Please excuse the rather banal nature of these last few “demi-posts.”  It’s just that I haven’t had time to craft an official post but don’t want to suffer a relapse of ablogorrhea.  I am currently waiting out the painfully slow process of uploading email lists to our e-marketing program.  I really can’t do much until the process is complete, so I thought I’d share two concerns that are now plaguing me.

At approximately 10:28 a.m. yesterday, I was enjoying a Greek yogurt/honey/granola parfait from Starbucks. Just as I finished the last bite, I espied the Google News headlines about the pistachio-related salmonella outbreak.

Phew! I am so glad I never eat pistachios! Salmonella totally sucks!

As I trashed the empty plastic cup that had previously contained my breakfast, I noticed something terrifying.

Frick on a nut-dipped stick!  What is that small, green, sunflower seed-shaped item clinging to the side of the cup?!

I began to hear the faint strains of the slow, foreboding music that always preceded trouble on the “Brady Bunch.”  The music grew more ominous as the reality hit me:  I had, in fact, just consumed at least a handful’s worth of the very nut that was caught in the maelstrom of public discourse.  I might even be Patient Zero.  OMFG.  

But wait. There’s more.  Before boarding the subway this morning, I noticed with shock that, while there were no seats, of course, there was a reasonably comfortable amount of standing space. I secured a spot and was delighted that no one was exhaling garlic-breath directly in my face.

I thought too soon. A foul-smelling homeless man came stumbling down the aisle, holding a half-eaten Boston Kreme donut in one hand and a filthy-looking tissue in the other.  (In case you’re wondering, I did NOT try to bite into his donut, but I did think about it.)  You can guess which spot he chose for his commute downtown. That’s right — the same spot I was occupying. I tried to gently and subtly relocate, but was not able to do so on account of the the train’s rapid, bumpy motion.

Fine, I thought. I’ll just move at the next stop.

Unfortunately, there was enough time between 86th and 77th Streets for contamination to occur.  The homeless man, about to lose his balance after a particularly violent lurch, went to grab the pole with his tissue-holding hand but instead grabbed MY NAKED HAND.

Ew! A thousand times, ew! Blech! Yuck!

I had intended to wash my hands — under boiling water — immediately upon arriving at work. But then I got sucked into the vortex of professional Twitter use and absentmindedly began to eat my yogurt-blueberry muffin.  It was a good few bites before I realized which germy, disgusting, filthy, amputation-worthy hand I was using to serve myself.

So I ask you, my loyal readers, this:  what are the odds that my death (and/or Ebola, and/or severe illness)  is not imminent?