Vacation Meltdown

I come from a family of germ a phobes. When I was growing up I was the kid at the Doctor's office looking sad because I wasn't allowed to play with the toys. I remember going to the pool with a friend when I was like 10. My friend brought over all these inflatable toys to take with us, and my Mom made her blow them all up herself. Needless to say, she was not much fun after blowing up the inflatable raft. Mostly because she looked like she was going to pass out. I wasn't allowed to borrow bathing suits, and I was under the impression that if you borrowed some one's chapstick, you would die.

Now that I have a kid, I know how expensive the whole toy thing can be. I am very open to second hand goods. My mom has been AWESOME about doing the whole garage sale thing, because down here in a southern military community the garage sales have things like light bulbs and VHS tapes. Nothing useful like kid toys. So, she has gotten some really awesome stuff. However, it's a double edged sword. She's a complete germaphobe, but somehow she sees nothing wrong with used plush toys. I tried to explain that the only way they are acceptable is if they can be machine washed. She bought something recently that can't fit in her washer, and she told me that she would just wipe it down with wet wipes. My brain is exploding.

Do you want to know what scares me beyond anything else in this world?

Dish rags.

If I had to ask one question to every person to decide if the friendship would work, I would ask them a 2 part question:

1. Do you use a dish rag/sponge to wash dishes?

2. Do you re-use it/ let it dry out on the basin divider or sink faucet?

I know I have to go to other people's houses, so don't worry. I know this is crazy-town talk. Don't feel self conscious. It's just that I need people to know about this, and at least think about it.

If you answer yes to these questions, I have a phobia. It's a terrible one. Unless you're washing your dishes with straight bleach and a splash of soap, I am throwing up in my mouth at the thought of your dish rag. I will politely eat something you offer to me, but inside I am thinking about that dishrag. You might as well be using a pair of dirty panties for all the difference it makes in my brain. Mostly if you re-use it. Sponges are just as bad, unless you microwave it after every use. There is nothing worse then the smell of a dirty sponge. Well, ok there are a lot of things that smell worse, but the freak out level is high when it comes to sponges. 

I don't use them because to me, you wipe off germs and food from that plate, and then you basically ask it to grow some friends and contribute some e-coli to the next plate/pot you wash. It's basically like putting your mouth on the drinking fountain. 

My mom is a dish rag/sponge person. When she comes to visit she has this weird ability to search out the ONE dish rag I own. I have it to to scrub dried terd remnants off the floor. Why is it dried? Because after I step in the terd barefoot, I have a small panic attack and hobble off to the sink to wash my foot with bleach and then forget about the smooshed bit left behind. Dried terd doesn't scrub off with paper towels, and hand towels don't go anywhere terds. She uses it when she's here. I love that she cleans up the kitchen, but she does it with what I consider to be a piece of cloth covered in poop. 

Dish rags in my opinion are the AIDS of the cleaning world. It blows my mind that she uses them. She flys with vaseline around the openings of her nose to somehow deflect the flying germs. She keeps her money in a plastic baggie so as to not contaminate the rest of her purse belongings. Yet, she uses a dish cloth. I have paper towels everywhere in my kitchen, and hand towels, and a scrubber that gets bleached that dries on the window sill until the next use. My dish rag is in the back far corner of my sink cupboard. It's like she KNOWS I have dishragitis. 

Why am I have a freak out over this? We are about to go on an epic adventure my friends. Chad, Charlie, the dogs and I are all going to spend the week with my parents....AND Chad's family.....under ONE roof. The amount of interference I am going to have to run is making me freak out. My own phobias, plus the weird things my family does....my brain is exploding inside. 

I know Chad's family reads this blog, so in advance:

I don't know why she said that, she probably didn't mean it that way. 

I don't know why she doesn't share bathrooms.

I don't know why she gets angry over other people watching tv and she can't watch what she wants.

I don't know why she doesn't go to the beach. 

I don't know why she doesn't swim.

Yes she knows how to swim.

She's an excellent cook.

She's extremely giving.

She cares....a lot.

She wants to make you happy.

She loves children.

She's funny.

Just giggle inside at the weirdness. It's worked wonders for me. 

Ahhhhh! My freak out scale is at a 7. I will write more when it gets to 9. Which will be tomorrow. Because then I will only have 2 days left to prepare, and catch two very small dog's urine to take to the vet because they seem to think that my house is a port-o-pottie and I am very wishfully thinking they have UTI's and aren't just jerks.

The end.