"Pshhhhhhhhhhht!" is the sound I hear in my dreams. It's the constant, unending sound of my beloved following me around the house... spraying Lysol on anything I come in contact with.

With just a nudge, the man could be a germ-o-phobe. I check e-mail and hear "Pshhhhhhhhhhht!" as he sprays down the desk and keyboard. I brush my teeth at the sink. "Pshhhhhhhhhhht!" fills my ears as I walk away. I cuddle a cat. "Pshhhhhhhhhhht!" (Just kidding).

Still, it's a lot. "Enough!" I said. "Put that damn can down."

"I am trying to make sure I don't get sick before New Year's," said Blair. 

Okay. Point conceded. One of us had to be healthy to greet the guests. And I'm doing much better... more weak than anything at this point. I believe the worst has passed which means Blair is in danger. Our routine is that one of us falls sick, heals, then the other one topples.

He's out of the house at the moment, delivering bags of purged household items to Goodwill. So if I hurry and finish typing this entry, there's a chance I won't have to inhale Lysol for the nth time today. Or...the guilt might get to me. After all, I don't want him to be sick. Damn it all...