First, a definition: Mysophobia (adj): an abnormal fear of or distaste for uncleanliness or contamination.
I know. It’s like I was dead. And I wasn’t physically dead, but the blogger inside of me was being sat upon by the lazy, unmotivated, generally lethargic couch potato inside of me. This happens from time to time.
Also, incidentally, I had very few low points to my days. Scratch that — I had very few hilarious experiences that I like to call low points. Because, in fact, I had lots of low points, but they were extremely un-funny and would have made you uncomfortable reading them. Or extremely bored. Either way I wasn’t in the mood to publicly announce my patheticness, so there you have it. Some of the high points included cheeseburgers for dinner, learning about the true definition of “irony” from Shadra, banana muffins, and Taco Bell. In the middle of my day. For lunch. So when you’re eating Taco Bell for lunch, you’re riding a high that seemingly won’t end.
Next, some clarification: Before you start quoting “What About Bob?” to me, or at the very least envisioning Bill Murray, it’s not quite like that for me. In fact I’d say most people wouldn’t know how much I hate germs till they get to know me or spend some time in the kitchen with me or watch me enter/exit a public restroom. And even then, I don’t exactly wear a sign that says “Hey! I Seriously Hate Germs!” I just flush toilets with my feet and open doors with my elbows and consider crying when I decide to make a meal that involves raw meat.
Raw meat. Seriously unsure who decided that was a good idea. Because it’s not.
I should also include the disclaimer that I don’t have a lot of problems with my own germs, ergo I don’t clean the bathroom as often as I should. Sometimes I eat food that falls to the kitchen floor, even though I’m pretty sure I’ve mopped it four times in the past two years. Keyword: sometimes. And I’d be remiss if I led you to believe that I had a genuine, paralyzing fear of germs because, you know, I don’t. I probably wash my hands about the same number of times as your average person does throughout the day (unless that raw meat is all up in my bidness) and I go out in public. One time I used the airplane lavatory. On purpose.
But despite my attempts to liken myself to the normal masses, I have to admit I dislike germs way more than you do. Unless you, too, have mysophobia, in which case stop one-upping me, man. It’s my blog. In fact I’d say one of the top ten reasons why I never want to have children is because they are both germy and get themselves into equally germy situations. Have you ever watched a child crawl around on the floor of a fast food joint, french fry in hand, and then (gulp) eat said french fry? I have and it was probably one of the worst experiences of my life. Ever. I once saw a woman put a pacifier in her mouth that had just fallen to the floor of our extremely dirty Boeing 747 to get the crumbs off it before popping it into her baby’s mouth.
I’m still basically traumatized.
The Low Point
So cheeseburgers for dinner did happen. And I totally made them myself — got the ground beef out of the fridge, rolled it into balls with my hands, placed the raw, meaty spheres in between two pieces of parchment paper and then banged the crap out of them so they’d be flat, seasoned them, flipped them a few times (one spatula for the raw meat flip, one spatula to get them onto the buns. Natch.), added cheese. [As an aside, I’m pretty positive it would have been less expensive and dirty to buy burgers at Wendy’s or something, so note to self: go to Wendy’s next time.] And I survived the entire experience, raw meat juices running all over, blood on my hands. I’m still kind of freaked out by the soap dispenser I touched, though. It might get me sick. Or something.
And Husband and I have this really nice agreement that I make the meals and he does the dishes, which is perfect because I hate doing dishes more than pretty much anything (save shredding paper at a mind-numbing office job in downtown PDX, using a shredder that accepts paper one sheet at a time.) So while he hangs out, scrubbing all the congealed food off plates and bowls and every single utensil we own because
we only have a couple I feel the need to utilize them all, I Scrabble on Facebook. Or kick my feet up and rest. Eat a cookie. Watch some TV.
But for some reason, on this night, I decided to mill around the kitchen and watch Husband clean the raw meat dishes.
Let me preface this with: we aren’t sick yet and I haven’t felt dead lately, so things are probably going to be okay. But you never know because he washed them like he would have any other dish. Like they weren’t actually covered in blood, but with bleach water and disinfectant. La-dee-da, no big deal. Swiped them a couple times with our sponge and dish soap and called it good.
This really makes me question how long he’s been washing our raw meat dishes in such a manner. Presumably, since forever. And like I said, we’re not sick nor dead, but you don’t know when raw meat dishes germs will lash out, irrationally, and just kill you. I thought I knew him. I did convince him to throw a couple dishes into the dishwasher where unreasonably hot water will attack them and I later threw our sponge into the microwave (no, seriously, I read online that two minutes will kill basically all the germs you can think of), but I can’t help continually thinking about the dishes that didn’t end up in the dishwasher and wondering if maybe, like the Pinkett-Smith family breaking up for the umpteenth time, what I read online isn’t actually true.
Say it isn’t so.