Are You There, God? It's Me, Jo.

Now while I'm a big believer in God, and I feel His work must be perfect and holy and righteous and all that nonsense, I can't help but sometimes think, "You know what, Pal? I could have planned this shit a hell of a lot better than You. No offense, Jesus."

Let's think this through for a second.

SEX. 

For example. First and foremost, the nasty. As I've heard it so crudely explained, who runs a sewage pipe through a recreational area? Sorry, but who wants to get all playful and lovely dovey and disover a BUTTHOLE in the way? Nothxyouvmuch. Butts are off limits. If it were up to me, I'd plan the fun and naughty bits as far away from the excretory system as I could. Maybe we'd poop out our toes or pee out our elbows. I don't know. But anything is better than a pee hole one centimeter away from the female pleasure bits, or pissing directly out one's supposed-to-be-sexy manhood. And butts? Don't even get me started. Why are they RIGHT THERE? Why right there? Why is the taint (a.k.a. the watch-your-step zone) only one inch big? So wretchedly unsexy. I want nothing to do with this butt of yours kind sir. I could have designed it better, Jesus.

BOOBS. 

Second, for all your nursing mothers out there, don't your beautiful and glorious and full and perky breasts lose some of their magic when they are scabbed over, bleeding, leaking, aching like the bejeezus, and you cringe if your husband gets withing six American inches of them or if he accidentally brushes by them or you god forbid, have to shower and the water pelts down upon your glorious aching bosoms? Oh I remember the agony like it was yesterday. The last thing you want is sexytime when he's all over those puppies. Not only because you'll soak and spray the bed with your milky milky goodness, but because there is a switch that has been flipped in your head that says, "These are for baby. They are no long for sexytime, at least for 9-1/2 months or more." And if you are anything like me, "I don't want your slobbery lips and/or beard all over my pristine baby feeders. Who know where those lips have been? Sorry honey, just wait a year and we'll be back to normal and you can smother my glorious creamy white mounds of love of with smooches. No big, right?" I could have designed it better, Jesus.

BIRTH. 

Business in the front, party in the back.                

Speaking of bringing forth young, I would have liked things to go the way for humans that they do for kangaroos, for example. A kangaroo gives birth to a very tiny, very immature joey, 2 cm long and weighing less than a gram. I could get used to that. This Joey gave birth to a seven-pound, ten-ounce Noey.  Screw this linebacker, I want a gram-size baby. The baby roo wriggles out of the mother's vajayjay, with the mother's lady bits totally intact, no harm done, no tears, no stitches, no repair, and weasels its way to a pouch where it spends 7-1/2 months attached to a teat. I could deal with that. Rather than a ravaged, savaged, torn-to hell perineum and 19-1/2 hours of hard labor with pitocin and all that shit, followed by a broken tailbone, a second-degree tear, and urinary incontinence that lasted for like 18 months. Bygones.

I mean, joeys are fucking hideous to behold, unless you're its roo mama in which case your fetal joey is the most glorious thing you've ever laid eyes on, but still, I'd rather squirt out a 2-centimeter baby than a 21-inch fucker. I could have designed it better, Jesus.

EXCRETIONS.

Also, as long as we're talking about what we would have changed about the childbirth process if we were Jehovah, I would have made the digestive systen 100% efficient. Like, you take food in, you use it all, there is no need for excretory bidness. Why can't we use every bit of the food we take in with complete efficiency? What's with the having to shit like once or twice a day? Totally unacceptable, Savior Lord God in heaven, Totally unacceptable.

I think You know best about most things, but poop, genitals, birth, and the like, You should have consulted me on. I'm just saying. You should have consulted me.

So dear Jesus, if you're listening, just know that I could have done better than You with re to all things excretory, reproductive, and sexual.

Love, 
Evermore,
Yours, 
In faithful service,
Jo

Ass Soup & Crack'ers.

Why do people take baths together? Why, in the name of the Father, the son, and the holy toast, why?

Isn't it just sitting there stewing in what I have deemed Ass Soup?

Oooh. Nothing says I love you like butt-soap froth on your face.

