Naomi's New Friend.

I declined just this once to heed my own advice and let my baby girl enjoy her new best friend.

Hey, maybe this is a step in the less OCD right direction. David P. Strachan would be right proud. Except that Naomi is probably licking off Windex and Clorox, and that's not exactly what he intended. But surely there's some fly vomit in there as well, to boost ye olde immune system.

"Who, me, making out with an adorable chick?"

High School Daze.

I know I've struggled with being a germaphobe for at least the last 20 years, but I'm not quite sure when my OCD took a sharp left and really, really became hardcore.

Like, when did it really became life-alteringly bad? You know, I remember back in high school, I was a pretty damn hardcore germaphobe. I remember being a fierce handwasher, and I remember just as fiercely refusing, to the detriment of my all-important school popularity, to share my hairbrush. But then again, I also remember using the water fountain *shudder*, something I'd never in a million years do nowadays.

Is that the jankiest photo editing you ever done seen? lul.

I do remember noticing and being utterly horrified concerned about the actions of others. I remember telling you guys about how my friend Joy would say she didn't need to wash her hands after using the school bathroom because, inexplicably, "she had already showered that morning." As if showers "stuck."

O_O

I just--I mean--I can't--I--I--

Anyway. That kind of thing drove me nuts. It grossed me out beyond belief. I remember being disgusted when I'd see fellow students walk out after not using that gritty, sandy pink powder soap (remember that shit??)--

--to scrub up after using the bathroom. But my gross-out didn't practically disable me. Whereas nowadays, if I was hanging out with someone who didn't wash, I would either need a full-on Hazmat suit in order to continue our day date/play date, or I would have to bid them adieu for the day and go home and take a rape-shower.

Back then, I would just think, "You are a sick, gross individual, and I will not share your Funyuns at lunch time. Carrying on." And I would. I would carry on. Without dwelling. WITHOUT DWELLING.

And back then, in high school, I had approx. 790 homework assignments per night. It didn't help that I was in Advanced Everything. Advanced Placement English. Honors History. Honors Science. Calculus in 9th grade. Gym Class for Superstars. Just kidding about that last one, I was a fat lazy fuck.

I took home about seven enormous, giant, three-pounds-each textbooks per night, plus my hugely overstuffed binder, plus all manner of extraneous shits. I was also playing it cool by carrying my backpack on one shoulder as opposed to wearing the backpack properly on two shoulders. And FORGET the strap that went around your middle inn order to evenly distribute the weight so that you would not end up a hunchback. First, my middle was far too large in those days for such shenanigans. Second, I mean, come on, fucking DORKY. I mean, shut up.

I have a point somewhere, bear with me.

So...cutting to the chase, I took home with me book after book of homework, and never once did it occur to me to disinfect or Lysol or Clorox off the covers of textbooks that I was using. (1) Because my BFFs Lysol and Clorox wipes hadn't been invented yet, dammit; and (2) because it just didn't goddamn occur to me. Because while I was germ obsessed, I wasn't That OCD yet. This was both good and bad. Bad because I surely brought home myriad horrific high school germs with me and unwittingly shoved them up my nose and got sick, but Good because I wasn't a raging paranoiac yet.

I blog about this now because, the point is, now I AM a raging paranoiac. What am I to do when Maya or Naomi is in school and, every single day of her life, brings home 6 or 8 textbooks plus a PeeChee or Trapper Keeper or two? 

Shall I Clorox off those bitches before I allow her to run some mathematical proofs? Shall I spritz them with Lysol before I allow her to calculate the circumference of whatever the fuck? I just don't know.

I am glad on one hand that my OCD wasn't quite this bad during my high school days, but now it IS this bad. So what am I supposed to do when my kids are in junior high or high school? It's bad enough now that one of my children is in PRE-fucking-SCHOOL. But I can deal with wiping down a lunch box and quarantining a backpack like it's got the bubonic plague. But when it comes to math textbooks and history textbooks, shit, son, am I really going to say, "Hi honey, welcome home, I made you some snickerdoodles, now let's use some medical-grade CaviWipes on your English lit book before we get started on your homework?"

It's s hard. I do, but I don't, want to pass on The Crazy. I do, and I don't. I don't, and I do.

Off-Topic Tuesday.

