Ah, germs. Back when I was teaching, I did several lessons on handwashing, germs, sickness, and anything else that could possibly induce compulsive handwashing in small children. You would too, if approximately 70% of your audience at any given time had their fingers in their noses. I heart kindergartners. I need to open my own academy.
Fast forward to the present. It's about zero degrees, and I despise the delicate balance of feeding, changing, bundling, and re-changing the baby just to get out and go somewhere, so the only time we actually escape is to retrieve food, and observe Michiganders in their natural habitat. Mr. Clarateaches is really the only one bringing foreign germs into the home.
Now, Mr. Clarateaches is an engineer, so it's not like he even interacts with a lot of people to begin with. As I've explained before, the brain fog rolls in and my eyes glaze over if he ever tries to explain what exactly he does, but the magical world of make-believe fills in the blanks. I imagine a large, cubicle-filled building with shiny corridors. And people in lab coats, standing and joking around a water cooler, telling the one about "101111001, 1010111, 10001101!" And all the rest of the engineers laughing adenoidally. Perhaps some taped-together glasses are involved. Oh, and whiteboards are everywhere, with lots of equations on them. And once in a while, one of the engineers will put dots in the middle of a couple of zeros to be hilarious, and the adenoidal laughter continues. They are a jokey bunch, these engineers. Nothing's more hilarious than a pair of boobs. Or, what they imagine boobs to look like.
So, someone with a child must have had a social interaction with my husband, because he came home with some sort of illness. It wasn't a very nice one, and during the evening, I decided to go to the store for some meds. Mr. Clarateaches is more apt to reach for the meds, instead of traveling my route of what he perceives as burning sage and chanting. After digging out my car, and packing up the perturbed baby, we headed into the night. I must not have purchased medicine in a while, because I had no idea that you get carded for Nyquil now. I can see suspicion involved if someone tries to buy a case at a time, but I am dying to know how I can MacGyver some meth out of a single bottle of Nyquil, some oranges, and the chocolate that was going to be the manna to get me through the night. I'm pretty sure I looked suspicious, too- wild hair, wearing a hands-y baby that was trying to give me a hickey, and a pair of jeans that had seen many infant excretions that day. Which had been lovingly licked by Lola, the Tom Green of dogs.
Fortunately, I was in the Express, Self-Service line that was manned by a truly pissed off teenage girl. When the screen flashed "Show Associate ID," she was able to simultaneously approve the transaction, signal to me that it was okay to proceed (by flashing me the middle finger), and continue to dream about how she was SO leaving this place, as soon as she could save enough money.
Wash your hands. Every germy, slimy one of ya. Stay AWAY from that so-called "Anti-bacterial" hand gel, hot soapy water is so much better than rubbing "hand sanitizer" on.