Tag Archives: Google

#39 – Use A Neti Pot

The fact that I started dating someone is only partially responsible for the dramatic change in subject matter from Having A One Night Stand to now writing about my first experience with a Neti Pot.

She is pretty damn great and certainly detouring me away from my debaucherous end to 2014 , but it mostly has to do with the fact that last week my nasal cavity was more congested than the 405 Freeway when I need to be somewhere.

My pain tolerance is very high, and I have a lot of pride. That’s a bad combination for someone who is sick. Two weeks ago I developed a sore throat, so by my nature, I ignored it. My nose started to run, so obviously I let it go. I convinced myself I wasn’t physically sick. I went out seven nights in a row and didn’t go to sleep before 4am on any night. Clearly I was mentally sick, in addition to physically sick.

The runny nose and sore throat turned into a cough with chest congestion, which led to hacking up Double Dare sized slime balls of mucus. I didn’t make time to go see a doctor, so I called my buddy Vinny and he diagnosed me with a sinus infection. It’s OK, Vinny’s Dad is a doctor.

Dr. Vinny said to take Mucinex, Claritin, drink plenty of water, get lots of rest, and to use a Neti Pot. I heard many things about the Neti Pot, but never used one because I have an irrational fear of putting medical devices in my eyes, nose, or butt. I was desperate though.

I had some questions for Dr. Vinny. Does it feel like you are drowning when you use the Neti? Do you use warm water? If I get an erection that lasts longer than four hours, should I see a real Doctor? Ok, maybe not the last one, but the first two were real questions.

Since Vinny isn’t a real Doctor, I thought it would be a good idea to do research on Neti Pot’s before I bought one. So before I visited Rite-Aid, I checked in for a second opinion with Google, which yielded a typical response when searching for a medical diagnosis and/or solutions on the Internet in that it nearly frightened the snot out of me. Type in “Neti” and before you type “Pot” the second suggestion comes up, “Neti Pot death.”

Makes me want to sing, "I'm a little tea pot short and stout..."

Makes me want to sing, “I’m a little tea pot short and stout…”

Needless to say, I skipped Google’s offerings and went ahead with the purchase, despite the more than likely Internet hoax of someone dying from a Neti Pot. I’m not one for reading instructions, because I have this thing called “common sense,” but when it comes to medical devices, I give the manual more than just a look-see or a once-over. It’s the former journalist in me who proof-read obituaries and doesn’t want his obituary to be mentioned in the Darwin Awards for not having read instructions on a Neti Pot.

The device is pretty self-explanatory. Fill with water. Add solution. Pull a Taylor Swift and Shake it (off). Put the spout up one nostril. Place your head over a sink. Tilt head. Breathe through mouth. Allow water to drain out the other nostril. Before switching nostrils, blow nose and realize how disgusting of a person you are if you are judged solely by what’s in your nasal cavity.

I feel like the most important thing in the instructions was to remember to breathe from the mouth. And for some reason I kept repeating in my head, “breathe from my mouth” like after nearly 29 years I was going to all of a sudden forget that I can breathe from my mouth when nostrils aren’t an option.

First I stuck the spout in my right nostril. The water started flowing from one nostril to the other as I tilted my head to the side.

“Don’t forget to breathe from your mouth, Josh.”

“Don’t forget to breathe from your mouth, Josh.”

“Don’t forget to breathe from your mouth, Josh.”

I kept repeating that mantra. You know how when you repeat something often enough you either get it drilled into your head so you don’t forget, or you get sick of hearing the same thing over and over and you simply tune out the message. Well, guess what happened. I stopped listening to the message. A few seconds passed and water was going into my mouth.

Water everywhere...

Water everywhere…

For a slight moment I thought, “I’m going to be the idiot that drowns from a Neti pot.” That may be a worse cause of death than auto-erotica asphyxiation. At least with auto-erotica asphyxiation there’s momentary pleasure before you go. Although, with how congested I was, if the Neti Pot relieved any of it before I drowned, it might be more pleasurable.

After a couple seconds I remembered how to breathe and emptied half the pot in one nostril and out the other. I blew my nose immediately after and became disgusted with myself, which was not the first time that day.

