I'm One Dust Bunny Away From Going Gilbert Grape on This Fucker.

Sometimes I get so down on my house, so overwhelmed. I clean constantly, I clean all day long, I clean the same things over and over again. I wipe, I scrub, I disinfect. But the place never looks clean. My husband comes home and has no idea I've even done anything, because he can't tell. There's just so much clutter, and so much stuff I'm never able to get to. Sometimes I just want to go Gilbert Grape on this mofo and burn it to the ground. No matter who or what is still in the upstairs.

If there's always one thing I've wanted to treat myself to, it would be a deep, deep housecleaning. Especially with all these deals I see on Living Social or Groupon ("Three hours of deep house cleaning for only $49!" or "Two 4-hour sessions of all natural, organic cleaning for just $69! Regularly $249!").

I want to do it. I want so badly to do it. I want to come home to a sparklingly fresh home cleaner than I could ever get it. But I can't.

As I've mentioned, even though my OCD means that all the touchable surfaces in my house are bleach-clean, like anyone else the dust and clutter and grime in my house does tend to build up in the nooks and crannies. I may have cleaned the deepest, darkest recesses of S's house like a whirling dervish and sanitized like a white demon, but that was easy because I was starting with a clean slate. My house is already so lived in that the thought of a true spring cleaning, like, where you get out an old toothbrush and scrub the baseboards, makes me want to faint. I do not have that kind of motivation. I may have OCD but, as mentioned, I am one hell of a lazy ass.

So the perfect solution would be to hire a housecleaner! Right? Right! Right? ...Right?

Except I can't bear the thought. Because I'm so afraid that my house will end up germier than it started. Sure, it will be neat and tidy and glisteningly fresh: clean to the naked eye. But what of the germs? OH GOD WHAT OF THE GERMMMMS?

I would have no control over whether the cleaning person used the same sponge to clean the floors and the counters, or if she used the same tools at the last home as she used at my home. I would have no idea if she changed gloves after cleaning the bathroom before she went to work on the kitchen. I have no control over whether she has an eye for cross-contamination. I would be a sweating, dry-heaving mass of What Ifs. I would be roiling bundle of nerves. I would be beside myself with panic.

So it wouldn't exactly be a decadent luxury for me, not if it caused this much fucking anxiety. Christ.

Thus, every time I see a Living Social deal that I can't pass up, I have to pass it up. Because I can't see myself calling them up and being like, "So, I know this is weird, but do you cater to people with OCD? Do your maids take off their shoes before entering the premises? Do they have all-new tools and scrubbies? Do any of your employees have infrared eyesight and the ability to see germs as if they were hotblooded robbers on the getaway? Just wondering, because I've got a touch of the crazies, see."

Sucks. Because I really, really, really, really want someone to come in and clean all the things I never get to. I want to come home to the freshest, cleanest house I've ever had. I really really want it, and my house really really needs it. But I don't think my brain can allow it.

Not to mention...

Why is the Merry Maids car designed like a slug?

This does not inspire confidence, guys.

Anyway, maybe this is another one for Mr. Obama's Job Creation Act: Housecleaners for the OCDers among us. They would remove their shoes upon entry or at least wear shoe hairnets; they would wear rubber gloves and change them with delicious regularity; they would use new (straight from the package) sponges; they would use all new tools or at least those that had been certified disinfected; they would clean the rooms in order of germiness: bedroom and living rooms first, then kitchen, then bathroom, with all new sponges and rags and gloves each time; they would use vast amounts of bleach; and so forth. Maybe they'd even have an inspector watching them at all times, like my Cook Area Inspector (linked above). This would be Cleaning Area Inspector. They would ensure no cross-contamination. Then maybe I could do it. Then maybe I could hire a housecleaner. God knows how much I'd love to, God knows that even though I disinfect constantly, this whole place needs a good head-to-toe scrubbing.

Anyway for now, I will have to suffer through having a cluttered but Cloroxed homestead, and deal with dirty base molding, dusty picture frames, and a cobweb or two on the ceiling. Sigh.

I've Got One for Your Job Creation Act of 2010, Mr. Obama.

One thing I didn't mention in my recent post regarding safe food handling was this...I've often thought (and here I'm not joking) that restaurants should hire for a brand-new, never-before-heard-of position. The new position would simply be, "Cook Area Inspector." The job would involve merely watching. Inspecting, if you will. So that if someone so much as coughs, scratches a nose, itches an ass, digs a pinkie into their ear, mishandles a raw hamburger patty, doesn't properly wash produce, the Cook Area Inspector would scream out not unlike Frau Farbissina:

If a hamburger bun is dropped, the Cook Area Inspector would see to it that it was not placed back atop your Banzai Burger but rather thrown down the incinerator. (OK, I suppose that merely tossed outside for the birds will do.) If someone sneezed over your plate of Spaghetti with Mizithra, into the trash it would go and Chef Finnegan would begin again.

If a customer was rude to a server, and the server wanted to "get even" (one of my worst fears), the Cook Area Inspector would sprint over and catch the spittle mid-drip before it ever hit your Zuppa Toscana.

If the underpaid, bored employees got a wild hair up their bum-bum and wanted to get a little crazy by pissing into the vat of spaghetti sauce at your local Little Caesar's,* the Cook Area Inspector would see to it that they were killed in the face, and then have the restaurant shut down.

*This really happened. In high school, a classmate was bragging about how he did so. Pissed. Into the spaghetti sauce. At Little Caesar's. I've not eaten there one single time in the 18 years since.

But seriously, the Cook Area Inspector would just generally be responsible for observing and reacting, and employees would be required to follow her commands, without argument, to wash their hands, throw something away, remake the food, use gloves, change gloves,* or wash their hands again.

*My family and I recently went to the local Taco Time and witnessed one employee, wearing food-prep gloves, taking orders at the front desk, punching orders into the cash register, and handling all money. Then going right back into the open kitchen and preparing the food with the same gloves. I died inside that day.

The Cook Area Inspector would be responsible for your food being snot-, spit-, and spooge-free. This would be different from the typical, apathetic, non-germ-phobic manager just meandering through occasionally to "see how things are going."

This would be militant-style observation.

It could be performed only by someone who has a demonstrable tendency toward OCD. Someone with catlike reflexes who would be on the chef, germ-ninja-style, the very second he befouled his hands or the food he was preparing.

Seriously, I honestly really for reals think this would be a selling point: Businesses could advertise, "Our restaurant now employs Cook Area Inspectors!" and "Most hygienic eatery this side of the Mississipp!" and "Our trained Cook Area Inspectors watch your food being prepared and observe it every moment of the way. Eat Here With Confidence(TM)."

In addition, it would be awesome if customers would watch on CCTV the kitchen and chefs. Just have little monitors placed up in the corners of the restaurant, and you could at a glance see if your Macho Burrito Con Carne was being handled with gloves and all manner of correct hygiene or if it was being rolled up con carnage.

I joke, but seriously, I'm not joking.

Cook Area Inspectors. You heard it here first.

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.