Monday Musings.

Do you think they really EVER clean ball pits the way they're supposed to?

Feta Chicken.

No, not Chicken With Feta. FETA CHICKEN.

Last night I had a perfectly lovely dinner with my perfectly lovely friend S and her perfectly lovely boyfriend M. (Oh God I just realized that together they are S&M. Bygones.)

Anyway, we went out for Greek, and we ordered a sampler platter. It was my first time meeting M, and S had not briefed him on my OCD ways. At one point I used my clean spoon to...spoon out some hummus and some tzatziki onto my plate (hoping to set an example that there would be no dippage here tonight), then I used my clean fork to wrestle off a chunk of feta to put onto my own plate as well. I also stabbed tomato and then a cucumber slice, but halfway to my plate, the cucumber slid off and fell onto the table. I didn't want to cause a scene, so I put it on my plate anyway.

Then, M, being a gentleman, picked up the whole piece of feta with his bare fingers and placed it on my plate in a "here you go, you forgot this" gesture.

S, knowing me through and through, said, "Oh honey, OHHHH, honey, no, no, we don't do that. Let me tell you a little something about Jo. Jo doesn't do the germ thing." And we both proceeded to give him a (humorous) run-down of my "little situation."

We laughed, the moment passed, and all was well, and we continued to have a perfectly. lovely. evening.

But got-damn if that lone chunk of feta, and that rogue cucumber, didn't sit on my plate, utterly untouched, mocking me, playing chicken, making us all uncomfortable, all the live-long night. I couldn't do it. I just couldn't do it. You won, feta.

...Relief??

I'll have you know that my baby kicked her cold's bum-bum because she is....

SUPER NOEY!!!

. . .

Know what's weird?

Once Maya actually came down with a cold, and Naomi and I immediately caught it, it's almost like...like I could relax. I mean, I get so afraid that the kids or my husband or I will get sick that I spend all my time thinking about it, but now that we actually got effing sick, I could stop most of the all-consuming anxiety. (Athough, for the duration of the cold, the anxiety is contained to worrying about Naomi choking on mucous in the night--that fear doesn't just go away.)

I'll tell you a story. Awhile back, when Naomi was only about a month old, I caught a cold. A really bad, lingering one. It started with a terrible sore throat, and progressed to a snotty runny nose and a terrible cough. I was in full blown panic mode. Definitely Code Red. I mean, we are talking none more red.

I was so afraid of getting my tiny baby sick, that I wore a mask. WORE A FUCKING FACE MASK, for more than a week and a half. And not just the flimsy-paper doctor kind of mask, but the full-on N95-1860 particle respirator, which--

"...meets both OSHA requirements and CDC guidelines for TB exposure control. The model 1860 may be used during laser surgery, electrocautery, and other procedures involving powered medical instruments. Intended to help reduce wearer exposure to airborne particles in a size range of 0.1 to > 10.0 microns generated during these procedures. Fluid resistant to provide .99% BFE against microorganisms and help reduce potential contamination and exposure of the wearer to the spray, spatter, and aerosol of blood and body fluids.inst micron-size particles. CDC recommended to protect against avian and swine flu."

You know, the ones I bought when I was certain everyone was going to die dead of H1N1?

Anyway, when I caught that first cold, I wore it every time I fed the baby or held her or leaned over her to change her diaper, and after that first week and a half, I let myself take it off but still held it briefly over my face every time I had to cough. (The cough lingered.) And it was really fucking annoying. It's hard to breathe through those things. They are THICK. Pray to the Patron Saint of Effluvia that we don't ever have to wear them to protect against Zombie Flu or something.

Not only did I wear a mask, but my husband slept in the baby's room with her, instead of having her in the bassinet in our room next to me. I had to go like two precious weeks without kissing her. And I was fanatical about washing. I mean more than usual. If I touched my nose, I washed. If I ate and my hands touched my mouth, I washed. If I breathed, I washed. If I coughed into my elbow, I'd go take a hydrochloric acid bath. You get the point. I was living in terror. But, my efforts paid off. My tiny newborn did not catch my cold.