Solo baths are bad enough. When I want to take a bath, I shower first. It's just a Thing I Do. I wash all my bits in the shower, and then I soak in the tub, fresh as the proverbial daisy. I realize this is just too much effort for the vast majority of the American Public at Large. That it just doesn't occur to people to wash their asses before soaking in butt stew. But to soak with another person in butt stew, hiney goulash, or ass soup...it just--I--you can't--you must--you fucking have to realize, THAT'S. JUST. GROSS.

Because...because...

ASS SOUP.

Now listen. I've done it. I've taken baths with boys before. WHOA, SHOCKER.

But I have. I've done it. And it was que romántica, especially as we lounged there to a CD full of soft Celtic tunes. But that was years ago, long before my OCD took a sharp turn for the worse.

And now, those romantic baths of yore are Right Out. Right out. Sorry, husband.

We also have a hot tub, and even though that bitch is chlorifuckinated to the max, I STILL have a hard time soaking in it with someone.

Before heading out to go lounge in it for a bit with my main man, I will ask nonchalantly, "How's your ass?" And he will answer without hesitation, "Pristine." Because he knows I don't even want to soak in a hot tub full of CHLORINE BLEACH-WATER with someone else's ass. That's OCD for ya.

[I'm sorry, I'd add one of my awesome pictures here, but Googling "two butts in a hot tub" did not yield any image results that I want my husband to see when he reads my blog. Sorry honey."]


Wait! Here's a safe one.

 What what, chicken butt!!

And another!

If that don't want to make you soak in butt stew, I don't know what will.

But still. All you people who take baths with your significant others. How do you do it? I've done it, in the ancient past, but remind me: How do you do it? Doesn't it bother you? Do you mind? Do you shower first? Will you still do it now that I've brought it to your attention? Will you now wonder, WWJD (What Would Jo Do)? Will you now forevermore be a little squicked out by sitting in bum-bum chowder? You're welcome.

Fun Friendly Phobic Fact Friday!

Please, for the love of God, close the toilet seat before you flush it. When you flush, microparticles of toilet water (and whatever was in the toilet) are aerosolized and are sprayed up to several feet away, landing on you countertops, your hair brush, your cup of water, and your...*dry heaves* your toothbrush. So keep these items as far from the toilet as you can, and always, always close the lid before flushing.

PS: Don't forget to ask me questions in our Q & A session!!

Q & A

Let's do a Q & A session. The first of many. I'm sure I'll do this again later.

But I'm curious, do you have any questions for me? Some of you ask questions in the comments, which I always enjoy. They either get me thinking, or they make me smile because they are already topics I plan to discuss and I'm like, "Great minds think alike, baby!"

So I'll leave this open today. Is there anything, anything at all, you wonder about?

Ask away, child. Ask away. Feel free to ask anonymously too. I'll answer in another post later.

You Had Me at Purell. You Had Me at Purell.

So there's apparently a new show out there called Suburgatory, and I know nothing about it, but I'll tell you what, in a mere 8 seconds, it won me over. I was fast-forwarding through the commercials of my TiVoed Dancing With the Stars, when suddenly my keen eye caught something lovely: a glimpse of Purell. I'd know it anywhere, even fast-forwarding on the fastest speed my remote control would take me. I stopped and quickly rewound, only to see a promo for this new show, and all it took for my heart to be won forever was to see a soccer mom giddily Purell-down the stripper bar before doing a brush-your-teeth dance routine on stage. Forget Dancing With the Stars. My heart now belongs to Suburgatory.

That. Is. Me.

Only Blonde.

These people. Are. You. 

After reading every one of my blogs about the Things I Do.

...I'm OK with that.

Monday Musings.

So I had someone unfriend me from another social networking site in a response to what I can only assume was my last blog. Guess they think it's inappropriate to dislike your sick child.

Just doing my best to alienate my small group of readers. Bygones.

---

Anyway, it's Monday and you know what that means. It's time to muse.

I've always been curious...Do germs stick to dry cloth? Sounds stupid but...I mean...do they? Like, specifically, if you only briefly touch something with your sleeve? Kind of like the five-second rule. I'm sure they do, but to what extent?

THE RAECH says they do.

In fact, she recommends changing your kids' clothing after school to cut down on germs. She would appreciate that I already strip my kid bareass nekkid the very milisecond second she walks through the door after preschool, and toss that shit in the washer on hot immed.

