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.

I Don't EVEN Want to Look Up the Color of Kitchen-Sink Sponge Germs.

According to a highly respectable source, this is the color of bum-bum germs:

I think that's fairly accurate. 

In fact, that was p. much the exact color of the actual poop
on the notorious hot tin slide.

Origins.

Rest assured, fans, that there will be plenty more Things I Do posts. But for now, I'd like to delve into the origins of some of my main issues. See, the things I do, the way I am, all have very real origins. I have very real reasons for why I am a germaphobe, why I obsess, why I...compulse. I know that the very idea of sterilizing your kids or refusing to go to a mall play area is ridiculous to most of you, but hopefully this will shed a little light on how it all began.

My tales will take a lot of backstory. But story is what you're here for. Right? I mean, besides information on my upcoming seminar, "Tips 'n Trix on Maintaining a Gorgeous Homestead While Chemically Poisoning Your Loved Ones," or my upcoming book, OCD Like Me.

ORIGIN #1: GERM OCD IN GENERAL.

I grew up in a filthy, filthy house. Well, let me clarify. As a small child, our house was actually quite clean. Until I was two, my mom was married and she kept up a very nice home. After the divorce, she became an in-home daycare worker, and the house was always spotless. (With Polaroid Instamatic evidence to prove it!) I remember my mom washing and waxing the floor, I remember fresh shiny countertops, and I remember that we had a separate playroom just for toys, so everything was kept in its place. But somewhere, somehow...I don't know, with my mom being a single mom often working multiple jobs at once, life must have been kind of depressing. She has been an office worker, a janitor, a construction worker, hell she even sorted labels at one point to earn a few pennies. She often did many different things all at once. We were broke as a joke, and she did what she could, and that meant working, and being gone an awful lot. (And being gone an awful lot meant kids left to their own devices to create an awful lot of mess.) Later, she became a school bus driver, and often worked very late hours.

Point is, what single mom of two bratty, messy kids wants to come home at 11 pm and clean up the whole house (especially when you're getting up at 4:45 am the next morning for work)? The whole thing had to feel unbelievably overwhelming to her. And if she did have some kind of undiagnosed depression, well, do you really think she had the motivation to scrub down the shower every Saturday morning? And we kids were almost no help at all.

So our house got progressively messier. To the point where it could only be described as filthy. Not cluttered, not messy. Filthy. Disgusting. I have crystal-clear images in my head of the kitchen, where we would sometimes have 7 or 8 paper grocery bags brimming to the top with ancient, stinking garbage, even spilling over onto the floor, and cat bowls filled with crusted-on food, and the sink so full of dirty dishes that that the sink was unusable. The dirty dishes slowly encroached upon other surfaces too, until everything was covered with either old food, dirty dishes, or outright trash.

The rest of the house was full of crap, too, sometimes literally, since we had  a billion pets. (At least the poop got picked up--it didn't sit around or get shellacked as though on a hot tin slide--but still, our carpets were grotesque.)

The laundry room was crammed full, piled up to my shoulders (this is not exaggeration), again, to the point where the laundry machine was unusable. So, like the dishes, it just kept piling up.

The bathroom was a health hazard. Truly. The tub & shower walls itself--I don't know why no one thought to just spray on some fucking BLEACH, which would have at least helped. But the shower & tub were coated in an inch of grime, dead skin, and massive amounts of mildew. The ledge where we kept the 10,000 bottles of shampoo and soaps and conditioners was covered in swamp water. The bathroom floor was covered in wet, used towels, since we only ever used towels once (instead of hanging them up) and then just chucked them right there on the floor, so you can imagine what dozens* of wet, mildewing towels covering the floor might have smelled like. Or maybe you can't. I hope you can't. The one chore I did have was the bathroom. It was always my job, when it came to that one day a year we might clean. I always did a good, thorough job, but I practically had to kill it with fire. I should have worn a Haz-Mat suit, I honestly should have.

*We had approximately 90237498372543 towels. You would too, if you had dozens on your bathroom floor, and dozens more filling the laundry room to the ceiling. I think we just bought more as needed. Christ.

Oh, and the cherry on top, I had pet mice. Their cage, for some reason, lived in the bathroom. And I, being lazy and 11, never cleaned their cage quite often enough. And even when I did, even when I gave my mice baths (I literally let them swim around in the sink for awhile), the cage stunk by the next day. Oh the stink. Ohhhhhh the stink.

