“The ‘no handshake’ policy of the NBA is ridiculous when you think about the amount of bodily contact under the boards.”

-Jerome Klein, MD Professor of Pediatrics, Boston U. Med. Ctr.
Pedi Infectious Diseases Conference, Oct. 24, 2009
commenting on the Oct. 1, 2009 request by the NBA that players NOT shake hands before a game to reduce the spread of flu.

Factor by which microbial cells (bacteria) in your body outnumber your own cells: x 10

• In other words, only 10% of the total number of cells in your body are human cells.

Number of species of infectious bacteria on physicians’ ties in a 2004 study: at least 1                  Now you know why pediatricians used to wear bow ties. Studies of physicians’ white coats are underway.
Number of bacterial species on the palm of your hand: >150
Per cent higher the bacteria count is on female undergraduate student hands as compared to male undergraduate hands: +50%

• The authors of this study tread very lightly here and cautiously speculate that it might be related to use of cosmetics and lotions. (1)

Methicilin resistant staph aureus (MRSA) can be found in sand and salt water.

• “We should not fear the beach. We can shower before we go into the water, and we can shower when we come out of the water. That way we can protect ourselves.” Dr. Plano (2)

Factor by which the number of bacteria found in shower heads exceeds that found in “background counts” of air and water:  x 100     (3)
Per cent of those that were staph bacteria:  2       None were MRSA, and there was no evidence for infection from this water.

Per cent of 156 children who got pertussis (whooping cough) that had refused the vaccine: 11%

• Herd immunity (the concept that the unvaccinated are protected because the vaccinated don’t get the disease) does NOT work.  (4)

Per cent annual return on investment (ROI) for providing vaccinations of preventable diseases in low income countries:  18    (5)
Number of databases currently tracking vaccine side-effects:  3

• VAERS, VSD, CISA

Per cent of U.S. physicians who prescribe antibiotics for ear infections: 80%  (6)
Per cent of Polish and German physicians who do: 40%
Per cent of children in the U.K. with mastoiditis who did NOT have a preceding ear infection: 66
Per cent of total world-wide antibiotics attributed to treatment of acute ear infections: 37%

Chance that head lice will hop or jump from person to person or live on your pets: 0
Chance that an adopted child from Russia, China, or Gutemala who tests negative for TB when first tested upon arrival to U.S. will then test positive after 3 months of improved nutrition: 20%

Per cent reduction in runny noses of 326 children in China who were given lactobacillus acidophilus (a probiotic often contained in live culture yogurt) twice a day for over 6 months: 27 – 51    (7)

• A probiotic is a live microbe that is ingested orally in great numbers, 1000,000,000 per dose several times a day, to enhance your health. Studies to assess their benefits are increasing as people look to probiotics as an alternative to anitbiotcs and other medical drugs.
• It is a bit of a wonder to me that some parents who oppose vaccinations for their children with inactivated, killed cells  because of the “foreign proteins” readily feed their children millions of live cells of “foreign proteins” (probiotics) to make them healthier.

Reduction of diarrhea duration by those using probiotics: 1 day
Per cent reduction in colds, diarrhea, and colic of infants given synbiotics for the first 6 months of life: 0  (8)

• A synbiotic is a combination of a probiotic (live microbial organisms) and a prebiotic (indigestible nutrients that enhance normal gastrointestinal bacteria)

Per cent reduction in use of antibiotics by the infants who received the synbiotic :  20%
Number of undesirable side-effects or unexpected changes in growth patterns in infants fed synbiotics: 0

• Synbiotics may not provide big benefits, but at least they do no harm.

References:

1. Proceedings of National Academy of Sciences 105:17994-9
2. American Assn. for the Advancement of Science Annual meeting, Chicago, Feb. 12-16 ,2009
3. Proceedings of National Academy of Sciences 106:16393-9
4. Pediatrics 2009 June 123:1446
5. Bull WHO 2008 Feb 86(2) 140-6
6. Many of the facts to follow were reviewed at the Annual Pediatric Inf Dis Conference, Boston U. MC, Oct 24-25, 2009
7. Pediatrics 2009; 124: e172-e179.Leyer
8. Pediatrics 2008; 122: 8

]]> http://darrengarnick.wordpress.com/2009/10/16/swine-flu-germs-purell/ Fri, 16 Oct 2009 23:42:52 +0000 cultureschlock http://darrengarnick.wordpress.com/2009/10/16/swine-flu-germs-purell/

I used to mock Purell when it first came on the market. Now I may as well drink the stuff.

