Nuts and Dirt

nuts-pistachios-inshell-red

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?

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Nuts and Dirt

Freak Magnet

That, apparently, describes me.

This morning, a bright and unseasonably warm Thursday in New York, I was walking down 24th Street on my way to work when I was accosted by a man I’ll call “Freak 1.” From the looks of Freak 1’s very natural orange skin tone, I surmised that he’d spent the better part of the week in a spray tan booth.  He was sporting a snazzola purple polyester button-down, open to his bellybutton. How generous of him to share his chest with all of Chelsea! Freak 1 had paired the purple polyester button-down with shiny black pants and of course, a ginormous medallion on a heavy chain.  His well-groomed and not at all dyed jet black hair resembled that of one Silvio Dante, official consigliare of the Soprano crime family.  

Freak 1 appeared to be gainfully employed as a perfume salesman.  He was toting a cardboard box packed with such coveted designer fragrances as Channel No. 5, Ralph Lauren Rolo and Mallomar by Guerlain.  

As he jumped in front of me and shoved the box in my face, he instructed me to try some perfume today.  Having already sprayed some lovely, aromatic and AUTHENTIC Pink Jasmine by Fresh just 45 minutes earlier, I really didn’t feel it was necessary, so I declined politely.

Freak 1 was insistent. “Come on! Try a spritz. You’ll love it!”

I looked straight ahead and ignored him as I continued down the block.  As I neared my office building, I heard him yelling, “Fine! Keep stinking, bitch! It’d kill ya to smell good for a change?!”

Naturally, this prompted me to sniff my pits just to make sure he was an irrational nut job. Unfortunately, I didn’t realize that I was being watched by Freak 2, who was waiting for the elevator. Freak 2 was wearing carpenter jeans that sat on his knees instead of his waist, a quintuple XL Giants t-shirt, work boots, and, it was clear to see, navy blue boxer briefs. 

“Nice day tuh-day, huh?”

I nodded, not wanting to engage him and still worrying that perhaps I reeked a smidge.

“Ya gotta love dis weath-uh,” he said as he stepped into the elevator and pressed the Floor 3 button.

“Oh silly me. I woik on duh fiff floo-uh. Guess ya gotta spend suh moo-uh time wit me.”

I hit the 7 button and tried to appear pleasant but not at all interested in conversing. 

He moved closer to me, invading my personal space.

“Ya know wuh? You got boo-tee-ful eyes.”

I thanked him.

“Can I touch ’em?”

Um, EW!

Naturally my first thought was not, “What a sick fuck” but rather “THAT IS SO GERMY! WHO KNOWS WHAT KIND OF RHINOVIRUS HE’S CARRYING ON HIS GRIMY, PERVY PAWS?”

I wasn’t sure how to respond to a question like that, so I simply said, “I’d reeeeally rather you didn’t.”

Safely at my desk, feeling violated and smelly, I wrung my hands with Purell and tried to kill the freak molecules.  Now, I feel violated, smelly, sticky and 62 percent ethyl alcohol.

Freak Magnet