So now that we're past that fiasco, and Naomi did catch this new cold? While it broke my heart seeing her too sniffly to even suck her binky, and seeing her mouth-breathing like a jerk, I just kind of let go of some of the stress. Because what's done is done--we caught it. We got sick. I didn't have to try anymore to have her not get THIS cold.

I caught it, but she caught it too, so I didn't have to go around wearing a gas mask and a HazMat suit and spritzing bleach about.

But seriously, doesn't this poor sick baby break your heart?

Being sick sucks. Having sick babies sucks. But this cold, we couldn't avoid.

Doesn't mean I'm not going to go into full gas-mask and HazMat mode when there's a Zombie Flu outbreak.

Fun Friendly Phobic Fact Friday!

Peanut butter is allowed to have up to two partial rodent hairs or insect parts per large jar.

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.

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.

THE BOLT INCIDENT.

One fine day, years and years ago, my mother and I set out to have lunch at the Olive Garden. Pure class, I know. But come on, their breadsticks. Delicious.

So I ordered my favorite meal, the Capellini Pomodoro. When it arrived, I took my fork in hand and gave the pasta a nice stir. Suddenly, a bolt appeared before me. I repeat. A BOLT. A fuck. ing. bolt.

The second I saw it, I stood up and backed away in surprise, nearly toppling my chair. I was stunned beyond belief. A bolt. I mean, of all the unsavory things you have heard of finding in food--hairs, bugs, bandaids--but a metal bolt?

I called the waiter over, explaining the situash, and he said he'd talk to the manager.  I expected the manager to rush over on bended knee (though that would be logistically difficult), pleading for my forgiveness, and basically offer me his firstborn. Instead, the manager strolled over to me and the first words out his mouth were, "I'm sorry, but we have no bolts like that of any kind anywhere in our kitchen."

...So, you see, effectively blaming ME for putting the bolt in my food. As if I had been attempting to score a free meal out of it all.

Now, again, let me say. If one wanted a free meal, what might one sneak into their Capellini Pomodoro? A beetle? A short, suspiciously wiry hair? A peanut, claiming deathly allergies? WAIT NO, HAI I KNOW, A FUCKING THREE-INCH-LONG METAL FUCKING BOLT. That's the ticket. That's what I'll slip into my meal. It's foolproof!! It's genius! I'm a fucking wizard!

So yeah, the manager was basically calling me a liar. I did get a free replacement bowl of Cap/Pom out of it, but God only knows what they secretly put in it the second time around. I said a prayer to the Patron Saint of Disgruntled Food Workers and ate my new & improved 100% bolt-free pasta.

But you better believe that I Wrote a Letter. Because I Write Letters. When I experience a great injustice, I write letters, and I GET RESPONSES. I am the queen of writing letters. (Por ejemplo, I got $1,100 out of Fred Meyer once for ruining a roll of film I took in to be developed. I am That Good.)

Anyway, after writing my letter, and receiving a personal call from the Head Honcho of the O.G. herself, I think I could have eaten free for a week there because of how many vouchers I got. She was astonished at my tale of being served Capellini al Bolt, and was covering her ass truly apologetic.

And since then, I have bravely dined at the Olive Garden other times. I've come to expect certain atrocities: chicken that tastes bafflingly like sausage; salad that is soggy 10 out of every 10 times; lipstick on the water glasses; etc. But at least I've found no more metal equipment or tools of any sort in my mediocre Italian cuisine.

Oh, and if you ever need a letter of complaint written for you, that will be ten (10) American U.S. dollars, please.

Monday Musings.

I wonder if it's possible to catch more than one cold at once?

I think the answer I like best is, "Technically, it is possible to become infected with two different strains of the cold virus at once but it is very doubtful that that will make your symptoms worse."

