germed out to the max because I touched her with filthy fair-hands.

Contaminating. That's a very accurate word. I feel contaminated every time I go anywhere or touch anything. And I feel contaminated BY my sick 3-year-old. When she's sick, I feel like she's poison. Every time she sneezed, I was like, "OMG SNEEZE INTO YOUR ELBOW!!" and every time she rubbed her nose I was like, "DO NOT TOUCH YOUR NOSE!!" That's just sad and miserable. I don't want to feel this way, certainly not about my own kid. But I do.

--

Anyway. After that it was time to walk through some of the exhibits, and I cringed at all the food samples where passersby hand-dipped pretzels into flavored oils and dips. But I put on my big-girl panties and the put my OCD in time-out so I could sample some salsa on a chip (I was able to do this because the vendor himself was spooning out the salsa onto a plate, and there was no dippage involved), and I ended up buying some. (It's a big old canister of dry salsa ingredients, and you mix it with diced tomatoes, FTW. Sooo yummy.)

I also bought a monkey-sock hat for Maya, but I will either wash it on hot first or put it in the freezer for awhile to ensure that it does not give us lice from all the kids that tried it on before we bought it. What, I didn't tell you that I have a massive fear of lice as well as germs? Let's save that for another time, shall we?

Sidenote: It must have been "Show Your Classy Upbringing" day at the Evergreen State Fair today, since 90% of the people were walking around wearing obscene slogan T-shirts. One such classy lady's shirt read, "I have the PUSSY, so I make the RULES." Niiiiice. I'd like to break me off a piece of THAT.

OK, so after perusing the exhibits, we ventured through the animal barns. We saw some gorgeous cows, sheep, pigs, and pygmy goats (which I call unicorns--don't ask). The stench was phenomenal, but the animals really were lovely. I asked Maya what one of the plain pink pigs was named, and she said "Hoinky." I asked her about the black pig. He was named Boinky. The spotted one? Noinky.

Then we passed the pygmy goats, and Maya explained that his name was Ngoinky. Not Noinky, not Goinky, but Ngoinky. This is Ngoinky:

He's all, "TOTALLY SIDE-EYEING YOU"

We also saw a cow named Beyonce, and for some reason this upcracked me so very deeply. You'll have to click to enlarge the photo to see her name:

Beyonce was having a bit of a lie-down. But she really was Udder-licious.

After the animal barn, it was time for another round of the screamy-droppy Big Shot thingy ride, more carousel, and a terror-filled ride on the Tilt-a-Whirl (I'm sorry, Maya, I thought you'd like it). Then it was time to head home.

We were disastrously dirty. I had worn flip-flops, and Maya wore sandals, and our feet were none more black.

The whole ride home, the baby cried. Screamed. SCREAMED. For 45 minutes. We were also driving Highway 2 in Monroe, and they don't call it the Highway of Death for nothing. Or, if they don't call it that, they should. Bygones.

(Wait, they really DO call it that. I thought I was making it up. Christ.)

Anyway, every time we drive it, we see the very grim, very stomach-churning sign reporting "No serious accidents in [X] days," and it's never more than 40 days. The last time we drove it, it was "No serious accidents in 2 days." My heart just drops whenever I see it.

And there are no "just accidents" on Hwy 2. If there is an accident, it's a fatality. :( I mean, it's a twisty, two-lane road with no middle divider, where people go 75 mph. Hwy 2 has been listed as one of America's most dangerous highways.

So I sit there, in the passenger seat, fingernails digging into my palms, saying a prayer to the Patron Saint of Hwy 2 (just kidding, seriously praying to the actual Jesus H. Christ), that we don't die in a head-on collision. And with the baby SCREAMING the whole way? Good times.

For this here OCDer, getting home is one of the most stressful parts about going anywhere. Because when we get home, we have to prioritize and figure out what the hell to clean first, where to start. Bottles, binkies, hands, our very bodies, where to begin? It's so much worse when I'm alone, too, and have to do it all by myself.

And we were filthy. Our feet, our clothes, our hands, our arms and legs. So I Clorox-wiped my feet (I love that you think I'm kidding), the carried Maya into the shower where we cleansed our persons. We washed like white demons.

And the feet got washed twice.

We were hoping to be able to leave Naomi in her carseat (inside the house) while my husband showered, but she was screaming so ridiculously that instead, he just stripped off his dusty dirty clothes and fed her a got-damn bottle. By the time she was done, so were Maya and I in the shower. I changed the baby's clothes and put her to bed while my husband showered. Then I washed the hell out of Noey's bottles and binky, and Cloroxed off the canister of salsa we'd bought.

Oh, and then I bleached the shit out of the shower.

Also? Because we are such awesome people and parents? We realized that Maya was actually still sick. She had done a good 180 earlier in the morning, and we thought she was just a wunderkind who had fought off her cold in mere hours, but really, turns out she was still sick. So I'm sorry, everyone at the Evergreen State Fair. But it serves you right--it's not like YOU stay home when you are sick, either, you bastiges.

My poor sweet sicky, just after her scouring shower. Look at those sad, sick, tired eyes. :(

It was a full, busy, fun, intensely OCD day. I mean, I guess we had fun, but these are the things that run through my head when we're out and about, trying to have a fun family day at the fair. Filth. Vomit. Colds. Flu. Food poisoning. Lice. Beyonce. But it's not my fault. I still try to have fun, but this is what fun is like for a person with OCD.

Anyway, maybe my next brilliant idea will be to take my kid to the ball-pit at the local play place. :/

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.