I never wanted to have to say I told you so, but I told you so. :-(

The Girl Who Lived

Now presenting: Gross Things I Used to Do...Yet Somehow Survived.

I was in the shower this morning when I suddenly had a very clear memory of washing my hair in the sink as a preteen. Sounds innocuous, right? But I had very long hair and it used to go down the drain as I washed it. Like, the hair still attached to my scalp. Went down the drain. Down it. Not to mention it touched the entire inside of the sink bowl. Where you wash and rinse your filthy hands. And spit your toothpaste. This struck me as one of the grosser things people do without even realizing it's gross. But yes, I survived, scalp intact.

Still, it made me remember back to a fonder more horrifying time before OCD, when I did all kinds of gross things...and yet lived. For example:

I used to build "birds' nests" out of long strawlike grass, dirt, and water. I would make mud from the dirt and water, and take the straw grass and swirl it around in an old margerine container (which we used for cereal bowls before being told that to wash and reuse those plastic tubs CAUSES OMG CANCER). Then I'd apply the dirt-mud everso lovingly with my hands, patting, patting. Then I'd just carry on with life. Play on the monkeybars, go eat a sandwich, pick my nose, whatever. I have no memory of washing off the dirt-mud. Yet somehow, I survived mud.

I used to catch spiders and keep them in jars. This is less a germ thing than a phobia thing, because you see, these days I am terrified, TERRIFUCKINGFIED of spiders. I recently heard this gem of a fun fact, that wolf spiders (which we have in great quantities around the Pacific Northwest) carry their fucking young on their hairy furry backs. So every time you see a wolf spider, it likely has a billion tiny wolf spiders riding around piggystyle. I've had horrific nightmares ever since.)

Point is, I am seriously, not just casually but seriously, afraid of spiders. But I used to catch them, play with them, observe them, attempt to feed them bologna, love them.

One time in 2nd grade, we all caught spiders for a class project, and mine was this enormous specimen the color of butter, with a great vast abdomen which I assumed to be full of wee butter-colored spiders. I loved her. Oh how I loved her. I'm sure I named her Charlotte of some bullshit.

I had her for weeks, and then when it came time to release our beauties back into the wild, this one fucknoggin named Luke Krupski (the same Luke Krupski whom I used to have a crush on, the one who puked all over during my 4th grade Year of the Stomach Flu) squished her. Squished her dead. Within seconds of my releasing her, he stomped on her and gave a wild crazed chuckle as he did so. I cried, I literally sobbed for dear Charlotte. Because back then I did not scream, break a sweat, and piss my pants every time I saw a spider. I caught them and loved them. Yet somehow, I survived spiders.

In a similar vein, one time when I was about 8, my favorite cousin Sara and I went on a day hike with the family. Now, she and I did all kinds of gross shit--we caught fat toads, held tadpole eggs, drank pond water, ate mayonnaise straight from the jar (bygones), rubbed moss on our wounds, kissed the drippy noses of horses, etc. When I visited her in the country, we lived it up in the wild. But this one time, her family and I went on a hike to a beautiful river near Sultan, WA. Sara and I discovered that everywhere we looked were these things called periwinkles. Wikipedia tells me that these are actually called Caddisflies, or more specifically, Caddisfly larva emerging from case made of plant material.

When we caught these, they looked like inch-long hollow brown sticks, open at both ends. Then a tiny little creeping thing would stick out its legs and they could scuttle all over. OH MY GOD I AM RETCHING AND HEAVING JUST THINKING ABOUT THEM. So anyway, Sara and I caught a shitload of periwinkles and kept them in this tupperware bowl and decided in our genius to bring them home with us. Well. Apparently, when kept out of water, or at room temp or just when ready to hatch, or whatthefuckever, they fucking crawl. ALL OVER. So we had dozens of periwinkles escaping our plastic bowl in the car on the ride home from our day hike. Periwinkles everywhere. I have goosebumps just thinking about it. My cousin and I eventually had to clean out the car by ourselves and rid the entire place of Caddisfly larvae. Yet somehow, I survived periwinkles.

I used to share gum with people. If my little BFF Natasha had a piece of gum and I wanted some, she'd bite her current wad in half and give it to me. Like, the piece that was actually chewed up in her mouth. She'd "share." And I'd eagerly accept. If Peggy wanted some gum and I was snacking on one, I'd spit out a piece for her and she'd take it. I also used to share bites of everything, sips of everything, and licks of things like Ring Pops. I want to vom as I type this. Yet somehow, I survived sharing gum and candy.