I think it's clearly possible, but that you'd never know.

In the Words of One Jack Black...

I did it. I've done it. I fuckin' did it.

I SAW CONTAGION.


I handled it well, I think. It was pretty much as I expected. Lots of handshakes. Lots of touching doorknobs. Lots of sweaty upper lips and flushed cheeks. Lots of hand sani placed strategically. Lots of smiling, toothy, slurred Gwyneth Paltrow lines. WHAT'S IN THE BOX? WHAT'S IN THE BOOOOOOX???

Oh, but Jude Law's janky fake front tooth? Completely unnecessary.

I remember thinking I should have taken my notebook and pen, movie-critic style, but instead I just wrote notes all over my hand throughout the movie, things I'd noticed, things I was going to blog about, things that were going to BLOW YOUR MIND.

However, by the time I got home, I'd washed my hands so many times, I now can't read my notes.

Well shit. But I swear, it was some great stuff. Genius. Award-winning.

I do, however, remember one part with great glee. A character was talking to a disease expert (portrayed by Kate Winslet), describing his wife's reaction to the outbreak, saying, "She makes me strip down and take off all my clothes in the garage before entering the house, then she slathers me with Purell. Isn't this over the top?" 

Kate Winslet answers with a simple, "...No." 

I silently laughed my proverbial bum-bum off. Because that is soooo me & my husband. And I felt vindicated. Actually, this whole movie made me feel vindicated. Everything made me want to scream, "SEE?! See? You can fuckin DIE if you touch an airplane drinking glass! Your face will rot off it you touch poker chips at a casino! YOU WILL KILL THE WORLD IF YOU DO NOT WASH AFTER TOUCHING YOUR BLACKBERRY!!!1112@#!"

I also found it humorous how in one scene, Kate Winslet had obviously pulled the duvet cover off her hotel bed.  Way to go, Kate! That's using your noodle.

Another bum-bum song.

So awhile back I posted about how the Chordettes' song should really be called the "Bum Bum Song," but now mommamaynard reminds me of Tom Green's Bum Bum song:

Be careful. There are bum-bums everywhere out there.






(Did we ever think this guy was funny?)

Fun Friendly Phobic Fact Friday!

Public sandboxes are bacteria breeding grounds. 


Fact: If it's a public sandbox, or even your own sandbox left uncovered, there is no way to keep cats and critters out of it, and they will consider it a public litter box. Hear me now, believe me later.


Your child is at risk if they stick their fingers in their mouth after playing in sand soiled with animal feces. This can cause pinworms, roundworms, and hookworms, which can lead to fever, stomach pains, and intense itching of the bum-bum. 

They are also contagious and are spread from person to person, or by touching bedding, food, or other items contaminated with the worm's eggs. 


Children are especially vulnerable to hookworms, A hookworm infection occurs when larvae come into contact with human skin, through contaminated soil or feces (OR SANDBOXES). They penetrate the skin, making their way through the lungs to the small intestine, where they latch on and grow into adults, laying more eggs. They feed off the blood of the infected person, which can lead to anemia. 


And also a serious gross-out effect.

Relief?

I'll have you know that my baby kicked her cold's bum-bum because she is....

SUPER NOEY!!!

. . .

Know what's weird?

Once Maya actually came down with a cold, and Naomi and I immediately caught it, it's almost like...like I could relax. I mean, I get so afraid that the kids or my husband or I will get sick that I spend all my time thinking about it, but now that we actually got effing sick, I could stop most of the all-consuming anxiety. (Athough, for the duration of the cold, the anxiety is contained to worrying about Naomi choking on mucous in the night--that fear doesn't just go away.)

I'll tell you a story. Awhile back, when Naomi was only about a month old, I caught a cold. A really bad, lingering one. It started with a terrible sore throat, and progressed to a snotty runny nose and a terrible cough. I was in full blown panic mode. Definitely Code Red. I mean, we are talking none more red.

