Confessions of a Germaphobe



I slide in on the heels of a middle-aged woman, so the door swings open and I never touch it.

I reach for the automatic paper towel dispenser, pull off a piece and head to the bathroom stall.   Naturally, my hand does not want to touch any part of the handle of the stall while opening it or closing it.   So I use the paper towel as a barrier between the door and my hand as I open the bathroom stall handle.

Next I begin prepping for the “hover”.  Women develop great muscle tone in their legs by hovering over the toilet seat.   Because I have germaphobia, I can’t use the outer layer of toilet paper provided,  because God knows what might linger on that puppy.  Blowback, splatter, or spray.  Things that can’t be seen with the naked eye.   What if the person before me had explosive diarrhea?  dear God….microscopic fecal matter or worse blood borne pathogens lingering.  My thoughts race a thousand miles an hour and my heart beats a thousand beats per second.   I want OUT of this horrid public bathroom that smells like a raw sewage backup with febreeze misting in through the air.

I have to unravel several sheets of said toilet paper round and round many times and then discard that before I can even think of it, as “safe” to use.  Then I’m clear to for take off, ready to void.

Oh and that’s the other thing, pooping? Ummm no. I would rather prairie dog it til’ I get home before I’d use a public rest room.  That’s pretty much a cardinal rule of “no can do” with my OCD/ germaphobia variant.

Once I’m through, and am all buttoned up, I grab another piece of toilet paper to grab the door handle with and let myself out of the stall.  Before I exit , I throw that into the toilet and turn around quick-like and kick the flusher handle down with the bottom of my shoe.

I return back to the automatic paper towel dispenser to get a piece, with which to turn on the water faucet at the sink and also use it to pull down the soap dispenser.  I then wash my hands.   I return back to the paper towel dispenser to get more paper so I that I can dry my hands and grab one extra square to let myself out of the bathroom.

It is a well-choreographed dance like movement in an operating theatre.   A waltz I know well after being diagnosed with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD) in my late teens.  I have it down to a science now and can do it so quickly I do not think about the routine.  I get in, and get out in nearly the same amount of time that the next person does.

Once back in college, I felt a sense of shame about having this lengthy public bathroom regimen, knowing (at least intellectually) it was irrationally based behavior.   Come on, if someone was watching, it looks bat-shit crazy.

Then one day I observed one of my professors who held a PhD, using the same bathroom, who had just had a bowel movement and left without washing her hands.

I no longer felt ashamed after she walked out.   I believe I may have washed my hands an extra time, just because.



You slither around the folds in my cerebellum

in a cyclical motion



squeezing and constricting

rational thought.


Eventually you attach yourself to my tissue,

you become one with me.

I cannot separate myself from you.

I am you, you are me.

Without you, I cannot breathe.


I lose myself in fantasy.

What if, maybe, what could be, if only….

You are both my pleasure and my pain.

A strange dichotomy.

I rarely fight you anymore these days.

It would seem that obsession has given way to possession….

Holiday Stress-o-rama

It’s the day before Easter and here I am.

Feverishly OCD kicking into high gear.

vacuuming, washing, sterilizing….going cuckoo  bong-go.


When you grow up in a dysfunctional home like mine, holidays were the worst.

I can’t remember a fucking holiday where there wasn’t screaming, things getting tossed,

people getting smacked, people getting tossed, people yelling “fuck this, fuck that, fuck you!”

someone getting drunk or high.  someone getting mad that someone was getting drunk or high

my mother feverishly cleaning through it all and then the ensuing chaos.

and then after said chaos, we had to enter the community at large, attend

Catholic Mass as act as if everything was fine and dandy.

not too fucked up…… not too much stress, nope.


even with all the knowledge in the world that I am not a child.

that it is NOT 1978.

and that my family of origin has long since disbanded

for the life of me I can not seem to un-wed

holidays being riddled with fear,  stress, and great trepidation…..


I walk around just as my mother did cleaning like a banshee

snapping like turtle at all in my path

swearing like a sailor

and wishing there weren’t any holidays

wishing I could artfully hide under a rock


my family will be here in less than 4 hours by the way

for the Easter egg hunt and then we are going out for dinner……


what I need is a portable shrink….or a massive amount of something to numb me

Mc Nasty

Driving to the laundromat to do two weeks of laundry.  Yeah, that’s what major depression looks like when you don’t swallow the pharmaceuticals offered to you by your well intended shrink.  I think there was like 6 loads.  I only went there out of necessity because they have this jumbo-do-a-shit-load-o-wash-at-one-time commercial grade washer there.  I had no more clean socks or underwear left. I’m depressed but the OCD just won’t let me smell I reckon, but I digress.

So I hear this McDonald’s commercial on the radio advertising for the new Mc Riblet sandwich.

and I started thinkin Mc What?

what’s a riblet made of?

Mc chanical chicken parts?

Mc gag me.

Eating at that drive through will give you a nice case of:

Mc farts

Mc heartburn

and much much later

a bad case of the Mc shits

who the fuck would want to eat it?

now I want to fucking Mc puke.

but just maybe I’d fuck the hamburglar though,

he’s just enough of a badass that I always seem to go for~

Stop with the macramé, bitches


I live in a GLBT nexus here in the Pioneer Valley and I love the diversity.

Public same sex kissing and afffection is eye candy, you don’t find most places.

If it wasn’t for my repressive Catholic upbringing I may have even been bi-sexual, by now. Who knows?

I love freedom of expression and I embrace diversity.

That said, one thing I hate is when your freedom of expression interferes with my freedom to fucking breathe.

You granola earthy-crunchy-hemp-lovin’ bitches deciding to make an art project and braid your fucking armpit hair into some sort of macramé thing, needs to stop.

Can you not smell yourself?

I mean when you have a colony of circus fleas taking up residence in your armpit hair, there’s something wrong.

Very wrong.

Get acquainted with a razor and cut that bush back.

And while you’re at it, get a bar of soap and bathe, ’cause ya smell, and it aint good.

I’m not sure if it’s your diet of tofu and garlic. It must be the garlic…… are you drinking garlic frappes? are you trying to ward off vampires? ’cause girl your warding off everyone around you.  Hell it’s causing a gag reflex when I even sit next to you.   How does your mate even screw you? it’s coming out your pores so freakin’ bad.   Do you know people can’t even stand next to you ? how can you even land a date? let’s start there. Unless you’re dating some freak like yourself.  Honestly, one would have to be in such a dope induced haze, not to sniff you and not notice the smell.

And it’s not just the garlic, that stink….. its intermingled with sweat and sex that hasn’t been washed off in weeks……

In 6 months Calvin Klein will come up with a perfume called  HEMPSexGarlique it’ll  fly off the shelves to all the huppies who will buy it don’t cha know.  I think it’s made from crushed hemp seeds and smegma.   Huppies, those interesting combination of hippies and yuppies….

Remember.  Soap.  It’s not just for holidays anymore.