Wednesday, April 14, 2010

Life On The Farm 04/12/10: I know where that's been


I may soon become someone who carries individual Wetnaps and miniature bottles of Purell.

I already have baby wipes in each vehicle for when hands get dirty from fieldwork (or eating on the go)– and keep liquid sanitizer in the farmer’s market cashbox to apply periodically when handling money. 

I avail myself of the antiseptic wipes at the Hannaford entrance to clean my cart handle, and use sanitizer from the big dispenser in the doctor’s office before I leave. 

But I don’t have anything in my purse to apply in case of disinfectant emergency. Increasingly, it seems, something quick to hand in the Lysol or Clorox family would be dandy.

Case in point: last Monday, I needed items at a box store and the checkout person took my credit card as they are wont to do in order to key the secret code on the reverse into the register before the purchase is approved.

During the transaction, the raspy-voiced sales associate used my card to cover their mouth whilst noisily hacking up something that had come undone, deep, deep down.

(I needn’t malign the establishment.  This has happened in several different stores, with nary a thought by the perpetrators as to the Typhoid Maryness of it all.) 

I shot the clerk a look of incredulity, but it washed over him/her (let’s keep this anonymous), and the transgression passed without an acknowledgement.  I mean, they wouldn’t have done that in my open palm - but barking on my Visa is socially acceptable?

Good God! Now, I had to take the card back.  I likened it to those used Kleenexes that must be balled up in their front smock pocket, and was loath to accept it.

I couldn’t return it to my wallet; instead, I held it by the edges like the used Petri dish it was, and exited.

When I returned to the truck, I dropped it in the center console while relating the sordid tale to my husband Dan – (who had been waiting in the parking lot, listening to music) - all the while searching for the aforementioned (dried out!) baby wipes.  I didn’t dare rub down the card at peril of neutering the magic stripe.

I’m not a raging germaphobe.  I thumb through magazines in the dentist’s office, and have recently gritted a foreign #2 pencil between my teeth while typing on someone else’s computer.  

Dan was witness to the latter, and gave me a repulsed “Omygod, you don’t know where that’s been!” even though he routinely eats goodies after receiving change at Dunkin Donuts’ drive-thru, drinks from a soda can while in the milking parlor, and has no problem consuming anything originating from the well of a sidewalk pushcart.

For all my protestations, I am, at this point, more likely to be bowled over and stamped on by the field pony we are rehabilitating, than in catching the flu or a random cold. 

I’m a devout hand-washer.

But, it might not hurt to start packing personal-size protection.