Single in Sandpoint: The Return of Scarlette

I'm back. 

     After a short "sabbatical" – was it a month? six weeks? The time isn’t important, right? The important thing is that I’m back, and that I had time to sit down and write a complete column. That is, in itself, a miracle.

     You see, I’m on “Baby Time” now. I haven't figured out how to type while a baby is attached to my breast. I also haven't figured out how to eat, sleep, drive, shower, get dressed or clean my house since his arrival.

     All tasks take five-times longer than normal because as soon as I start something he fills a diaper, needs fed or does something so cute I have to take a picture and post it on Facebook. I am disgusting.

     The rest of my time is spent protecting him from all the hidden dangers that lie around every corner. The list of these things is really endless: random people who ask to hold him, snot-nosed children who stick their fingers in his face, asshole drivers who don't approve of my somewhat cautious driving, jealous pugs who would like nothing more than to sleep on top of him. You get the picture, right?

     However, this column isn't about babies. I don't want to be “that mom.” 

     This week I’m going to focus on the one thing that affects us all this season: whether or not you are personally packing around an epidemic of disease. 

     I don't like to be sick. I don't have time for it. That may sound overly simple, but it’s the truth. I spend a great portion of my life choking down Airborne, swilling herbal tea, avoiding handrails and slathering myself with Purell.

     I honestly believe that sick people should quarantine themselves, and I find nothing more disgusting than public nose-blowing.

     A little bit of advice? If you’re accumulating enough snot to necessitate evacuating your nostrils in several long honks, something is wrong with you. Go home.

     Oh, and while I’m at it...

     If your kid is frantically scratching his or her scalp, check it for head lice. And then keep them at home.

     There is nothing scarier than when your school-age child comes home with one of those notes that read: "Someone in your child's class has head lice. Soon your entire home will be infested with tiny, itchy insects. Have a nice day." 

     If your kid has head lice do not google "head lice" and then try some homemade concoction to get rid of them. Go to the store, buy the special shampoo and follow the instructions. Your child already has to suffer the stigma of having lice, don't make them suffer a relapse.

     Also, don't make me have to suffer the waiting game after I receive the note. My kids don't appreciate it when I scour their scalps like a mother chimpanzee frantically searching for microscopic insects. They also don't appreciate it when I shampoo them anyway, as a preventative measure, just in case.

     I hope you don't think I'm joking; my kids and I get the shampoo every time I receive that note. EVERY TIME. If I ever actually find a nit? God help us all.

     Can you imagine if every parent was so invested in the fight against lice? We’d live in a better world, I can tell you that much.

     Furthermore, use your sick days. That’s why they exist. Use them when you are actually sick. Do not save them for days when you have a run-of-the-mill hangover or just feel like a little “personal time.”

    A hangover can be cured with a nap, water and aspirin – trust me. If that doesn't work, you drank way too much and there’s no over-the-counter cure for stupid.

     And that’s what you are if you drink to the point of illness when you have to work the next day. There’s nothing freakier than having someone wait on you or check you out at the grocery store when they look and sound like Doc Holiday.

     Also, it’s rather unnerving to sit next to someone at work who runs to the bathroom holding their butt and mouth alternately.

     Yes, unfortunately, I have had to come home from the store and Lysol all of my groceries more than once. I have also had to come home from working next to a sick person, strip off my clothes in the garage and leave my infested clothing in there in order to deprive the germs of a host.

     These behaviors are not only bothersome to myself; they also get me in trouble with my old man.

     When I say "old man" I mean my husband. He thinks that my bleaching, Lysol and Purell usage is out of control. He also thinks it’s unhealthier to have cleaning products next to our toothbrushes than actual germs. He also doesn't understand how someone as messy as I am could own every single disinfectant known to man.

     To him – and to you – I say: I’m messy, not filthy. There’s a difference. Clothes on the floor? Who cares? Dog shit on your shoe? Burn them. As you can imagine, we fight endlessly about this. 

     Seriously, though, when have you ever had green goo dripping out of your nose because you may have ingested a teensy bit of overspray from some cleaning product? Hmm? When have you woken up with your brain pounding audibly and your throat feeling like Satan's lair because you used to much hand sanitizer? NEVER. 

     I have, however, spent days in bed praying for angels to come and take away my pain after a co-worker decided to come to work and spread their flu-infestation around the office.

     My crusade against germs and bacteria is exhausting. I have steam cleaned our floor four times, personally, and once professionally since May. That is not a joke. The idea of people and/or pets tracking shit on my carpet, only for me to step on it and get worms (or something), keeps me up at night.

     I SHOP-VAC my carpet and then vacuum it for good measure. It is possible my newly born son will never learn to crawl because I fear that I missed some hidden virus in my carpet.

     This is my life, and also the reason why I don't just like adult beverages, I need them.

     Nonetheless, I gave birth to a 9 lb. 2 oz. baby four weeks ago and do you want to know what I was most excited about doing afterward? Any guesses?

     You would think drinking vodka or the ability to fit through standard doorways would have been first on my list. Or maybe the change in weight from Blue Whale to Manatee would put a smile on my face.

     NOPE. I was elated that I could finally clean my bathroom with bleach.

     Maybe I do have a problem.

     Oh yeah, I'm sure some of you are horrified. You chemical-conscious folks will tell me how cleaning products cause all sorts of illnesses, and say that pretty soon my baby will grow an extra eye.

     That’s OK. I'm sure it will go nicely with the extra leg he grew from my drinking coffee and eating processed lunch meat during his incubation.

     The same people will tell me that I should clean with lemon and baking soda, eat only organic food, breast feed until my child has his own cell phone and all beer should taste like a skunk smells. I've heard it all before and I'm not ready to sign up for your team. I like the (admittedly false) sense of security my chemically-laden cleaning products and immunizations provide.

     I make no sense, but I thought we established this five years ago when I started writing this column. I can't stop the sanitizing. It's who I am.

     The moral of the story? Keep it clean people. Wash your hands, stay home if you’re sick and, sadly, alcohol doesn't work as a disinfectant when you drink it.

     So when you decide to play a little tonsil hockey at the bars you are going in un-armed. REMEMBER THAT. It probably won't stop you, but keep it in mind.

     On another note, thank you for reading my column for the last five years; whether it was to watch the train wreck or share a laugh, I appreciate it!

Waiting for the day when I fit into my jeans and am no longer lactating,

Scarlette Quille