My husband has an irrational fear of raw chicken.
If I decide I'm going to cook chicken and use the cutting board to cut it while it's still raw, he is lurking right behind me immediately ready with the Lysol antibacterial spray to clean every single surface the chicken *may* have touched. Including, but not limited to, the coffee maker, the knife, the drawer handles, the dog and/or my face.
I'm not sure I can blame the guy though...he did almost die of salmonella once.
We actually didn't know that's what it was until he had spent FOUR, yes FOUR days in the hospital. Because apparently that's how long it takes for salmonella to grow in a petri dish. Who knew?
Okay, so here's what happened. We went out on a Thursday night to see a concert at the rodeo in town. I was pregnant, so I had a huge serving of rodeo nachos (for those uneducated in all things Southern, rodeo nachos are corn chips slathered with fake cheese and huge jalapenos....often seen at rodeos, ball games and NASCAR races). My husband, being not pregnant as only guys can be, had about three beers during the rodeo and the show.
A grand time was had by all (mmmm...nachos...).
The next day, he literally cannot get out of bed. He starts complaining about his stomach hurting and generally spends the day either in the bed or in the bathroom. I am convinced that he A) has food poisoning or B) has turned in to a giant pansy and can't handle three draft beers. This goes on for about a day and a half....and he's still assuring me that he doesn't need to go to the hospital. At one point, he stumbles from the bedroom and says he's actually hungry. No problem....food, I can handle. A sick man? Not so much.
After making a trip to get food that he DIDN'T EVEN REMEMBER! I decided it was time for medical attention and hauled his ass to the hospital. Now that we're going to the hospital? He's convinced he's dying.
So we get there and they immediately start IV fluids and pain killers and boy does that loosen up a man who's been on the verge of death and has had nothing to eat in three days. Then he notices that his doctor is a hot little Brazilian number....and proceeds to turn on the charm like only he can (well, like only he can when he's been given massive amounts of Percocet). In his drug-induced haze, he's convinced she finds him the hottest thing in a hospital gown to ever grace the paper mattress cover of her ER.
And then she totally bursts his bubble.
She cheerily informs him that they are going to do blood work and cultures and whatnot and "Oh, yes, and we're also going to have to do a rectal exam".
He went from Percocet-induced "Yes, hot doctor lady, I'll do whatever you want me to do because I love painkillers." to "Holy shit balls Batman! You want to put what in where?!?! Not just NO, but HELL NO! I'd rather just die! Surely dying from whatever food poisoning I've got isn't that painful. In fact, you know what? I'm really feeling so much better! I think I could just recuperate at home...really....and by the way, have you met my girlfriend?" pretty quick.
I'm not sure who was more embarrassed.....me, him or the cute little Brazilian doctor lady.