CULTURE SCHLOCK – By Darren Garnick
“PARANOIA AIR: Germ-o-phobia overtakes supermarket carts, airplanes”
The Telegraph
Originally Published: January 19, 2006
**
Like many overprotective parents, I zealously keep my toddler away
from chainsaws, pit bulls and downed electrical lines. But there’s one
hazard that terrifies me above all the others.

Despite explicit instructions not to touch a molecule, regardless of
how pristine it may appear, my three-year-old son acts like a “Price
Is Right” game show hostess in a public restroom. He slowly brushes
his hand across the stall partitions and the waste baskets. He
showcases the paper towel and soap dispensers. His fingerprints even
wind up on the floor tiles.

Scrubbing him down is a logistical nightmare because he cannot reach
the sink. I tuck him underneath one arm like a football and use the
other hand to rub his hands with soap. In the end, at least a half
gallon of water winds up on his shirt. When my child is tall enough,
I’ll teach him the essentials of urinal yoga: How to flush any toilet
with your sneaker.

I thought I was superparanoid about germs until I stumbled across The
Wall Street Journal’s recent consumer tests of anti-bacterial products
for airline passengers. As bad as a raunchy gas station bathroom or
portable toilet is, an airplane is essentially a petri dish with
wings. There’s no place for the germs to go, so they socialize inside
the vents and luggage compartments. In the airplane bathroom itself,
a.k.a. Virus Central, it is impossible not to have every body part
brush against the walls.

The Journal’s phobia product round-up includes a $75 neck pillow “with
a built-in ionizer to shoo pollutants from your personal breathing
space,” an $85 pair of metal-free “travel shoes” which wearers might
not have to take off during the security check, a $10 anti-bacterial
seat wrap, and an $8 bottle of anti-flu nasal spray.

We’re just one more SARS epidemic or chicken flu away from the launch
of Paranoia Air, an airline in which the flight attendants wear white
biohazard suits and the passengers all wear surgical masks. At least
that scenario might spare you from an annoying conversation with a
chatty passenger sitting next to you.

Self-help guru Deepak Chopra, who travels frequently for his New Age
seminars, told the Journal that he recommends flying without any
anti-microbe protection. “By creating an artificial environment, we’re
not stimulating our immune system enough,” he said. “Germs are immune
stimulants. They challenge you to be prepared.”

Back on the ground, it’s tough to be kissy-kissy with these
“challenging” germs — especially after reading the latest handwashing
studies (which the soap industry churns out weekly under academic
cover). After paying spies to observe more than 6,000 people in
public restrooms, the American Society for Microbiology recently
reported that 25 percent of guys snub the sink altogether opposed to
only 10 percent of women.

Unfortunately, there is no way to segregate the clean people from the
dirty ones. Even hanging out with just women doesn’t eliminate the
risk (although it does cut it in half).

Supermarket shopping cart studies, usually publicized at sweeps time
by FOX News affiliates, always prove to be nauseating. One University
of Arizona study found that one in five carts in Tucson “tested
positive for bodily fluids, blood, mucus, saliva or urine.” The
University of Maryland had no trouble finding E. coli bacteria in the
festering juices of raw beef, chicken and pork clinging to these
carts.

The Wall Street Journal gives a thumbs down to most of the anti-germ
products it tested, but it does endorse using alcohol-based hand
sanitizers, such as Purell, even after washing your hands on a plane.
Sometimes, they found, even the water can’t be trusted. The
Environmental Protection Agency recently discovered “unacceptable”
levels of coliform bacteria coming out of airline sinks.

As long as we can’t see the germs, paranoia will continue to thrive –
and so will these products. Makes me wish I bought some stock in
Purell.

Wondering if I’m the only one who is totally skeeved out by those credit card check- out swipe machine gizmos I’m starting to see all over?  You know the ones I mean … where you swipe your credit card and then use the attached stump of a plastic pen to sign, or rather, scratch, what’s supposed to be your signature, on the little screen?

I blame my newly acquired germ-phobia on a truly hideous upper respiratory “thing”  I’ve been best buddies with since mid-January. Other than a flight to and from Mexico, where I am POSITIVE all the flight attendants and all the other passengers were wishing I would succumb, right then and there,  just so I wouldn’t be coughing on them anymore, I’ve not ventured out much.

I’ve become somewhat of a recluse and avoided movies, social events, church services, board meetings and canceled dinner dates with friends because I  think of myself as a social pariah, mostly because my cough  sounds like a  seal with a pack- a- day Luckies habit. And the fact that it’s hard to stuff my latest must-have accessory –a full box of tissues –into even an oversized handbag.

