Monday, January 11, 2010


I shudder even touching these keys, as I plan to live in a Visqueen hut sealed by 9,000 rolls of duct tape, and then moving everyday, but as your humble leader and germaphobe of the highest order, it is incumbent upon me to pass along some information that recently ruined my life, by way of Gail, my most prized Moxling, whose greatest domestic fail was a hand towel that was askew in 2006. Okay I'm wasting valuable time, ready?

According to an article in the current issue of Health Magazine, the presence of fecal particles emanating from each and every toilet--yes that means yours and mine (faints!)--is constant and unavoidable. And that these particles also love to dwell in every single pair of underwear that has ever been worn. (Regains consciousness then faints again.)

I checked. It's true. I'm mortified. It's as if I've failed all of you, my children, myself. Obviously I'm naked and marinating in bleach.

Personally, while I support free-range produce and not eating that which is crawling with e.Coli, I am also a believer in the human immune system to enable me to eat at a restaurant and not die. (Unless it's Taco Bell, then death is a certainty.) Anyway, I use common sense when eating but military vigilance when it comes to hygiene. And I'm walking (well, trembling at the moment) proof that my theory has merit, as I used to spend exorbitant periods of time in a household where one is more likely to find the Hope Diamond than hand soap, where fecal matter was treated as casually as a pile of laundry, which in this particular case translates into a sea comparable to the Atlantic Ocean of "clean," dirty, really dirty, wet, and dry laundry, sometimes with wood chips atop, and always a dog. This epoch belies verbal description, but the point is I survived. I probably used 497,000 gallons of hand sanitizer when no one was looking, plus mini spray bottles of disinfectant for those moments wherein what needs to be done can only be done in the bathroom. God only knows the tornado of fecal particles that surrounded me in those years. I will report back on the effects of drinking bleach.

Meanwhile, here are some suggestions for fighting this insidious, revolting reality:

For the OCD-minded:

Slightly less drastic:

For reals:

Good luck troops. (Sealing my bubble.)


  1. "God only knows the tornado of fecal particles that surrounded me in those years."

    hmmm. 1972-92, EW! gimme a smoke!

  2. Thank you. since I am growing our baby and sitting here with my pregnant ass frightened of virtually every damn germ known to man that could possibly harm said baby, now I am grossed out and wondering if I'll manage lunch. But never fear, because pregnancy renders me unable to NOT EAT and of course I'll manage lunch.

    However, I am going to disinfect the likes of this house because I have been SOO BEHIND it's unreal. Instead of being here trolling through my daily chores I have been *gasp* setting up my new blog. Since trying the new photography blog and then threatening to start a blog about every fucking thing I was interested in, I abandoned all ideas and just moved my main blog combining everything. Now that it's done, I have work to do. Cleaning to be had...and apparently now fecal particles to kick the shit out of! MY LIST WAS LONG ENOUGH THANKS...pfft I can't ignore this. *sigh* xx

  3. honestly, i thought you knew that info already, i thought i was the 'only' one who had never heard of the shit storm, or else maybe i wouldn't have told you. ok, i would have, it was too shocking to keep to least it will get everyone to use more bleach, right?

  4. nope. i don't believe it. i told you, we're exempt. and if we're not, hand me that fucking noose.

  5. Short of burning the house down, how do we keep these particles from settling in, like, our toothbrushes? Seriously, even clean underwear isn't really clean?? Something new to stress over. Thanks!

  6. *Gag*
    Been there, with six children, I make everyone keep a sterile box of their products. Yes, each child has their own supplies. They get cleaned like mad, and stored in a drawer. The littlest one just graduated and was "Rewarded" with a new box of his own.