Ann was a little under the weather this week with a stomach bug. Always the caring and sensitive husband, when I got home from work I handed her the Clorox Clean-Up and asked her to wipe down the doorknobs, handles, and any other objects she may have touched. Did you get the remote? She waved a finger at me, and it wasn’t her index finger. Alrighty then.
Look, let’s get this straight: I’m not a germaphobe. If I were a germaphobe, would I allow the the dog eat pasta out of my mouth —and we’re not talking “Lady and The Tramp” style, we’re talking penne. Exactly. And if I were a germaphobe, would I consume perfectly good food that someone carelessly left in the kitchen garbage, or reach elbow deep into the sewer pipe in the basement? I rest my case. This isn’t about germs, this is a public health issue, and if you ask me that’s everyone’s responsibility.
You didn’t touch the refrigerator did you? She gave me that cute little wave again.