Now, I know I can’t be sure how I picked up this bug. But today when I ventured out for –what else but more tissues and some vitamins?–  an  alarm sounded in my head when the clerk asked me to use the credit-card- swipe-thingy-with-convenient built- in-plastic-pen-stub. I froze mid- motion at the realization that everyone else who charged their purchases there today… even the ones who NEVER, EVER wash their hands… used that very same pen.

The easy solution would be to give up using my credit card and resort to cash, but that’s going to seriously undermine my “mileage slut” status. ( And future trips to Mexico.)

Tip: Fellow germ phobics (Have  I just created a few?) the exceedingly polite clerk told me that, next time, if I asked to avoid using the germ-matrix-credit-card- machine before he rang up the sale, that could be arranged. (So I can’t be the only one who’s asked, right?)

Now if I could just figure out how to avoid touching the door knob on my way out.

Be well.

And please do share your own germ phobias and/or your tips for staying healthy all winter!

Your ex girlfriend is a prostitute.

She was at my house last night. Nice enough girl, but that german accent reminds me of fat girls. I hate fat girls.

My band was on tour with you and 30 seconds back in 2005 and I have to admit, besides your over the top germ phobia and possibility of one day turning into the next Michael Jackson, I kinda thought you were takin care of business…

Then I moved to Hollywood and saw you with Tila Tequila, and last night I handcuffed your ex girlfriend while she laughed at your song coming on satellite radio and let me fart in her face.

Los Angeles; Day 580.      1:07am      2008

Over and Out,

-TeddyRevolution

Your ex girlfriend is a prostitute.

She was at my house last night. Nice enough girl, but that german accent reminds me of fat girls. I hate fat girls.

My band was on tour with you and 30 seconds back in 2005 and I have to admit, besides your over the top germ phobia and possibility of one day turning into the next Michael Jackson, I kinda thought you were takin care of business…

Then I moved to Hollywood and saw you with Tila Tequila, and last night I handcuffed your ex girlfriend while she laughed at your song coming on satellite radio and let me fart in her face.

Los Angeles; Day 580.      1:07am      2008

Over and Out,

-TeddyRevolution

If you can believe Wikipedia, the term “Hell on Wheels” was “…used to describe the itinerant collection of flimsily assembled gambling houses, dance halls, saloons, and brothels that sprung up as Union Pacific railroad workers… constructed the American transcontinental railroad back in the 1860s.”  I am not sure I believe this.  I think the term was coined by a mother like me who got roped into chaperoning a preschool class on a trip to a roller skating rink. 

And take my advice, if you too get roped into something like this, by all means bring your video camera.  I wish I had remembered to bring mine.

I could have, and probably should have, driven my son to the roller rink myself, in my own car and with relative peace and quiet, but it turned out that one of the preschool vans (we needed three vans to transport all of the children) had an extra seat available and my son wanted us to “ride with his friends.”  The extra seat turned out to be the one spot where only an adult could sit because the teachers couldn’t put a booster seat there as the seatbelt in that spot was broken.  And that wouldn’t be safe for a child, but the teachers thought it was perfectly fine for a grown up like me.  Although my son was certain we should ride in the van he wasn’t entirely convinced of the safety of me being without a seatbelt and insisted on holding my hand the entire way there.  If we crashed, he was going to hold me in place.  I imagine his reasoning was not unlike that of my mother’s long ago and how she used to throw her arm out across my chest when she was driving and had to slam on the brakes.  When I was a kid, mothers’ arms were the precursor to today’s air bags and my mom’s right arm kept me, (yes I was sitting in the front seat, but hey, we didn’t know any better back then) from hitting the windshield when she had to brake suddenly.  Or at least it did most of the time.  And so I found myself relying upon my son to keep me secure and in place if the van crashed and rolled.  But luckily, it didn’t.

Have you ever ridden in a van with 13 five year olds?  Thirteen 5 year olds who won’t shut up?  (“Awwww,” I can hear my son saying. “You said shut up.  That’s a bad word…”)

Preschool has a system for this.  The kids in the van are allowed to talk for five minutes to get the talking “out of their system,” then the teacher (in this case, Ms. K!) who is driving the van, turns on the radio.  When the music plays, the kids are supposed to “make a bubble” which is code for “shut your mouth.”  Only on this particular day, the kids weren’t exactly following this rule, and the teacher wasn’t exactly enforcing it.  And I didn’t have any Tylenol or earplugs with me.

