Showing posts with label CDC. Show all posts
Showing posts with label CDC. Show all posts

Monday, October 12, 2015

Sharing your toothbrush with a loved one


It’s another confounding aspect of human behavior that couples in long, stable and loving relations recoil in disgust at the idea of their partner using the other’s toothbrush.
I don’t get it.
Many of these people have combined to conceive children and — let me tell you, you innocents — there’s a lot more than spit being swapped in that raucous procedure.
Yet, it’s my understanding some couples are absolutely repulsed at the idea of their significant other running, say, her toothbrush over his ivories.
It’s not like they’re using it to tidy up ears or armpits. Now, that’d be gross.
I know there’ve been times when Val’s stumbled in drunk from a long night of bourbon and cigars and mistakenly grabbed the wrong toothbrush.
Didn’t phase me a bit. I was just glad she was home safe.
And, yeah, I might have those roles reversed.
Parts of the last 37 years are a bit foggy.
Either way, I know it’s no big deal.
I do know if she realized she’d accidentally used my toothbrush and ran screaming to the garage to gargle with turpentine, it would hurt my feelings.
I mention this now because I saw a Centers for Disease Control report that sharing a toothbrush can be dangerous.
I take this with a grain of salt.
In fact, I take everything with a grain of salt. Actually, more like a tablespoon of salt. I salt the hell out of everything.
Even things like cereal.
I’d perish without salt.
It doesn’t bother me I may be putting toothbrush-born pathogens in my mouth because I believe the toothpaste poisons I thrice-daily put in my mouth will kill the pathogens before, I hope, they kill me.
It’s true. Each tube of toothpaste contains enough poisons to kill a small deer.
It says so right on the labels. Here’s the boilerplate:
“Keep out of reach of children: If more than used for brushing is accidentally swallowed, get medical help or call a Poison Control Center right away.”
So we’re already daily putting lots of deadly poison in our mouths — and that’s before any of us even hit the Taco Bell drive-thrus. 
I’m a fanatic about brushing and flossing and do both with fierce regularity.
I’m one of those guys who believes he is his own best dentist. I’m avid about reading oral care news and adapt to the current recommendations.
Just last year there were a spate of experts saying it’s more important to brush first and then floss. Then came the inevitable backlash that said the reverse — floss then brush — was the ideal.
Given the conflicting expert advice, I chose a Solomonic solution.
I brush first and floss next on even numbered days and do the reverse on the odd.
Other than chipped and busted choppers from closing bar shenanigans, I haven’t had a dental problem in more than 30 years. No cavities. No gum troubles. Nothing.
Of course, my family will contend the reason for that is because I refuse to see a dentist.
They are correct.
I won’t see a dentist until I have a symptom.
See, I contend the more people are misled about the necessity of visiting the dentist every six months, the more the dentists concoct reasons for patients to see the dentist.
It’s a genius business model, the kind a guy who blogs for free can envy but never emulate.
And I’m going to keep doing it just the way I’ve been because it’s working for me.
I won’t freak out if every once in a while I use my wife’s toothbrush or she uses mine.
I hope that clears things up.
Don’t let an occasional unsanitary swap of the toothbrush devolve into an unhealthy neurosis.
And don’t look to me for any dissertations about the mental health issues of wearing a spouse’s frilly undergarments when you mistakenly believe she won’t be home ’til dinner.
I have Val convinced that was just a phase.

Related . . .



Tuesday, July 5, 2011

Happy National Nude Recreation Week!


A game of 8 ball played between two naked men is still called 8 ball.
That’s just one of the things I learned during the month it took me to exhaustively research my just-posted msnbc.com story heralding National Nude Recreation Week.
It’s an evergreen kind of story I’m going to relentlessly pitch each and every year until I find a publication that’ll agree to headline it, “Hams Across America!”
I found talking to nudists over the phone is a lot like talking to fundamentalist Christians in that both are reluctant to admit any of their members might enjoy sex.
It’s an understandable reaction from starchy fundamentalists. They’ve been taught ever since Adam sex means trouble. It might explain their ardor for immaculate conception.
A deity waving a magic wand -- Bibidi! Bobidi! Boo! -- just seems so much tidier than the nuts and bolts of biological sex -- and I’m not speaking metaphorically when I’m referring to hardware. Many popular genital piercings historically involve actual bolts.
As for nuts, well, maybe I’m speaking a bit metaphorically.
The nudists went out of their way to differentiate themselves from swingers and swappers and, really, anyone that enjoyed sex.
Rules at a typical nudist resort are explicit: They don’t want anyone’s magic wands waving around.
Rules stipulate if a naked man finds himself becoming aroused he needs to cover himself with a towel, lay down on his stomach or depart the premises.
The only thing today’s nudists are interested in raising is awareness.
Almost every nudist I interviewed asked me if I were one of them. I had to say, sorry, no. I don’t share their beliefs, their values, and I wouldn’t begin to speculate on what kind of secret handshakes nudists exchange.
It was a lie.
You see, I do consider myself a nudist.
Well, let’s say I’m a situational nudist.
I’m naked whenever I think I can get away with it.
I guess in that way I’m like Bugs Bunny. He’d start out every episode naked and perfectly at peace. But as the world came crashing in on him, he’d don costumes like opera gowns or doctor’s scrubs depending on what bone-headed choices Elmer Fudd made at the time.
I’m like that. I’ve slept naked since college and still wake up everyday in the buff. I can’t recall now what motivated the choice. I wish I could say it involved dusk-to-dawn passions, but I don’t think that was it.
More than likely it involved the over-consumption of Ouzo, a powerful Greek liquor that imparted the unusual side effect of me scattering my clothes all over Athens, Ohio.
But nudity seemed to suit me or, more accurately, it seemed to birthday suit me.
I was soon naked in my dorm room, in the halls, in the laundry room and once on a dare through the length of the packed dining hall at Ohio University’s South Green in just 1 minute and 12 seconds breaking a record that had stood for 3 years.
And I was rarely near a body of water when my naked body wasn’t frolicking in the water. I loved to skinny dip.
Times change. Now the only time I’m naked is in the dark with my wife.
The main reasons I’m rarely ever naked anymore is, of course, my daughters.
Children are where I draw the line regarding nudity -- and I draw it thick in broad strokes from my hips to just above the knees.
Yet nudism still has its appeal. It sounds contradictory, but having to wear pants bums me out.
This was never more apparent than last month when we enjoyed three days at a private residence on the banks of the Chesapeake.
The magnificent house and pool were a nudist paradise, at least for the girls who enjoyed their first skinny dip. And I now have pictures that’ll refute anyone who dares call my wife a prude.
And there I was, a veteran nudist unable to shuck my preposterous baggy swimsuit.
I wondered in frustration if I’ll ever get to enjoy a real skinny dip again.
Of course, according to the obesity charts prepared by the Centers for Disease Control, the point may be moot.
I’d have to drop about 20 pounds to even qualify as a skinny dipper.