I was so afraid of getting my tiny baby sick, that I wore a mask. WORE A FUCKING FACE MASK, for more than a week and a half. And not just the flimsy-paper doctor kind of mask, but the full-on N95-1860 particle respirator, which--

"...meets both OSHA requirements and CDC guidelines for TB exposure control. The model 1860 may be used during laser surgery, electrocautery, and other procedures involving powered medical instruments. Intended to help reduce wearer exposure to airborne particles in a size range of 0.1 to > 10.0 microns generated during these procedures. Fluid resistant to provide .99% BFE against microorganisms and help reduce potential contamination and exposure of the wearer to the spray, spatter, and aerosol of blood and body fluids.inst micron-size particles. CDC recommended to protect against avian and swine flu."

You know, the ones I bought when I was certain everyone was going to die dead of H1N1?

Anyway, when I caught that first cold, I wore it every time I fed the baby or held her or leaned over her to change her diaper, and after that first week and a half, I let myself take it off but still held it briefly over my face every time I had to cough. (The cough lingered.) And it was really fucking annoying. It's hard to breathe through those things. They are THICK. Pray to the Patron Saint of Effluvia that we don't ever have to wear them to protect against Zombie Flu or something.

Not only did I wear a mask, but my husband slept in the baby's room with her, instead of having her in the bassinet in our room next to me. I had to go like two precious weeks without kissing her. And I was fanatical about washing. I mean more than usual. If I touched my nose, I washed. If I ate and my hands touched my mouth, I washed. If I breathed, I washed. If I coughed into my elbow, I'd go take a hydrochloric acid bath. You get the point. I was living in terror. But, my efforts paid off. My tiny newborn did not catch my cold.

So now that we're past that fiasco, and Naomi did catch this new cold? While it broke my heart to see her too sniffly to even suck her binky, and mouth-breathing like a jerk, I just kind of let go of some of the stress. Because what's done is done--we caught it. We got sick. I didn't have to try anymore to have her not get THIS cold.

I caught it, but she caught it too, so I didn't have to go around wearing a gas mask and a HazMat suit and spritzing bleach about.

But seriously, doesn't this poor sick baby break your heart?

Being sick sucks. Having sick babies sucks. But this cold, we couldn't avoid.

Doesn't mean I'm not going to go into full gas-mask and HazMat mode when there's a Zombie Flu outbreak.

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:

---

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.

---

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. :)

The One About the "Various Other Nasty Phobias."

So, in addition to everything else I have going for me, I'm also a bit of an emetophobe.

It all began in 4th grade. My teacher was Mrs. Lang. I had just begun wearing a training bra, yea though any actual chesticles were years away from blossoming. My best friend was Holly Wolf. My crush was Luke Krupski. I was obsessed with ALF. I even had the ALF phone.

We were in the middle of a grade school reconstruction, so we were temporarily residing at a school called Aldercrest.

(Holy crap! I even found a picture of that very school, even though it no longer exists:)

That year began with a bang. I remember how we'd all wait outside the school, on the cement pavement in a covered area, and wait for the teachers to let us in.

I remember reading Are You There, God? It's Me, Margaret, and Ramona Quimby, Age 8.





And most of all, I remember everyone fucking puking on their desks or all over the floor.

Luke Krupski was the first to go. I'll never forget the day he ralphed all over Mrs. Lang's 4th grade classroom. I had loved that boy, ohhh did I ever, until I saw his neon purple puke all over the linoleum.

Kim Stewart was next. She upchucked during a math test.

The next day it was Keri Forester's turn. Puke-o-Rama. Barf-Fest 1987. Hurl to the Max. Literally, like, gag me with a spoon.

And so it went. Bout after bout of stomach flu overtook us all. The poor, dejected janitor and his yellow bucket and mop were in there so often we knew him by his first name. Also probably because his name-tag read "Hello, my name is Carl." Bygones.

