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I just wanted to pass on a few tidbits in order to tweek your idiosyncrasies and to irritate any delicate sensibilities you may possess.
I’m fine.
By that, I mean that I don’t partake in the same rituals you do in order to avoid getting sick.
I’ve been known to use a sponge when doing the dishes. I use the same old rag (repeatedly) to wipe the counters and table. The order in which I do that is arbitrary.
My dusting and vacuuming habits are suspect and tend to parallel the pending arrival of the occasional guest. Guests tend to be put off by the dogs, so we don’t receive very many.
Yeah, the dogs are probably instrumental in spreading a germ or two.
Sweeping and mopping tend to jump on the same schedule as the dusting.
The laundry gets done when it’s piled too high or I’m rifling through the underwear drawer looking for a pair where the blowout is the least invasive.
Certainly I would like to have the joint cleaner, but I can deal with what I have now as long as I don’t have to negotiate an obstacle course of clutter to get from my spot on the couch to my spot in the back office.
Even still, I’m fine.
I don’t get a flu shot.
I don’t have any prescriptions to cure what ails me short of the one that tends to my hyperopia and astigmatism.
I don’t suffer from allergies, frequent colds, or any other malady that the stereotypical germ-a-phobe fears for use of the same bath towel they used the other day either.
Instead I just carry along drinking my green tea, eating my guacamole laden nachos, and mainlining bacon grease. As a result, I have an abundance of hours built up in the old sick bank at work which will either be paid out in September at half my going rate, or used to haul a sick wife or kid off to the doctor.
Why is that?