If you haven’t enjoyed suffered the privilege of riding in a van with 13 children at once, I will tell you it was like traveling back in time to witness a dozen times over the bickering of my brother and I in our youth as we sat fought in the back seat of the car for 17 hours straight on our summer vacations to Florida. 

Conversations in the van swirled in the air like smoky complaints and accusations (because they were) and they sounded like this:

“Ms. K! Derek touched me!”
“I did not!” 
“Yes you did!”
“Ms. K!  Victoria is looking out the back window!  She’s not looking forward!”
“Stop!”
“No, you stop!”
“Hey Snags’ Mom! Josh stuck his tongue out at me!”
“I said stop it!”
“Ms. K! Jenny is looking at me!”
“Snags’ Mom!  Paul put his shoe on me!”
“Ouch!”
“Ms. K! Victoria poked me!”
“Did not!  Did so!”
“Ow! Stop!”
“Stop touching me!”

But unlike my parents all those years ago, Ms. K! did not threaten to turn the van around and go back home.  She just kept sighing and driving while I sat hostage in the broken seat belt spot half hoping the van would roll so I could be thrown out a window to somewhere quiet.

Eventually, even the children got tired of their bickering and they decided to play a rousing game called “Yellow Car” of which the sole object was to scream “YELLOW CAR!” any time they spotted a yellow car.  And here I’d just like to say “Thank you, Jesus!” and “Praise the Lord!” to all of the car makers who rightly decided yellow wasn’t that great a color for cars and for only making a few of them at best.  But woe to you Ford with your Mustangs…  This could be worse, I kept telling myself.  We could be playing “blue car” or “red car” or simply “CAR!”

Somewhere in the middle of Yellow Car the children got bored and decided the road was hilly enough to remind them of roller coasters and all at once (as a collective!) they all threw their hands into the air and yelled “Hands Up!” before leaning rapidly and swaying violently from side to side, as if attempting to tip the van.  Then, as the road began a descent they’d scream, “Hands Down!” and put their hands down.  Only this, in my mind, was reverse of what you might actually do on a roller coaster. I thought anyone who’d actually been on a roller coaster would keep their hands up on the descent, because that’s where the thrill is.  But I didn’t argue the point because I was starting to feel a bit sick from the small space and the yelling and the hands flying everywhere. 

After what seemed like years off my life, but was probably only 30 minutes or so, we arrived at the skating rink.

As we entered the building each child was handed a little blue ticket, the kind of ticket you might be given at a carnival and that you’d turn over to the ride attendant as you got on the tilt-a-whirl, perhaps.  Immediately, the teacher took the tickets from the children and traded them (the tickets, not the children, but imagine how different this story would be if that were the case…) in for pairs of roller skates at the rental desk.  I stayed with the children and helped them put on their skates and tie their laces. 

Tying laces… whoever planned this field trip must have forgotten that five year olds today don’t know how to tie laces because they don’t wear shoes that have laces.  Their shoes have Velcro.  But roller skates don’t have Velcro.  They have laces.  And I had to tie them.  All um… let’s see… 3 vans with 13 kids each… that’s yes, 39 pairs of skates or 78 individual roller skates (one for each foot) to tie…  Make that 76.  Sydney brought her own skates.  She could work them herself, because they didn’t have laces.  They had buckles.

I went down the row and tied the laces.  And then the children stood up.

And then they fell down.

And then they stood up again and somehow maneuvered their way onto the rink.  Where they fell down…. again. SPLAT!  SPLAT! SPLAT! SPLAT! SPLAT!

It was surreal.  If I didn’t know better, I’d have sworn there was a sniper hiding behind one of the trashcans in the snack bar.  A sniper with rubber bullets, taking out each child, one by one as soon as they stepped off the carpeting and onto the smooth polished floor of the rink.  Because they ALL WENT DOWN.  Each and every one of them.  Except Sydney.  Her skates, the ones with the buckles, also had wheels that could be locked in one direction.  She could only march forward, but that was good because she didn’t fall.  It was like watching cartoon characters slip on a banana peel, over and over and over and over again. And again.

At one point I surveyed the rink and saw a sea of splayed bodies down for the count.  A few lone survivors, mostly teachers, myself, and Sydney, were left skating around the fallen.

Whose idea was this?  I wondered.  And why isn’t anybody filming this?  I should have brought my video camera.  At the very least, this scene, this giant accident of roller skating crashes needed to be investigated by Eye Team on our News at Eleven.  They needed to uncover the truth behind the trip.  Who was responsible? Shouldn’t someone have inquired if the children knew how to skate before turning them loose on a slippery floor without proper medical supervision?