An off-topic post having nothing to do with bum-bum germs, because I can, and because my kid is really quite cute.

I call this one:

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Next up: A video blog wherein same cute kid talks about why handwashing is important.

Monday Musings.

When sitting upon a friend's couch, do any of you wonder just how many times that particular couch has been sexed upon? No? Just me? Huh. OK then, carry on.

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.

Fun Friendly Phobic Fact Friday!

Purses are filthy. Think of how often you dig inside with dirty hands, hands that have been touching everything from ATMs to restaurant menus to doctor's office pens to money to bathroom stall door locks, etc. They carry your money, your wallet, your cell phone (shudder). They are almost never cleaned, and when they are, it can be hard to know how to truly disinfect properly. I like to empty mine and just give it a good old-fashioned lung-burning spray of straight Lysol. Lysol is pretty good for cleaning cloth surfaces.

But that's just the inside of purses. Because people set their handbags down on the floor at places like restaurants and food courts or, God forbid, restrooms, they are positively teeming with bacteria.

 "Research shows that bacteria like E. coli cling to the bottom of at least 18% of bags. Keep bags off the floor and whatever you do, don’t set a bag on any surface where food is made or eaten."

And we all know where E. Coli comes from.

In one study, the outside of purses--

"had bacteria counts in the tens of thousands. Doctors say the majority of the bacteria found on the purses can cause bacterial infections, with symptoms that include fever, vomiting, diarrhea [and] can be a breeding ground for bacteria that can infect your entire family."

I don't know which carries more germs. The dog, the purse, or Ms. Hilton.

Addendum: They actually make handbag hooks to keep your purses off the floor. Even the Queen of England is known to use these. Sweet!

BUT FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, CLEAN YOUR PURSES, PEOPLE.

Tagged Thursday!

I was tagged by my new chum and friend of OCD, mommybags, who challenged me to take part in this...er, challenge. So here I go!


1. My most beautiful post: Well, I don't tend to make posts of actual beautiful things--to the contrary, I talk about things like lice and bum-bum germs. But I suppose you could find the beauty in the emotional difficulty it took for me to discuss what it was like growing up in an extremely messy, dirty home. That was pretty painful to share with the class.

NOT AN ACTUAL PHOTOGRAPH OF THE HOUSE I GREW UP IN. (just, close enough.) :P

2. My most popular post: Stat-wise, it seems like people are all over the one about the barfcapades.

3. My most controversial post: Easy, the ones where I discussed the Hygiene Hypothesis and expressed that I think it's p. much, well...

4. My most helpful post: My Fun Friendly Phobic Fact Fridays! All of them! If there is one of them I hope you take to heart the most, I suppose it would be the one about how you should wash your hands after touching your wet "clean" laundry. Or, while it wasn't a specific Phobic Fact Friday topic, the advice about how you should always wash your produce with soap, especially apples and melons and such. E. coli and listeria are no fun for anyone. No fun I tell you.

5. A post whose success surprised me: Probably my rebuttal to "offbeatmama's" post about how she'd prefer her kid to eat dog shit than use babywipes on their bum-bums. It inspired a lot of comments, some in support and some not, and although the comments got a bit off-track, discussion is what I aim for!

6. A post I feel didn’t got the attention it deserved: Huh. I dunno. I wish more people had appreciated the beauty that was "WWRMcD." lol.

7. The post that I am most proud of: Perhaps the one about Why I Share My Dirty Little Secrets. I think I am most proud of this one because my husband told me it was his favorite post of mine so far, and his approval means the world to me. It wasn't my funniest post, or my cleverest post, or my most well-written post, but if he liked it best, then so do I.

---

Now I have to tag some of you guyses!

My girl Chelle--I think we have a lot in common, even if it's not OCD. :)

Jaime over at mommamaynard, because I heart her and she needs to update more. ;)

Mommy 2 Cents, a new fave for sure. Wait! She was already tagged. Sooo...

The Woman Formerly Known As Beautiful. If she doesn't make you laugh, no one will and you are dead inside.

Darlena at ParenTwin, because she and I can do more than debate the Hygiene Hypothesis. :)

Thea, at TheLintTrap! One of my first favorites after I began this blog.

Annnd...anyone else who wants to. I know I'm forgetting some peeps. Go for it!

