Enemy of the Germophobe #3 - Myself

"Have you been in the Germ Tent yet?  If not, you've got to check it out.  It's terrific."    This is how Grace and I were greeted as we stumbled upon County Government Day in the mall parking lot which was little more than a collection of fire trucks and other county vehicles open for inspection and, of course, the Germ Tent.  Umm, nice lady, clearly you don't know me very well.  I had indeed not yet been in the Germ Tent and, despite her pleasant demeanor,  this gal was not going to convince me to get within 100 feet of anything called the Germ Tent.  I've seen the trailers for Contagion, thank you very much.  The young lady (I'm assumimg she was a representative of the county, though it's possible she's just a really big fan of germs) must have recognized the horrified look on my face because she proceeded to explain that the Germ Tent was simply a tent with a black light that illustrated how many germs covered your hands.  I nodded, thanked her for the invitation, took Grace's surely germ covered hand and slowly backed away. 

However, after checking out the fire equipment and climbing through the bookmobile, my curiosity got the best of me.  Grace and I lathered up our hands with the special germ detecting lotion and plunged into the darkness of the Germ Tent.  I wish I could report that we were nearly germ free; instead, under the black lights, our hands looked like we had dipped them in white paint.  The scary thing is that I am a vigilant handwasher and we had recently washed them.  I'm going to blame the germ-fest on the five minutes we spent on the bookmobile (Shared kids' books in a warm, sealed bus?  More like the petri dishmobile.) because I don't want to think that I'm toting around that many germs on a regular basis.  After leaving the tent, another county worker helped us wash our hands at one of those foot-pump washing stations.  I scrubbed Grace's hands and evidently didn't spend enough time on mine because the worker reminded me that I should always wash my hands for thirty seconds.  Me?  Me?  You are going to lecture me on handwashing  protocols?  If you didn't look like you were struggling with the foot-pump causing a lame water output I would have washed my hands all day. Because that's what I do.

I proudly wear my germophobe title.  Recently, a discussion with friends, one of whom is a fellow phobe, turned to various anti-germ tactics.  I don't mean run of the mill stuff like lamenting that not all public restrooms have outswinging doors or how many layers of toilet paper create an adequate barrier between ass and toilet seat.  No, I'm talking next level stuff like the wisdom of attempting to turn the public restroom faucet on and off with your foot.  (For the record, I don't think that is worth the risk; I'm so clumsy that there is a 50/50 chance that I would fall in the floor attempting such a graceful move and that would be a hundred times worse than touching the faucet.)  So, this county lady doesn't know it, but I've got hand washing cred.

Obsessive hand washing is just the tip of the iceberg, though.  Recently, my germophobia/hypochondria reached a new low when I decided to boil my clean silverware.  Why did I boil my fresh-washed silverware, you ask?  The short answer is because I don't own an autoclave.  The long answer is that I don't have a dishwasher and after a couple days too long in the sink our silverware had a film on it that looked impervious to soap and water alone (in my warped, overcautious brain).  I scrubbed the silverware like always but, sitting there in the drying rack, it just didn't "look" clean.  So, of course, the next obvious step anyone would have taken would be to boil it until sterile.

Once you answer the question "Am I really going to boil my silverware?" in the affirmative a few more questions pop up.  How long does one stand over a roiling pot of silverware before determining it is "done"?  One minute?  Ten minutes?  They don't cover this info in Food Network Magazine or Hypochondriacs Illustrated.  Or, why are there no specific kitchen tools for removing silverware from a boiling cauldron?  It is far more likely that someone would get scalded by boiling water or stabbed with sharp knives as I remove them with regular tongs, than would be done in by eating with tainted silverware.  But I don't let common sense get in the way of a good obsession.  Sad to say that, lately I've had to look no further than my own hands and sink (not a hotel or bowling alley) to find an Enemy of the Germophobe.

They Can't Blow It Every Year, Right? Right?

I was going to do a Capitals' playoff breakdown, but, really, what is there to know?  The Caps are as puzzling as the enduring success of Jay Leno or the apparent appeal of Two and a Half Men.  In their first round series that starts tonight, the Caps may be pulverized, leaving Ted Leonsis and George McPhee to scrape the road kill off F Street.  Or...the team may wake up, be the team they are capable of being and march through the Eastern conference.  After all, the Caps have hovered a hair above a .500 winning percentage all season.  It's not a huge stretch to think they could win 16 of their next 28 games.

My optimism, as it usually is regarding the Capitals fortunes this time of year, is, if not insane, at least undeserved.  This team has broken my heart year after year.  Yet, each season I find something to cling to, something that I can point to that says, "This is the year."  This season there are actually two things that make me believe (however foolishly). 

The first is that for the first time in years the Caps come in with low expectations.  A Stanley Cup favorite in the preseason, the Caps stunk it up enough to slip in the seventh seed and draw the defending champs.  Despite what George McPhee thinks, anything this team wins is gravy.  Perhaps lowered expectations will remove pressure and help this team pull off upsets instead of choke jobs.

The second factor is Coach Dale Hunter.  Go ahead, stop laughing.  I'll wait.  No, seriously, stop laughing.  Sure, some of his coaching moves and most of his press conferences make him seem borderline illiterate.  Sure, as he does little more than chew gum and sip water on the bench, he looks more bored than my wife at a baseball game.  (She just doesn't get the grand beauty of the game.)  Sure, Hunter may just be doing McPhee a favor by keeping the bench warm after Bruce Boudreau was fired.  But maybe he is stupid like a fox.  (That's how the saying goes, right?)  Hunter has elicited stronger play out of certain guys that have been scratched then worked hard to get back in the line-up.  His style of play, if executed properly, could thrive in the postseason.  Fans have no idea what Dale is doing behind the scenes to improve this team and change the culture of playoff ineptitude.  Maybe Dale Hunter, one of the most clutch players in Caps history, becomes the most clutch coach in Caps history.

I can dream, right?  A mountain of evidence and past history suggests that my optimism is misplaced.  The beauty, however, lies in the fact that anything is possible before the puck drops for Game 1.  And if the Caps are bounced early then I have the whole spring to join America the Stupid in sitting through Two and a Half Men reruns.