But we were lucky.  There were a few scrapes, a few bruises, a few kisses and band aids needed, but nothing broken.  It could have been worse. I could have been on this trip with the senior citizens from the retirement home down the street.  There would have been broken hips with that crowd for sure.

But the preschoolers, they were pretty game.  They fell down or got knocked down or skated down and they got back up again and again.  It was like hanging out with Chumbawamba, except the only thing around to drink was bottled water.

And then there was my son. He, along with one or two other children, found it much easier to simply crawl around the rink on their hands and knees.  My son chased after Sydney this way.  It was pathetic. It was like watching a legless stalker drag himself thru the weeds after a pretty woman walking a dog.  “Get up!”  I told him whenever I skated past.  But he would have none of it.

After a time, Sydney took pity on him.  She offered to teach him how to skate.  And somehow she’d managed to retain her blue ticket, probably because she brought her own skates.  She told my son if he did as she instructed and learned to skate, she’d give him the blue ticket.  She convinced him the ticket had value.  It was, she told him, a ticket that would enable him to play the video games in the rink’s arcade.  And ALL the children wanted to play the video games.  Only none of them had quarters.  Many of them took to moping and frowning.  They couldn’t skate well, and now they couldn’t play video games either.  But for Snags, there was the promise of Sydney and that blue ticket…

So my son bravely stood up and readied himself for Sydney’s skating lessons.  From what I could tell, the lessons required that Snags follow Sydney around the carpeted area that surrounded the rink floor and then across the slick divide of linoleum by the snack bar before the carpeting began again. 

“Help me, mom!” Snags cried.  “Sydney said I have to do this FIVE times before she’ll give me the ticket. I’m tired!” 

“So stop,” I said.

“Can’t.  Must. Have. That. Ticket!” he spluttered, somewhat out of breath as he desperately tried to keep up with his instructor.

I tried to convince him that he didn’t need the ticket, that it was not the key to the video games, and that he needed quarters for those, but he wouldn’t listen.

After their third time around like this, Sydney marched up to me and announced, pointedly, “He’s a Level One!” and then, over her shoulder to Snags she demanded, “Come ON!”

Another child on the field trip thought it important to come and tell me whenever a song had a dirty word in it.  Hollaback Girl he told me, had a “bad word with the letter H in it.”  He claimed to know all of the bad words in each song that played through the rink’s sound system, but he said he wasn’t going to tell me what they were.  I guess he didn’t want to get in trouble.  “Sometimes they beep the word out,” he explained.  “And sometimes,” he continued “my dad sings the bad words in the car when they play the songs on the radio.  That’s how I know what all the bad words are.”

We spent four hours at the rink during which time I too learned all the songs that had bad words in them.  Those words came in handy later because I needed something to mutter under my breath when nearly all 39 children decided they needed to use the bathroom.  Have you ever helped a child who cannot skate, no let me clarify that, who cannot even stand on skates, make their way to the bathroom while they (and you) are wearing skates?  It’s not an easy task, and it’s not a pretty sight.  Especially the puddle of pee that covered the floor inside one stall of the ladies room.  I’m not sure how it got there.  But boys were using the ladies room too, so that might explain it.  I imagine more than a few of them rolled backwards while urinating.  I don’t really know.  I also don’t know why we didn’t think to have them remove their skates before using the bathroom.  Probably we didn’t want their socks to get wet with pee. 

What I do know is once the kids made their way out of the stalls I had to hold their hands and help them skate to the sinks and OMG! YUCK! YUCK! YUCK! I was touching hands of children who had just used the bathroom and most likely had peed upon themselves.  And it turned out there wasn’t any soap.  And only one sink worked, and on that, only the HOT water worked.  So the children cried about the hot water.  And then there weren’t any paper towels.  So I had dirty hot little wet pee germy hands on roller skates gripping my highly superior germ phobic hands as I helped navigate them out of the bathroom and back onto the carpeted floor so they could go back out onto the rink and fall down again.

In the end, Snags got that blue ticket.  He managed to complete his “skating lessons” per Sydney’s approval and she did as she had promised: she gave him the coveted ticket. It was wrinkled and wet and she handed it over along with a broken rubber band that I fear she might have found on the floor of the bathroom.  I shuddered to think that’s why the ticket was wet.  I have to say though, Snags was very proud of himself as he climbed into the van for the ride back to preschool.  And my hands were itching furiously with some kind of skating rink dirty bathroom germs.  But the return trip was quiet.  All 13 children fell blessedly asleep.  Until the van pulled into the preschool’s parking lot…