Friends With Benefits.

When I adopt something, it takes awhile before it really feels like "mine."

When I was 14 and in the beginning stages of a new disorder, specifically obsessive-compulsive, we had just adopted a stray dog from Hooterville Pets. He was filthy when we got him, being a stray and all. It took several days and several baths, but eventually he became Mine. Once he was clean enough.

Oscar, wearing grey, and Kevin, the one-eyed Pekingese. Yes, one-eyed. 

He thought he was Tough Stuff and he got in a fight with a bigger dog one time. I'll spare you the details.

When I was 22, I moved out of the home I'd lived in since I was born. I was in some of the deepest darkest throes of OCD, and it was crucial to me that my new homestead be positively STERILE, a wild departure from the digs I had grown up in. Well, my apartment had had dozens of denizens before me, and it was hardly sterile. But I took my bleach in hand and Had At It. At first, the place was foreign to me. It felt unclean, it felt strange, it didn't feel like home. But perhaps a couple of weeks into living there, it finally became Mine. Once it was clean enough.

When I was newly 27, I was newly engaged. My fiance and I bought the house together, but I didn't move in until we were married, because I was such a good little girl. I didn't move in, but I did clean it. Oh did I clean it. I remember cleaning it so furiously that anyone who entered the room I was currently sterilizing would utter an incoherent "GUH!" in shock at the sheer amount of fumes present. I was cleaning with a tub & tile cleanser that almost took the paint off the walls. I am positive I did permanent damage to my alveoli. But the lady who lived in this house before us was a--choke--Cat Lady, and we found cat hair in the most foul surprising of places. Including INSIDE THE REFRIGERATOR. What. So you know this here OCDer was just freaking out. I killed this place with fire before I would allow my husband to move in. And once it was bleached, tub & tiled, Cloroxed, and Lysoled to within an inch of its very life, it felt like home. It was Ours. Well, it was His, but you know, Ours.

---

I mention all of this because last Saturday was my friend S's moving day. (S is becoming quite a fixture in this here blog!) Now, S isn't anything like me. A germaphobe she is not. In fact, she couldn't care less about such things. I've witnessed her child eat something off the floor of Starbucks. (And if she ever read this, she would have to concede this fact.) :-)  But she was moving into a new place on Saturday, and she had wrangled a bunch of friends to help her do it. She had the requisite beefy men to do the heavy lifting, and a gaggle of girls to to the packing and unpacking and arranging and so forth. But I was the only friend who volunteered, and energetically so, for the disinfecting.


See, I was the one who would go along and really truly clean. Yes, to clean ALL THE THINGS. Oh, sure, Kim was there before I was, and she had run a vacuum through the joint, and Rachel had put up some trinkets and doodads and made the place look homey, but I came along with my Clorox and my Lysol and my scrubby sponges and my clinical OCD eye for detail and really de-germed the fucker. I Lysoled down faucets. I Lysoled down handles. I Lysoled down doorknobs. I Cloroxed the inside of cabinets. The inside of cupboards. The inside of closets. I disinfected the countertops. The inside and outside of the microwave. The inside and outside of the refrigerator and freezer. The tops and knobs of the washer/dryer and dishwasher. I scrubbed and sprayed down the toilets and the showers and the bathtubs. I attacked the really grody gently used shabby-chic bedroom set that S had gotten off Craigslist for her daughter, and did so with a ferocity that would have pleased even the most OC of Ders.

All this, for my beloved S...who truly probably couldn't have cared less. :-)

But I did it because I  love S, and I care about where she lives and how she lives, and I wanted her home to feel like Hers. And I know what it takes for a home to feel like mine, so I did what I could for her. This was my contribution: Wet knees and dishpan hands and a sweaty brow and chemical burns fumes from here to right over there. I did it because cleaning and sterilizing and attention to nooks and crannies is my curse gift and sometimes it can actually come in useful instead of burdening me and everyone around me.

Love ya S! Hope you like your haven of purity! I did what I could for you, 'cos I lurve you.

Monday Musings.

Can you disinfect paper? One wonders.