And then before I knew it, it was my turn.

I got up during silent reading and told Mrs. Lang I felt sick. She said, "Go sit at your desk and rest, put your head down, just wait awhile to see if you feel better." I dutifully obliged, while feeling positively miserable. Only two minutes later, Mrs. Lang came to me and said, "You look really pale. Why don't you go to the nurse's office."

It all turned to slow motion. It really did. I remember every milisecond of it. I stood, slowly, so slowly, to extricate myself from my desk. And mid-extrication, suddenly, that undeniable urge. That unforgettable mouth-watery throat-tickly stomach-gurgly "I'mona hurl" moment. OHH SHIIIIIIII....

And I barfed. I barfed all over my desk. Right there in the middle of 4th grade, as all my classmates looked on.

I'll never forget as Mrs. Lang told poor Kim Stewart to deal with my puke (by putting a sheet of paper towel down over it) before Carl the Janitor got called in (for like the 48th time that day). I wondered what poor Kim had done to deserve that. I'll never forget the look of my vomit covered by a thin paper towel. And then Ashley Proctor escorted me to the nurse's office, where I laid feverishly under a beige wool blanket, waiting for my mom to arrive, every so often rising to throw up in the nurse's bathroom.

That stomach flu was a doozy. I have never felt so sick to my stomach in all my life. And while I was home sick all week, I remember lying in bed re-reading Ramona Quimby, Age 8, and barfing several times throughout, especially because Ramona herself gets the stomach flu in that book, and there is talk about fruitflies, and jars of blue oatmeal, and retching. "Go away, blue oatmeal," became Ramona's, and my, mantra.

Please. Go away, blue oatmeal.

I threw up in my bed so many times I'm surprised my mom didn't make me sleep in the bathtub. I mean, she brought me the Barf-Bucket(TM) and everything, but I always managed to ralph all over my bed, necessitating an entire change of sheets and blankets, and a bath for me. Once when all the bedclothes were dirty, she put me inside my brand-new splatter-paint design sleeping bag on my bed. I'll never forget that sleeping bag. It was so rad. It was so totally tubular. It was so fucking 1987.

It was a lot like this, but on an aqua background:

Anyway, I barfed in that fucker too. So guess what my mom did? Just threw it out. I think I would too.

After this flu, the worst of my life, I was incredibly obsessed with throwing up. If any of my friends happened to mention that they were feeling sick, I'd panic, back away, and ask in sheer terror, "ARE YOU GOING TO THROW UP!?" I was truly afraid they'd throw up. Afraid! Sore afraid.

And every time I felt nauseated, I'd say a prayer to the Patron Saint of Puke that I could hold it down.

This fear lasted for years. I'm not quite sure when it ended...maybe about the time our cat Opie spewed 4-1/2 feet of vomit down our hallway and there was no choice but to clean it up. My husband and I had just come home from a fancy Christmas party, and there we were, dressed to the nines, I in my fancy red party dress and sparkly jewels, cleaning up cat comet-vomit, laughing our respective bum-bums off. Because what else could we do but laugh? I mean, FOUR AND A HALF FEET OF PUKE.

PS: He got us good another time, with about twelve feet of puke that even rounded a corner, but we did not get photographic evidence of that. But take my word for it. Twelve feet.

So anyway. I guess I grew out of my emetophobia, for the most part.

Until my new fear arose and took its place:

Lice.

Frajeelay!

Aww. My new buddy Thea over at The Lint Trap decided to give me an award today! TWO awards today! I get these awards, as she tells me, "because your posts make me pee in pants on a regular basis." Right back atcha, babe. ;) Wooo for pee-pee panties!!

BEHOLD, MY AWARDS:

W00t! I'm a versatile blogger ON FIYAH!

The rules of redeeming these awards are as such: Write seven things about yourself and then pass the award on to 10 other bloggers. 