I guess the point is, humans are resilient. We can survive gum-sharing and caddisfly larvae and mud. Maybe I should be less vigilant and less freaked out about germs? Then I think of how hard the common cold affects me, and I want to burn down the world and drown it in hand sani and bleach.

Go with God, child. Go with God.

Update on Your Favorite Person Evar, Me.

So I guess it's been awhilst since I've updated. I know this due to a gentle prodding from a few of you. ;-) LOVE YOU!

Not much is new with me. I have no new reports about emetophobia or hoarding or the like. I'm still struggling in a winter world filled with flu, however. And over Christmas I had two, count 'em two, colds, back to back, plus a sinus infection and major nasal inflammation. Nothing touched it. Not major overdoses of Afrin, nor pseudoephedrine tablets. Not Mucinex, not cough syrup. Not the Neti Pot. Nothing cleared my nose. I could neither blow nor snort. I was stuffed UP, son. Stuffed UP. Stuffed.

Finally I got on antibiotics for my sinus infection and eventually things got better, but those were some hard days. Nothing like having your ears explode every single time you swallow, 1047823000 times a day. Nothing like waking up choking to death because you've had to mouth-breath while sleeping and your throat is stuck SHUT. Good times.

So I'm over that for now, but people wonder why I am so afraid of the common cold? It's because it affects me so hard.

The kids were super sick too, over the holidays. Hacking croupy coughs, poor angels. Everyone at the holiday gatherings looked at me like I was the Christmas Satan, sent straight from Hell to make sick every last one of thee. Which I guess I was.

Anyway. Now we're really into flu season, so God help me. Every time my kids and I are at a restaurant and they touch the undisinfected table and then eat a french fry, I quake. Every time my kids want to touch the elevator buttons, every sphincter in my body slams shut and I shout NO! Every time my kids ask to go to the McPlayPlace, I'm all, "r you evn srs rite nao"

Because it's flu season, motherfuckers. TEH FLU.

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Today I think my biggest piece of news is that I'm getting my hairs did. I'm terrified though. I want to get the last inch or two of hair died bright red, but I'm scared to death. How stupid is that? Who am I trying to impress? Maybe, if you're lucky, I'll post a pic of me later after getting it done. Assuming I don't chicken out.

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It's later. I got my hairs did. Here you go!

I confess that whenever I go in for a haircut or color or AWESOME RED-TIPPED ENDS, I freak out, fuh-reak OUT, about the "used brushes." How do they clean those motherfuckers? I actually witnessed, during my appointment, a stylist digging at her bristle brush and exclaiming, "It is so hard to get hair out of these!" So....how do they? She did mention the blessed, blessed word "Barbicide," thank you sweet baby Jesus for Barbicide, but still I worry so so very deeply about catching the lice.

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I've got nothing else. Other than, flu season, bitches. Wash your hands every 15 minutes and don't touch anything at all ever.

Suck It, Trebek.

CDC Urges Americans To Suck Doorknobs

Halloween: Where You Come Away With a Handful of Baby Ruths and Swine Flu.

Ruth! Ruth! Ruth! Baby? Ruth!

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Halloween is one of the most awesome times of the year. It's fall, so everything is damp and red and gold and cozy. You can start drinking pumpkin spice lattes, you can have a fire in the fireplace, you can curl up under your fleecy electric throw blanket, you can break out the Bath & Body Works Apple Harvest antibacterial foaming soap. And then on the 31st you get to give fun-size Twixes to little giraffes and baby Elmos and pint-size draculas. I love autumn, I love Halloween.

What I don't love is all the bum-bum germs. 

Nothing freaks me out more than walking around the local town center to trick-or-treat, seeing and hearing all the coughing, sneezing, sniveling robots and witches and ballerinas wipe their noses and then reach into the common bowl of treats, rifle through them, and select the perfect mini Snickers. Then it's my kids' turn to reach into the germ incubator and pick their fun-sized bar of crispity crunchety peanutbuttery influenza, whereupon later they will go home, paw through their sack of candy, tear open the wrappers, and stuff chocolate into their gaping maws. With hands now properly coated with the sputum of so many other children. Mmm.