But anyway, see, I always open doors with my sleeve if I have no paper towel or something, and, it's not like I then proceed to lick my sleeve, and I don't consider it clean, per se, but I feel a lot better about my sleeve than I would my bare hand if I'd touched the doorknob. So, to what extent do germs really stick to cloth?

One wonders.

Mom of the Year.

Can I just tell you all what a terrible mother I am?

Here's why.

When my older kid gets sick, I don't immediately feel the urge to rush to her and smother her with hugs and kisses and soup and honey; I feel like backing away slowly and making the sign of the cross and saying a prayer to the Patron Saint of Boogers that I don't get what she has. I don't want to cuddle her on the couch; I want her--or rather, what she has--to stay far far away. When she's sick, I feel almost like she's poison. That's why I am a terrible, terrible mother. When she's sick, I feel like my oldest child is poison.

I get so terribly afraid that she will make me sick, but only because if she makes me sick, I will make the baby sick. It's not really about me, it's about the baby. I don't really care if I get sick, even though ever since I broke my nose* in 2004 the slightest stuffy nose hits me HARD. But it's all about the baby Naomi. I'm so worried that she will get sick and, worst case scenario, stop breathing or that she will get sick and, best case scenario, have a terribly difficult week, that when Maya gets sick, I panic. I worry that she will infect the entire family, one by one, zombie like.

* A long, sordid tale, too complicated for this blog.

Just writing these words makes me know how awful I am, makes me believe it. I don't need anyone else to confirm it, I already know it. I mean, what kind of person thinks their poor sick firstborn is poisonous? Who doesn't feel that motherly urge to cuddle her sweet sick baby? I know I used to feel it, I know it for sure. I used to feel that motherly urge, and now I don't. Now I'm afraid of my own kid when she gets sick.

I'll tell you a tale, a tale of pre-all-OCD*-Jo.

* It just so happens that your friend here used to be only mostly OCD. There's a big difference between mostly OCD and all OCD.

I remember specifically, when Maya was just over a year old, she got very sick with Roseola. She had a high fever and was just about to break out in spots, and she was miserable. Now, Maya was not a cuddly child, not by any stretch of the imagination. She would not give in to hugs or kisses, would not cuddle us at all. AT ALL. So when she was horribly sick with a 105-degree fever and wanted nothing else but to lounge in my arms for hours, poor sickly thing, I lapped it up. I was sad for her and scared for her, but loved the cuddle time. Perhaps because I didn't have a younger baby in the house to worry about. Or else my disorder just hadn't peaked yet. All I know is I cuddled that cuddlebug like there was no tomorrow. 

Behold, poor sweet sick Maya:

Poor baby. Oh how I cuddled her. I didn't give a thought to catching what she had even before I knew it was Roseola and I would not catch it. I cuddled her.

But something has changed over the years. I've gotten much worse, and I've also had another baby, and now, I don't know, my aim is to protect the littlest one. At the expense of my biggest one, I guess. Because that's how I roll.

So I am a terrible mother. I am terrible because my child is sick. She is sick with a bad chest-cold, and when I hear her cough horribly and gag with phlegm to the point of almost vomiting, I don't immediately run to comfort her, I cringe and flinch. I CRINGE AND FLINCH. Who does that? Me, I guess. OCD Me. Mother of the Fucking Year over here.

---

Literally, as I was writing this last night, Maya woke up from her nap, and I tried to give her love. My kind of love. OCD love. I hugged her, parked her in front of Wow Wow Wubbzy with her 5-hour-old refrigerated peppermint vanilla-bean frappuccino (because nothing says I Love You like leftover refrigerated frappuccino) and hope she'll keep coughing into her elbow and won't infect the baby.

Sigh.

lol. Guess who was right to be panicked that her kid was gonna catch something from trick-or-treating?

Let's do the math. Halloween was Monday, and here we are with a sick kid three days later. Halloween plus three plus sick equals...yep.

I'm just saying.

On a Serious Note.

Well, I managed to survive Halloween, barely. I really did have several moments of absolute panic when I thought of my kid reaching in all those bowls of candy. Like, full-blown anxiety attacks. And now I think I'm going to have to either wash my hands every single time after touching any of the candy to open for my daughter, or else put the candy away for a couple of weeks until I think all the potential cold germs have died slow suffering deaths. That doesn't account for the bum-bum germs on the candy though. Do bum-bum germs ever die?