Well OK then.

1. I have OCD. lulz.

2. When I was one year old, I held a live bumblebee in my hand for the entire duration of a car ride and wasn't stung, but the bee later emerged rather disheveled and buzzed off drunkenly. When I was 7, I was stung by a bumblebee on my butt and then had to sit through my cousin's theater performance for 3 hours on a metal folding chair. When I was 8, I was stung by a wasp on my elbow, and it left a scar, which I proudly displayed at show-and-tell. Two weeks in a row. I was mad proud, son. When I was 12, I was innocently picking huckleberries at camp and was stung by a bumblebee on my ankle, through my sock. Upon being carried back from the infirmary to my cabin, some asshead kicked the beehive and I was immediately stung on my nose by my eye. When my mom came to pick me up from camp the next day, she quite literally walked right past me and didn't recognize me, because of the swelling.

3. When eating Doritos, I do not just munch them up. I thoroughly lick each one on both sides, before consuming.

4. My first kiss took place behind the dumpster in 8th grade. He and I had planned it all out very carefully, but chickened out the first time. The next day, we again rendezvoused at the dumpster and it finally happened. Magic. Love. The smell of garbage wafting in the air. Oh, and as a cherry on top, 20 years later he turned out to be gay. Right-o, then.

5. I can swallow food and then "bring it back up" on command. I can even do this with liquids. This was a cool cool cool trick in 8th grade, and everyone was revolted astounded and my lunchtime antics.

6. My favorite book in the world is A Confederacy of Dunces. It was the first book to ever make me laugh out loud, and I still do, every time I read it. And I must have read it about 14 times by now. Oh, Ignatius, you mad genius you.

7. As mentioned somedamnwhere else in this blog, I've met Tim Curry in person. I saw him, wearing sunglasses and toting some ratty red luggage, in the baggage line at the Puerto Vallarta airport, and I whispered furiously to my husband, "I AM NOT KIDDING RIGHT NOW BUT THAT IS FUCKING TIM CURRY RIGHT FUCKING THERE." My husband didn't believe me at the time; though, in his defense, Tim did look a bit...off his game. Scruffy, big ol' belly, and all. But then I approached one T. Curry a moment later and requested that I take his photograph, and he said, in his rolling, rich, ridiculous, one-of-a-kind accent, "If I let you take a picture, everyone will want to. Rather, treasure this moment." I answered, "And you also." Later, I fuckin' totally took his picture, covert-like. 

(This was clearly in the days before cameras were awesome)

Moments after I chatted with the old Brit.

And that about does it. Thank you for your time.

Oh yes, but now to name my ten bloggers upon whom I wish to bestow this great honour!

1. http://parentwin.blogspot.com (Jo + Dar = 4evr)

2. http://hurbleburble.blogspot.com/ (because this chick is awesome and she needs to GET GOING on her blog!!)

3. http://mrsschneed.blogspot.com/ She's beautiful, she's interesting, and her kid is adorbz. /END TRANS

4. http://ofmiceandramen.blogspot.com/ Her blog is so full of fascinating, beautiful images, and we share a faith. Love that!

5. http://josieandme.blogspot.com/ This lady doesn't know me at all and likely never will, but I've followed her blog for years. Sweet, tragic, beautiful, sad.

6. http://lonetater.blogspot.com/ Hilair. :)

7. http://babyfaithhope.blogspot.com/ Someone else who will never know me and will never see this, but whose blog has touched my heart so deeply.

8. http://chelle65584.blogspot.com/ Chelle. Love this girl already! 

9. http://mommybags.blogspot.com/ A fellow OCDer...you have a place in my heart already! ;)

10. http://mommamaynard.wordpress.com/ Wish I knew this girl in real life! :) xoxo, Jaime!

Anyway, you are all deserving of these two awards and may claim them at your leisure. Much love.

Oh, and thank you, Thea. This is a Major Award!!