So how can we remedy this? We can't. The end. Love, Jo.






OK, well, I do have an idea or two. Awhile back, a friend suggested that you could possibly kill all the germs with fire ice. She wondered if maybe by putting all the candy into the freezer, you might end up with not only deliciously frozen treats, but deactivated bum-bum germs. I think this is a remote possibility, although I tend to think that freezing your candy only cryogenically preserves the viruses, to be later reactivated by your warm fingers.

You could also clean each and every piece of wrapped candy with a Clorox wipe, but even I, who cleans off her groceries, think this is an inconvenience.

Rather, I think the better option is to come home from trick-or-treating, take off your shoes, wash your hands, use hand sanitizer (OK this is just my regular routine), but then here's the kicker, one by one open each (or a select bunch of) candies, throw away the wrappers, then rewash your hands and put all the unwrapped candies into a bowl or jar. Then your kid can snack from the bowl of treats and not have to touch the wrappers that so many sweaty, sticky little fingers have previously manhandled.

Overkill? Not during flu season, says I. I know you're rolling your eyes at me, but that is why you will be eating Skittles + Snivels, and Reece's Pieces of Poop, and Hershey Squirts, and Butt-fingers, and Goober Boogers, and BubbleTapeWorms, whereas my children will be eating bum-bum-germ-free delights. Thank you and good night.

Three Fine Ways to Avoid Bum-Bum Germs.

We pick up bum-bum germs all day long, on our hands, our shoes, our cell phones, our purses, and so forth. But there are three big things you can do to remedy this nasty situation.

First: Take off your shoes when coming home. Do you ever think about the things you are tracking in? Dirt, bird poop, squirrel poop, dog poop, spit, gum, bum-bum germs galore. Would you lick the bottom of your shoes? I'm guessing that 99% of you would not, although I am excluding the Deep South from my facts and figures. So why would you walk on your floors and carpets or curl up on your bed or couch with your shoes on, and expect your kids to crawl, lie, or play on those now-yucky surfaces? Taking your shoes off at the door will prevent SO much muck from coming in, and hey, you won't have to clean your carpets as much. If you have a baby who is scooting or crawling, this is especially important. Because, groce.

Second: Wash your hands upon arriving home. After, naturally, taking off your shoes. Think of everything you touch while you are out: Shopping carts, gas pumps, doorknobs, escalator rails, your steering wheel, your cell phone, money, people's hands, restaurant salt & pepper shakers, and so forth. Maybe you even went to the doctor today and touched things that other sick people touched. Everything you can think of is crawling with germs. Colds, flu, fecal matter. Yummo. So as soon as you are home, lather up. Just get rid of all those things you've touched in the big scary world. Start fresh. This makes me feel like my home is a safe haven, free of the majority of "outside germs." If you're bringing your kids home from school, it's especially important to wash their hands, because school is a hotbed of disgustery.

Third: Never, ever put your purse or bag or wallet on the counter. Handbags are teeming with germs. They are dirtier than a toilet. Your purse handle touches everything you touch. You often place it on the floor of restaurants as you eat, or movie theaters as you get your World War Z on; it accompanies you to the public toilet and you handle it after doing your biznass; etc. The strap of your purse, the bottom of your purse, and the inside of your purse is filth-laden. Clean it on the regular, and never, EVER plop it on the kitchen counter along with your keys when you get home.

Why Don't We Just Eat the Zombies? They're Already Dead.

Today I came across a friend's talking about how she paid a visit to her local butcher. And I was thinking, "Butcher. What a truly bizarre profession. To slaughter animals all day long."

Now I am no vegetarian, although I eat very little meat just in passing. But to cut up and chop up and filet up and slice up and grind up animals all day long is just very...icky.

Not to mention the bum-bum germs. Someone has to yank out the poop chutes. And the grinding--think of all the airborne meat germs.

Although thank goodness somebody does it, because, steak.

In the event of Zombie Apocalypse, do you think you could slaughter your own food? Could you slit the throat of little Peter Cottontail? Does it matter what kind of animal? Maybe you could kill a chicken but not a goat? Do you think, if you had to, you could actually do it to keep your family alive?

Survivors.

So the time has come to post again. I am still FRESH OUT, SON, of ideas. I mean, you can only blog about Purell and new Advanced Purell ("takes less to do the job"(TM)) so many times. So what now?

