Here we go again

http://www.cnn.com/2012/01/04/health/virginia-allergy-death/index.html?hpt=he_c2

The tragedy is unsettling, but what's worse is the loud, angry debate found in the comment section, and in the comment section of every other story like this. "The kid should've been homeschooled!" "All children have rights!" "Not my kid, not my problem!"
It's the reason I'm afraid to ask for anything. It's frightening and unfeeling and callous, but mostly it's tiring. I am so sick of this. Will this issue ever be resolved?

Did you read the dead bird?

I'm a vegetarian. Not because of any meat-is-murder train of thought, because my mother is a vegetarian and I was raised on a vegetarian diet. When I was about eight my parents asked me if I wanted to try meat, but we had a hard time finding a restaurant that didn't cook their meat in or close to peanut oil, and when I finally got some it wasn't earth-shatteringly wonderful. I ate hot dogs for a while, but after finding an unidentifiable and very chewy thing in the middle of one I was more than ready to go back to salad. There's usually a small packet of ham in the fridge that my father puts in his omlettes, but apart from that the house is pretty meat-free.
My father went to the store last night after we realized that we'd run out of food without anyone noticing. When he came back I started putting the food away and discovered some fried chicken, which raised a lot of alarm bells because the bag said it was from Wal*Mart and we'd discovered when I was eleven that I couldn't eat chicken from Wal*Mart. Since it had been six years I thought that something might have changed, but I was still cautious enough that I went outside in the dark in my pajamas to where my father was continuing to unload the car, where I asked him if he had "read the dead bird," which is wary vegetarian teenager speak for "did you check to make sure it's safe for me to be in the same room with the chicken?"
He said he had read the dead bird, but when I got more specific and asked if he'd read the dead bird display he realized that he hadn't. Six years ago the chicken itself had been fine, while the display had warned that everything on it had been made next to stuff that was made in peanut oil.
Although I'm usually the one who searches with him, Poodleface was already sniffing around the chicken when my dad got back to the kitchen, so he asked him if there was anything there and he happily indicated. Which impressed my dad, since he normally doesn't give Poodleface the time of day. And yet the dog was willing to search for him.
I came in shortly after that and asked Poodleface to confirm what he'd told my dad, which he did very emphatically, slapping his paw against the bag when my dad asked him if he was sure. "It's here, right here, I've only told you three times!"  Then he got his reward and the chicken was removed from the house.
Have I mentioned that I love that dog?

Paranoia fuel

When I was growing up (is seventeen too young to use that phrase?) my classmates used to roll their eyes and tell me to stop being so paranoid. I read the ingredients on not only food, but on bottled lemonade and lip gloss and treats for my gerbil. And even when the label looked good I'd sometimes push whatever it was away, saying thanks but no thanks, I didn't trust it. Most of the time my classmates were probably right, whatever it was would have been fine for me. But occasionally I come across something like this, and that's enough to keep me cautious.

http://worstthingieverate.com/post/5218072222/so-this-isnt-actually-the-worst-food-ive-ever

Mishaps like that terrify me, as do the occasional stories about a whack job deliberately contaminating nut-free food or a family member attempting to prove that their cousin isn't REALLY allergic to shellfish.
Even with Poodleface, it's sometimes hard to face the world without fearing for my life.