There's got to be a way. I'm someone who is (surprise surprise) SUPER squicked out by things like library books. I use Clorox wipes on those like crazy--that is, on the hardcovers or on the shiny removable book covers. I even Clorox-wipe brand-new Amazon books, fresh from the mailbox (then again, I Clorox-wipe all my Amazon goodies, books or not).

So the library book cover can be cleaned--but what of the paper pages that 8 billion and counting have touched? Surely germs survive on paper, but is there a way to clean those pages? And what about things like--shudder--book lice? Molds, bacteria?

I've heard that you can clean paper egg crates by microwaving them. An interesting concept. But it's not like I can just run to my nearest library and then take The Help and fuckin' nuke it on high for 25 seconds. Well, not without risking meltdown.

Anyway, this is something I will continue to pursue. An OCD practice I will surely seek to perfect. Because I can clean off 8 billion hands from book covers all right, but there are countless boogers and bum-bum germs on the pages that lie within, and that is just not OK with me. Not remotely OK.

On Manicures and Pedicures.

...no, not the Fish Kind.

So awhile back, I asked my friend S (of the S&M variety) what she does to her nails, because they are always so pretty. Turns out she gets acrylics. I always had bad associations of acrylic nails, thinking they were for the over-sixties crowd and were always thick, horribly long, beyellowed horrors:

...or that they were a "designer" nightmare:

But S's nails were always so lovely.

So one day I decided to go for it.

Now, I've always been wary of getting manis and pedis. I mean, there are so many horror stories of people getting nail fungus or other atrocious problems, and you have to make sure they sterilize properly, and each salon is always kind of hit or miss (and usually "miss" in a big big way) until you really find Your Place.

So S and I went on a trek to find Our Place. We had our acrylics done at a certain joint a bit southeast of us, and I was actually quite pleased for a first timer:

Nice, normal, natural. Thus, I was hooked. 

And since then, we've gone to a few other places closer to where we live, trying to find Our Place. We went to one salon on a whim, where, thank God we had the pedi done first, because they did such an atrocious job on our feet (they couldn't even do a decent job applying polish--I mean CUB OD)--

--that I can't even imagine what they would have done when applying our acrylic nail fills, so after the pedis, we skedaddled out, slyly claiming a "time conflict," and then had our nails done elsewhere. We lucked out, because it turned out that the "elsewhere" is Our Place. I think we found it. Pricier, but very very nice. And they did a great job on our acrylic fills.

The only problem? Oh, y'know, a little thing called Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. I mean, talk about pressing the limits of my germaphobia. Even when the salon is pristine, and the autoclave is directly in my line of sight, imagine the balls it takes for me to sit there and basically hold hands with a stranger for 45 minutes, or let them scrub my feet and massage my entire lower legs and just pray to the Patron Saint of Shaven Callouses that the equipment truly is fresh and clean and that I'm not picking up a raging case of someone's tinea pedis or HIV or zombie flu. I've seen one too many places take cursory swipes of their pedicure bowls with a rotting, grimy sponge to feel confident in the cleanliness of the water my feet are soaking in. Plus, (1) what is that blue crystal stuff they add to the water; and (B) what does it actually do--disinfect, soften, or just prettify the water; and (iii) do they think it can actually accomplish anything if they add it by the micro-mili-scoop? I mean, that shit is added with a cocaine spoon, y'all. What could it possibly do but turn the water a little bit blue? It sure ain't killing no zombie foot-hepatitis.

Anyway.

So the last time S and I went out in search of Our Place, and we had Series of Unfortunate Events before actually finding a nice salon, after getting my toes did in the GROCE SALON, I came home and first scrubbed off my feet with Sani-Hands for Kids (which really should be called "Sani-Hands-and-Feet for Kids and OCDers"--they're missing their market) so that I could dare tread on the carpets of my pristine home--

--and then made my way to the bathroom and literally took a full shower, scrubbing down my entire leg area. Three times. Seriously, three times.

Anyway, so far so good. No Zombie flu or raging fungal infections, but sweet God is my toenail polish job atrocious. I can't wait for my next appointment at Our Place where I will get them redone. And then go home and take a bleach bath anyway, even IF Our New Place is hygienic to the naked eye. I mean, surely germs and fungi can live in the jars of nail polish, right? And those can't be disinfected and are reused constantly, round the clock? And....and.....

...OK, I should end this entry now before I work myself into A State.