I think I'll free-associate here.

So my most recent meeting with Dr. P

As I was saying, my most recent meeting with DR MOTHERFUCKING P, went poorly. We kind of have nothing to talk about anymore. Kind of like me, and this blog. Nothing to talk about. He asked questions, but my answers to those questions we vague and were almost always "I don't know." Or, "I feel like, I don't know, it's complicated, I don't know."

So now what? He seems unwilling to delve deeper, like delve into the sources of my OCD (which I could easily explain to him, since I KNOW how they started). He seems unwilling to talk about much at all, except for my meds.

Now, I feel a certain, how do you say, oh yes, kinship with this man. 

I've been seeing him for at least a year and a half. So it would be traumatic to attempt to start seeing a new therapist, and having to explain the SAME SHIT ALL OVER AGAIN. So on one hand, I feel sort of bound to him. On the other, he's not really doing much for me. Other than carefully monitoring my medication--I can give him that much. (PS: Awesome sidenote--the meds I'm on, combined with a less-than-stellar diet, have caused me to gain approximately 2387438 pounds exactly. I am positively rotund. Bygones.)

So anyway, Dr. P. He seems to want to farm me out to another therapist--he's constantly on my case about seeing someone who specializes in CBT (cognitive behavioral therapy)--which is a whole lot of "be present in the moment, acknowledge your pain, feel grounded, put your feet on the fucking floor, know that this too shall pass." Good advice for normal people. But I'm not normal.

I will continue this later, because as heretofore mentioned, I have nothing to say. A lot of words to say nothing I have to say, but still. I must go wash bottle nipples. Yes my two-year-old child still uses and loves her bottle. What of it?

More later.

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It's later. I've currently got cupcakes burning in the oven, where my five-year-old drizzle-dripped that batter right the hell into those cupcake papers, or near enough. And then she licked her fingers. Salmon-to-the-ella, what what? Oh well, I survived, she will too. Maybe that's my Luvox talking, but we'll be OK. After a small bout of diarrhea.

The other day, we went to a birthday party at, get this, CHUCK E. FUCKING CHEESE. As if anything could be any grosser. So my kids touched tokens, and went on rides, and climbed climbers, and then ate horrible pizza, and yet survived. So far with no ill effects. Except for the E. Coli. Bygones.

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Today I plan to take the kids to the park. I'm only doing it because I promised last night I would, so I can't get out of it.

Edit: Mission accomplished! We actually went to two parks. Go me! The kids had an absolute blast. Here are a bazillion pictures of the cutest chitlins ever:

Lots of fun, right? I even let them play in the dirt and gravel. Although I did periodically Purell them and when we came home I made them strip naked and wash their hands for four hours.

Love,

Jo

The Benjamins. Not just for snorting Cocaine.

A study on the thingies what are found on your moneys.

"In a 2002 study published in the Southern Medical Journal, researchers at Wright-Patterson Air Force Base in Ohio found that 94 percent of the 68 bills tested were contaminated with bacteria ...  7 percent harbored dangerous pathogens, including Klebsiella pneumoniae, which can cause infections such as pneumonia, and Staphylococcus aureus, which can cause skin and other infections. Other experiments have found the fecal bacteria E. Coli."

Are you willing to take the risk, ARE YOU??

" 'Paper money is a good conduit of germs,' said Tierno, author of The Secret Life of Germs, "--the older ones more so."

Don't care about E.Coli? How about snow, blow, crack, weasel dust, and paradise white?

"Paper currency certainly is a good conduit of cocaine. A 2009 University of Massachusetts study that tested 234 bank notes from 18 U.S. cities found 90 percent of the bills tested positive for cocaine."

Also, "A 2001 study of 10 one-dollar bills, published in Forensic Science International, also found 70 percent contaminated with heroin, 30 percent with methamphetamine and 20 percent with PCP."

Don't be licking your dollar bills, son. Lest you go on a bad, bad trip.

Squimming Pools.

When I was young, I used to go swimming in our little alligator swimming pool in the back yard. Do you remember those alligator swimming pools? They were green hard plastic and had a super tiny like two-foot slide into the water. I was a child of the 1980s (Generra Hypercolor, what what), so maybe you young whippersnappers don't remember alligator swimming pools, but trust me, they were kickass.