---

I'm still seeing my doctor to try to get this OCD under control. So far she's got me on a cocktail of medications so wild that it would blow your mind and destroy your pansy liver, but you see, my liver is made of steel. Things don't affect me like they affect the typical person: caffeine, alcohol, painkillers, all medication really. And that sucks.

Certain symptoms of mine are much more under control (I was seeing her for atypical depression as well, so long as we're airing my dirty laundry), but the OCD is completely untouched. I'm on 3982743279.5 drugs and my OCD is all, "IN YOUR FACE, SUCKER! You can't TOUCH me!!"

And I'm on some hardcore shit. I take all these pills and sometimes more each day:

If you look at this, doesn't this kind of look like a sideways infinity symbol? Fitting, no?

And do you think they're working for my OCD? In a word:

That is to say, 

So I don't know what to tell ya. I'm still seeing my doc on a regular basis, and we're still tweaking this and increasing that and adding this, but right now, OCD still has the upper hand, and I still constantly tell Maya "DON'T TOUCH!" and use hand sani up to my elbows 259 times a day and shroud my baby in Saran-wrap and so forth.

Honestly, I've lost faith. When motherfucking KLONOPIN didn't do jack squat for me, I lost faith. I truly believe nothing can calm down my OCD symptoms, mostly because, see, I still believe I'm right about the things I'm afraid of. I still believe know there ARE germs on things like restaurant tables and ketchup bottles and McPlaguePlaces and people's hands and doorknobs, etc. I will never be OK with my baby slobbering on a shopping cart handle or making out with a Saint Bernard.

There's no drug that will make me forget that there are germs on things, and I don't think there are any drugs that will make me be OK with me or my family ingesting or spreading about those germs or not washing them off at our earliest convenience.

When I was seeing a shrink about this, he said there was a little tiny blue area of the brain responsible for panic or fear or worry or concern that you could turn up or turn down. He said mine was obviously cranked way, way up. (Thank you Captain Obvious!! Now here's 300 American dollars for your diagnosis).

He said that medication could easily crank this "blue area" of my brain down. He prescribed meds. Then later my other doctor prescribed meds. Lots of meds. Lots and lots of meds. But it's just not working. I don't think anything can crank it down. I really don't. I think the little blue area of my brain will stay cranked up to red. Code Red. Forever.

I really do feel hopeless about it all.

It's Time for Panic. IT'S PANIC TIME.

AM COMPLETELY COMPLETELY PANICKING ABOUT MY CHILD TRICK-OR-TREATING IN A COUPLE HOURS


ALL THOSE LITTLE TINY GRUBBY HANDS IN ALL THOSE BUCKETS OF CANDY


SO MANY HANDS


COVERED WITH SO MANY BUM-BUM GERMS


OH GOD ALL THE BUM-BUM GERMS


ON ALL THE HANDS


THE SNEEZES


THE RUNNY NOSES


GERMS ALL OVER THE CANDY


ALL THE GERMS


ALL THE GERMS


SOMEONE TALK ME DOWN

/END TRANS

Monday Musings.

If the sun is a natural disinfectant, why does everything outside remain so full of germs?

Dammit, why did I Google-Image "dirty" without the safe-filter?

With the sun pounding down on it, why is everything still so...dirty? 

Like...dirt?

And...dog doo?

And...hot tin slides?

One wonders.

Fun Friendly Phobic Fact Friday!

Ah, the casual, comfortable flip-flop: A symbol of summertime, an emblem of relaxation — and a harbinger of death?

93% of flip-flops worn over the course of a summer will end up with fecal matter on them. 20% will have E. Coli. Staph was also found. And "feces, urine, spit, vomit, animal droppings were all present." Furthermore, the film of grime (you know, the "tan line of dirt") that coats your feet at the end of a day of flip-flopping around town is some dangerous stuff, and if you happen to have a cut or open sore on your foot, you could actually be in danger of getting a serious infection.

So if you flip-flop, consider washing your feet upon arriving home, or do like I do and take an all-purpose Sani-Kids wipe to your grimy piggies.