My own bedroom had no visible floor. It was entirely, entirely covered with everything under the sun. Clothes, clean and dirty, toys, crafts, papers, anything and everything. There was nowhere to walk except ON everything. As prepubescent, I guess I didn't really care. The only time I cared was when it was my birthday, and time for a party, and time to invite friends over, and that required massive amounts of cleaning, done almost entirely by my mom (because we were unruly, undisciplined children who would show no responsibility for our own chores). I genuinely have no idea how she did it, but by the time I got home from school and it was almost time for my birthday party, the formerly near-condemned house was clean. A lot of time, that involved shoving things under the bed or hiding them in the brimming laundry room, but she did her best. However, the second the house was clean for a day, it became a dumpster again. It was truly the Pit of Despair. (Hereafter, POD.)

Occasionally, I would clean my room, and I even enjoyed Pledge-polishing every surface regularly, for awhile. A short while. Then, POD.

And please don't get me started on the garage. We're talking Hoarders, on an epic scale. Even to this day. If the time ever comes for my mom to move out (she still lives in the same house I grew up in, and while it's not foul and revoltingly filthy anymore, it is truly worthy of a Hoarders episode--possibly even the Hoarders special two-hour season finale), or, God forbid, she's around no more, instead of ever attempting to clean out the house to sell, I'm pretty sure we will have to go all What's Eating Gilbert Grape and just burn that fucker down.

Anyway. I have a hard time remembering exactly when my "issues" started, but I remember they started subtly. I started wearing shoes in the house at all times, or at least socks, so that I could take them off when I got into bed and have fresh clean bare feet (or stocking feet). Because the carpets were that dirty. If you steam-cleaned them, the water would have been black. It's like, how much more black could it be? And the answer is none. None more black.

So I started wanting my very person to remain clean, even if that meant just my feet. That was around age 12 or 13, I think. The next memory I have of being really bothered by germs was in middle school, still around age 13, and watching the girls exit the lavatory without washing their hands. I explicitly remember one time my BFF and Spanish class partner, Joy, was about to leave el baño without washing, and this was our conversation:

Me: Joy, aren't you going to wash before you leave?
Joy: Why? I showered this morning.
Me: ...

I must have blocked out the years in between 13 and 22, because I can't remember how the "being a little bothered" became outright germaphobia. But when I was 22, I was done. I wanted to move out. Main reason? So I could have a goddamn clean house and keep it that way. Keep it MY way. Keep things where I wanted them. Not have none-more-black carpets. So out I moved, into my cute little apartment. And then it began.

First and foremost, it was a no-shoes apartment. Shoes inside would simply not be tolerated. I had a sign on my front door that my mom brought over for me, and it gently warned visitors, "Kindly Remove Thy Shoes." (This was a throwback to my much younger days, when my mom had a sign on the inside garage door that read the same thing. She didn't want dirty-oily-garage-floor dirt coming into the house, you see. This was pre-POD times.)

My apartment was my sanctuary. Even though no one ever wore shoes in the joint, I vacuumed almost every single day. Why? you ask. Because, I answer.

I DAILY wiped every counter, every surface, every doorknob and faucet and touchable, with antibacterial Fantastik, sprayed onto a paper towel. (This was before they invented the love of my life, the miracle wonder that is Clorox wipes.) I disinfected constantly, even though it was only I who was living there.

I never once, in my five years of living there, used the common washing machines (because, gross). I took all my laundry to my mom's, where somehow miraculously over the years, it had become accessible.

Oh, and I began the habit of washing my hands immediately upon entering the premises.

From there it all just took off. I began what you would consider the downward spiral into germ insanity, and what I would consider the upward spiral into healthy germ awareness and beautiful hygienia(TM). Yet over time...the germ thing burrowed, tunneled, and ferreted its way deeper into my brain...and I went from washing my fruit with soap, to practically stroking out if a server's thumb touched my salad as she served my plate to me. And the list of Things I Do grows and grows. And, while I still think that the Things I Do make SENSE, I am beginning to realize that they are extreme, and that the list of Things I Do is constantly growing and taking over more and more of my life, and it's becoming harder and harder to be the way I am.

Not gonna stop me from washing the top of my soda cans, though.

So now you have a little idea of where, and why, I began to want to live in an antiseptic bubble. A lot of people grow up to become exactly like their parents, or do things in the very same way, or be unable to escape the vicious cycle, but I did exactly the opposite. I wanted out of the POD, and into my own sterile heaven. This little germ of OCD (zing!) might have always been in my brain, it might always have bloomed, but God knows that month-old molding spaghetti still on the stove, and unidentifiable horrors on the carpet, more than contributed to my obsessive nature.

So there you have the origin of my OCD. In general. Basically. For the most part.

Next up: ORIGIN #2: WHY I AM ABSOLUTELY TERRIFIED OF THE FUCKING COMMON COLD.