Recently Johnny Knoxville was in my bathroom while I was dressing. Not "the" Johnny Knoxville; my Johnny Knoxville. I had on my underwear but had not yet put on my pants. I bent over to pick up something off the floor. As all "real women" will understand, one of my butt cheeks popped out of my underwear. Johnny said, "Uh oh! Butt out!" and proceeded to grab my underwear and pull it over said exposed butt cheek. The other cheek then popped out and Johnny tried to cover it as well. Realizing in his own 2-year old mind that this was a futile effort, he gave me a disgusted look, grunted, "Oh no" and left the room. Thanks for the self-esteem boost there, Johnny. I know that one day you will likely marry a stripper, but I can assure you that her butt cheek will also pop out of her underwear when she is in her 40s!
Just a day or so later I was running around the house in my comfortable clothes. Ladies, you know the ones - shirts that used to belong to our husbands or ex-boyfriends and tattered yoga pants that we never wore to yoga because we don't believe in exercise. As I bent down apparently the shirt bagged quite a bit. Johnny Knoxville smiled broadly and said, "Boob! Touch it?" "NO! You can't touch it! Wait til you get that stripper girlfriend in a few years and then you can touch them. Although mine are real and I'm sure hers will not be, and they will likely be bigger than mine but no!" He seemed confused but also oddly satisfied with that explanation. My husband, however, seemed intrigued by the idea of a stripper girlfriend. I told him I was just preparing myself; set my standards low and be pleasantly surprised if Johnny and Steve exceed them. Note that I said "If", not "when." Again, I'm a realist.
Yesterday I was wearing a shirt that zipped up the front. Once again, Johnny Knoxville was up to no good. He grabbed the zipper, pulled it down, got a big grin on his face and proudly yelled, "BOOBS!"
Who teaches him these things? Is it just innate in the male species? We have already had the "private body" discussion but for some reason, this just makes it all the more intriguing to Johnny.
Steve O really hasn't been obsessed with the body all that much - or so we thought. However, he is always very interested when we go to the bathroom. In a restaurant bathroom last week, Steve O completed his job and then I had to go. In the middle of my hovering pee (yes, I'm a germophobe, of course I hover! You don't really think those tissue paper covers keep germs from transferring from prior asses to yours, do you?)... Okay, where was I? Yes, I see it now - in the middle of my hovering pee, Steve O announced, "Mama has no penis." I heard the woman in the next stall giggle a little. I assured Steve that it was true; I have no penis. He then announced in the loud voice that all two year olds seem to have, "Steve O has a little penis. Daddy has a BIIIIIGGGG penis." (He used his real name, however, not his recently changed moniker.) The woman in the next stall really lost it this time and burst out laughing. As my husband was waiting at our table with Johnny K, I didn't want to let him down, so I replied, "Yes! Yes he does." The woman took an awfully long time washing her hands and appeared to be following us back to the table. Hmmmm, was it my cute kids or the chance to check out my "big" hubby? No one will ever know, but my hubby was quite pleased when I reported back.
What has happened to me? I used to analyze medical records and read about urine and feces and genitals and subdural hematomas and traumatic brain injuries and broken bones, among a myriad of other things. Now I am reduced to boobs and exposed butts and proclamations of penis size. I can't believe my life!
Monday, January 16, 2012
My name is Sandi and I'm a germaphobe. Technically, I'm a mysophobe but we're all friends here, right? I can use regular-people words. Yes, I turn on faucets with paper towels, flush public toilets with my foot, don't allow shoes in my house and stock my home with hand sanitizer by the gallon. I never put my purse on the floor and I throw up in my mouth a little every time someone blows their nose in a restaurant. Have you heard about Erin Carr Jordan in Tucson and what she found in the McDonald's playlands? If not, Google it. You'll be even more disgusted than you're currently thinking. My husband prohibited me from seeing the movie Contagion citing that becoming a recluse at this stage of my life was not an option and he knew the movie would drive me to it. If left to my own devices, I'd live in a bubble. I smile just thinking about it. No contact with anyone or anything....ah.... Hey, a girl can dream! It's a wonder I have kids.
