Hands Open

I almost didn’t write anything tonight, as I’m desperately trying to enjoy the last few precious moments of peace before the family begins arriving tomorrow in anticipation of the Thanksgiving holiday. And yet, I can’t, because I’m gripped with anxiety for no good reason, and the most ridiculous thoughts are running through my head about their impending visit. Things like, will they have enough soap, even though there are 9,345 bars in there? What if there is a washing emergency? What if the bed is uncomfortable? Omigod, is there toothpaste in their bathroom?

I never remember toothpaste when I travel. Ever. Or a toothbrush, actually. And there’s nothing worse than finally arriving to your destination, your mossy teeth crying out for a toothbrush, even if it’s a quick, minty once-over, and you’ve got nothing, which means you’re stuck all bleary-eyed and pissed off at 1 a.m. jamming a washcloth over your gums in an attempt to freshen up. Or worse, have you ever stayed at one of those hotels that gives you an individual tooth kit that involves a miniature, ineffectual toothbrush and enough toothpaste for half (HALF) a toothbrushing? Honestly, I’d rather not brush my teeth at all. A minty tease, that’s what that is.

(I’m a bit of a tooth hygiene freak, and that definitely includes flossing. Lots of flossing. However, it does not explain why I haven’t been to the dentist in longer than I am actually willing to publicly admit.)

Speaking of hygiene and cleanliness, we spent the weekend cleaning. Cleaning up the remnants of the paint I spilled, cleaning the floors, scrubbing the counters, hosing down the toilets, and I can now say with confidence that any one of you are more than welcome to come over and eat off of any visible surface in our home. Would you like to eat a hot dog with kraut off of the carpet? Be my guest, for Stanley Steemer was here with their magic….Steemerizers, or whatever, and they Steemed the living hell out of those carpets, so they SPARKLE. Couches, too, which is a good thing, because we think the dog did something unsavory to the love seat, for when you sat on it a certain way…it smelled like sour milk and…puke. And neither one of us has tossed our cookies on the couch that we know of, nor do we recall spilling anything, so the pukiness was a bit of an eternal mystery. But it’s puke-free now, and smells just delightful, hooray! And this means you can now eat olives and cornichons and maybe some cheddar off of the cushions if you’re so inclined.

Would you care to make a giant batch of polenta on the kitchen floor and scoop it up with your bare hands? Welcome! Be my guest. You will not ingest any dirt on my watch. Actually, speaking of polenta, back when I worked from home and watched Martha Stewart while I worked, some random guest came on and made her family’s polenta and meatball recipe, which required that the polenta be prepared, then spread thin across the kitchen table, sans serving dishes and/or plates, as in, this giant….blob of pasty polenta was just laid out on the table with tomato sauce and big hulking meatballs and eaten family style with forks right off of the table. Which is just…well, it’s gross, is what it is. I do not like sharing food with other people, and although I don’t mind a bite here and there, just knowing that my polenta could be contaminated by Aunt Edna’s backwash polenta is enough to send me into a germ-driven tailspin, and actually could guarantee that I’ll never eat polenta again. And for the record, Martha clearly felt the same way, for she kept repeating “Isn’t this fun!” over and over again in a strained voice, her face so contorted with bald horror that clearly, she would rather be knitting ponchos atop a bucking bronco in Alcatraz than sharing polenta with her frumpy suburban guest.

By the way, I’m not a freak about sharing food because I’m selfish, it’s that I’m grossed out, which is almost as bad. I will totally have a bite of whatever it is you’re having, and I will definitely share whatever it is I’m having, provided there are no dairy products involved and that means none whatsoever, including a sprinkle of parmesan cheese. And if your lips touch my ice cream and/or glass of milk, well, not only will I never touch that specific dish again, it’s highly likely that I will gag in grand fashion and refuse all things dairy for a long, long time. Dairy is not meant to be shared under any circumstances, period, and that includes sundaes.

I have no explanation for this, just like I have no real earthly explanation for why I find long nails completely and totally repugnant, and by “long,” I mean “anything that extends beyond the nail bed,” i.e., no longer than .00000003 inch. I bite my nails to the quick and keep my toenails painfully short, not because it’s a bad habit, but because if I see a sliver of a half-moon, I start to imagine festering bacteria dancing around the crevice, not unlike the fungus-men in those Lamisil commercials. Because really, let’s face it, no matter how many times we wash our hands, it’s not like restrooms provide nail brushes, right? So who knows what foul creatures lurk beneath those pretty Essified (or perhaps you prefer OPI?) fingernails? Painted nails actually upset me more: you can’t see the dirt and what then? What then, I ask you? Fungus, that’s what. Fungus and bacteria.

And don’t, just don’t, get me started on fake nails, because every time I see a clerk and/or waitress using the unnaturally hardened tips of her acrylic monstrosities to hit the buttons on a cash register, I die a little inside. I saw a waitress the other day with Sailor Jerry pinup girls on each of her gigantically terrifying fingernails, and while I appreciate the gesture, I was thisclose to demanding that someone – anyone – else serve me, but considered that maybe that was a little… compulsive. But I won’t lie: I ordered soup to minimize FesterFinger contact with my food, and even then, I didn’t enjoy it, I’ll tell you that.

For the record, I realize this is my own completely incongruous OCD-ism, and no one else’s. If this doesn’t bother you, or if you have long nails, I swear, I won’t judge you. These rules rarely apply to people I love, honest. Well, except for the fake nail thing, unless you’re Paul McCartney and are using it to play guitar better, and in that case, down with Macca!

Well. This ended up nowhere near where I started, and really, I’m not sure how I arrived here. Also, apropos of nothing but Friday’s paint incident, Adam came home, took one look at the garage and announced, “You did a great job! It’s so clean!” And I beamed. BEAMED, because finally, the whole thing seemed worth it. And then I asked, to be sure: “Are you serious?” To which he replied, “Not even a little. In fact, it may be the worst mess I’ve ever seen. I think we have to paint the floor.”

(Edited to add that he did have a smile on his face as he said this, lest you think he’s one of those menacing controlling types who actually gets mad at this kind of thing and threatens to take me out back and whip me good to teach me a lesson. Living with me, you cannot get mad at this kind of thing, for it happens…well, hourly. But still, as Yez pointed out, it was a cruel tease! Cruel!)

So there’s that. Good times. Happy Monday.

*Snow Patrol

18 comments November 19th, 2006