Well. During those hot summers, I'd play in our alligator pool, but then, we'd let the water sit and stagnate. It would sit for the entire summer. But I'd still put on my Strawberry Shortcake swimsuit or my fantastic neon suit with the squiggles all over it, and I'd go outside during the dog days and bob about in it.

Most of the time there were mosquito larvae squimming in the water.

I'd still play in it.

I'd swim, me and those larvae. I'd swim.

Which might be the reason today that I nuke our hot tub with fire and put 18 cups of chlorine in our kiddie pool, burning the eyes and flesh of my children.

School 'n Jell-O 'n Aliens. Schelloliens.

So back when my older chitlin was 4ish years old, and we put her in preschool, she was getting sick every 2 to 3 hours. Like, we'd send her to class and she catch her 17th concurrent illness. Measles, mumps, AND Rubella. Shigella. Diphtheria. Tetanus. SARS. Hep A B C D and E. North Korean Kangaroo Flu. Pancreatic cancer. She caught everything. In other words, SICK ALL THE TIME.

After maybe four or five U.S. American months, we withdrew her from class, because (A) as heretofore mentioned, she was sick all of the time with all of the things; (2) it was expensive as hell; and (3) she fucking hated school. So why pay for it?

A year later, we put her back in school. This time she loved it. Loved class, loved her teachers. So we were hell-bent on making this work.

Lo and behold, she got sick every 3.275 hours. Such is the life of a Pre-K child I suppose. Such is the life of any school-age kid. Because parents can't seem to make sure they keep their violently ill child home in order to avoid the spread of the sick. Sniffle? Send 'em to school. Vomiting? Send 'em to school. Bloody diarrhea? Send 'em to school. Mouth sores and peeling skin? Send 'em to school. Black hairy tongue? Send 'em to school.

YOU'RE WELCOME.

But. It got better. Maya went at least three months between colds. I was shocked and amazed. This is the kid who got four colds on top of each other and was sick non-stop, non-to-the-stizzop. But now she was going entire flu seasons without getting ill. Fuck yeah! Thank you, obsessive handwashing and flu vaccines. Thank you Heavenly Father and thank you Lady Luck. Thank you unicorns and thank you fairy dust. Thank you Purell Advanced. Thank you dear 8 pounds 6 ounce newborn infant Jesus, don't even know a word yet, lying there in your ghost manger, just looking at your Baby Einstein developmental videos, learnin' about shapes and colors. Thank you.

Wherein John Christopher Reilly barely stifles a laugh at W. Ferrell's ad-libbed shenanigans.

Where am I going with all this information? I have no idea. Noooooooo idea. No i-deer.

Other than to say, it gets better. I guess. With the exception of a rough start to the school year, we've been really, really lucky not to get fatally sick this season.*** Of course, there's always next. There's always room for E-C-O-L-I.

I'll have you know that the aforementioned jpeg won out over all other fantastic search results, including the following: 

Classic Jell-O

Zombie Jell-O

Ugly Jell-O

Jell-O Invasion

And Cosby Jell-O.

Because, Georgio Tsoukalos . And Jell-O. Just, Jell-O.

How have you and YOURS been this cold & flu season? Well, I hope.

*** And now cue rampant norovirus, now that I've made all these claims straight in the face of superstitions.

It Never Fails.

So I finally crawled out of my hermit shell and invited friends over for a playdate. My friend has two daughters like I do, the same age as Maya and Naomi. We had a fun time, gossiping about the neighbors and talking Reality TV and just enjoying ourselves. It was nice to have adult company for once.

But.

Wouldn't you know it.

I received an email later saying that my friend's daughter had the barfing flu. Only hours after she left our house. After playing within mere centimeters of each other and chewing on toys and sharing a bowl of Goldfish and accidentally using the same sippy and such.

It never fails.

In the same vein, I haven't seen my Acid Test friends in like five months, but let me tell you this: let me tell you that if I bit the bullet and called them up and went out for dinner or drinks or played at home with the kids, let me tell you that I would receive news mere hours after the get-together that my friend's daughter had a severe strep infection or pinkeye or a raging case of the trots or airborne diabetes. We're talking Captain Trips all up in here.

Hear me now, believe me later. It would happen.

So I can't seem to win. Sure, my daughter had a nice time playing with a buddy. And I loved hanging with my friend too. But seriously, the stomach flu? I can't win.