Johnny Knoxville and Steve O, as we have taken to calling our boys, (it's less offensive to people than Satan and Lucifer, as we were previously calling them), have put my phobia to the test. They sneeze, I have to wipe their butts and noses, they throw up on occasion and cough. They touch stuff and put stuff in their mouths. All the time. Weird stuff. Gross stuff. Stuff I can't always identify. As a result my hands are constantly cracked and bleeding from all the washing I do. I carry large bottles of hand sanitizer with me at all times. (Let me tell you, it burns like hell when it gets in the cracks of your dried out knuckles!) But, Steve and Johnny have worn me down a little over the last two years. I don't gag as much when I have to pick big boogers out of their noses, and their coughs and sneezes don't make me run to the decontamination shower anymore. But these new rules only apply to them - the germs of MY babies.
Little Johnny Knoxville took it to a new level the other day. I may never recover. My friend and I took our cumulative three children to the park. That, in and of itself, is a challenge for me. All those snotty, germy kids touching the slides and monkey bars. Ugh! And you know no one ever comes along to wipe that stuff down with antibacterial wipes. I'm shuddering just thinking of it. But, ya gotta do it; and I do, begrudgingly. So the little petri dishes were having a hell of a time sliding, swinging, hanging, climbing, etc. I stood nearby chatting with my friend all the while in my head I am thinking of all the diseases we could be contracting. Ebola, MRSA, VRSA, necrotizing fasciitis, bird flu, swine flu, H1N1, lice, coxsackievirus, scabies, ringworm, conjunctivitis... and the list goes on. Really, I could go on for pages and I don't even have to look them up on the internet.
Anyway, Steve O announces that he has to go potty. The disease list in my head continues to roll like the credits at the end of a movie. My friend's little girl is being potty trained so she has to go, too. We drag the three little angels (yes, that was sarcasm) to the public restroom. Friend goes in the handicap stall with her little girl. I place Johnny Knoxville directly outside the stall into which Steve O goes. I tell Johnny to keep his hands at his sides and not touch ANYTHING. Johnny is 2. You know where this is going. I turn to Steve O and help him up onto the toilet, all the while holding the stall door open with my foot and yelling at Johnny K. to stand still and not touch. Steve O makes a move to hold onto the toilet; in a panic I turn to yell at Steve not to touch. Johnny makes his move. He's gone. He runs into the handicap stall to check out his little friend and make sure "everything's coming out okay."
Next thing I hear is my friend in the next stall yelling, "Oh My God. Put that down. Put that down." I throw up in my mouth. I know it's Johnny and it's not good. I rush Steve O along and start frantically yelling, "Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. What is it?" Friend states, "Just get the hand sanitizer." Now I know it's really bad. My friend is not a mysophobe. She can handle this stuff with grace and a smile. At this particular moment, however, she is not graceful nor smiling. I feel like I'm having a heart attack. The room starts to spin. It gets worse. The faucet in the restroom does not work so there will be no soap and water hand-washing; not that that would have been enough, but every good mysophobe knows you start there and then end with a good coating of Purell. I keep asking what it was but my friend is hesitating to respond. Suddenly I just knew. I feel the blood rush to my feet and start to get a little woozy.
"Oh no," I say. She nods yes and then... the words I will never forget... "Yes, it was a used tampon."
An incredible wave of nausea overcomes me and I start to pass out. But, I realize that if I were to pass out I would wind up on the floor of this public restroom. The very restroom where some moronic woman can't figure out to place her "waste" in the little trash can on the stall wall specifically marked for such uses. What kind of woman can this be? What is wrong with her? Yes, yes, what IS wrong with her? Does she have AIDS, gonorrhea, chlamydia? Are we all going to die a slow and painful death related to some disease she has now shared with Johnny Knoxville???
My friend douses Johnny K. in hand sanitizer, but in my mind I knew it wasn't enough. What kind of sanitizer did she have? Was it a generic? Did it kill 99.9% of germs on contact or only 99.8%? I doused him again. In my mind, however, I know it will never be enough. I washed him no less than 200 times that day.
Since that day, I have been on-line searching body bubbles. (Just so you know, you better be careful when you search that. It's amazing that they can link porn to just about any search words.) Sadly, I'll never look at little Johnny Knoxville the same ever again.
I can't believe my life...