The other nostril was easier to handle since I was a pro after doing it once. That nostril revealed even more mucus after I blew it. The feeling of relief was immediate. There was no more pressure in my head. I felt like a brand new person. It was the first night I was able to sleep because I could actually breathe and my normal voice was returning.

The Neti Pot is a reusable device, so I’m sure I’ll be utilizing it even when I am not sick, because my sinuses and allergies are really sensitive. Plus, it’s just fun to say Neti.

I'm an idiot

I’m an idiot

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#26 – Eat Live Crickets

If it were up to me I’d eat carne asada burritos, turkey sandwiches, and sushi for every meal. I’m a simple eater. My buddy Trevor is the same way, which is why I proposed to him my latest idea to take us out of our comfort zone.

I’m not too picky, but I also don’t put garbage into my body. I haven’t eaten fast food in years. Trevor, however, eats fast food on the regular, which is probably why he wasn’t hesitant to participate in this venture, because after all, one can’t argue that crickets are pretty fast. Have you ever tried catching one? So, I typed “fried insects” into Yelp! and one of the first places that came up in the Hollywood area was Sanamluang Café, so we ventured into Thai Town.

Unfortunately, we were turned away when the waitress informed us that they don’t serve crickets. Yelp! lied to me. We tried one more Thai spot, which simply yielded confusion from our waiter.

How our waiter had never heard of crickets was beyond me. I felt sorry for him because he must’ve been depraved of a childhood.

Our waiter’s parents clearly depraved him of the pleasure of viewing Jiminy Cricket in the movie Pinocchio.

I originally wanted to try crickets at a Mexican restaurant, but Trevor convinced me to go Thai, due to his love for the Asian people. I didn’t know if there was a difference between Thai and Mexican crickets, except for maybe their accents if presented in cartoon form.

Since we were unsuccessful with his people I convinced him we’d have more luck with my people. This time around we turned to scanning the streets, because that bitch Yelp! and that asshole Google were unhelpful. Our eyes locked in on a place called Rincon Oaxaqueno on Western between Sunset & Hollywood.

Our waitress informed us that they do indeed serve crickets, but they weren’t going to have any for at least a week.

In that video Trevor was joking about dropping in on Petco, but with a cricket shortage in Hollywood we had no other choice. Trevor called Petco on Doheny in West Hollywood, and fired off a litany of questions regarding human consumption of live crickets. His first question was an obvious one: “Is it OK to eat live crickets?” Surprisingly, the woman on the other end didn’t hang up right then and there. Question two: “Are your crickets sprayed with any pesticides?” Question three: “What do crickets eat?” All were valid questions that hadn’t crossed my mind. I planned on just popping them in my mouth. Unfortunately, the woman getting paid minimum wage didn’t have the answers that only a licensed physician would know.

We approached the cashier and asked the woman behind the register where their crickets were. She informed us that she was the one we spoke with over the phone. She also told us that she was about two seconds away from hanging up on us. We informed her that’s customary reaction we get from women. She thought we were crank calling.

Trevor said we would take four crickets and the cashier’s colleague asked if we wanted big crickets or small crickets. I questioned the difference in size. Their description was substantial. Trevor said we would take two of each, and informed me that I’d be eating the big ones, since it was my idea.

Crickets are cheaper than the dollar menu at McDonalds.

I’ve done some things for this blog, which most people would deem crazy, like skydiving, participating in a scientific experiment, and even getting a mani-pedi. I am pretty even tempered and have nerves of steel, so nothing has really scared me in the final seconds leading up to each activity. When Trevor and I went skydiving I wasn’t even scared as the airplane door opened and I looked over the vast land below me. For some reason, however, when the Petco employee returned with our bag of crickets, reality set in and I was a bit frightened with the realization that I was about to eat something alive. Trevor wasn’t nervous at all, but he must have seen the look on my face, because he said, “The airplane door finally opened for you.”

I don’t know if the crickets were more afraid of me than I was of them.

Before we returned to Trevor’s domicile, we made a quick stop at a Beverly Hills sandwich shop to get some real food to immediately cleanse the digestion of our insect friends. Cruising Bedford Drive on foot we ran into Brett Ratner (humble brag) with whom we reconnected with after some time. He recognized our sandwiches and said, “What ya got there, turkey?” Yes, with a side of crickets in the car.

We took the sandwiches and crickets back to Trevor’s place and the following is the completion of our discomfort.

I contend I had it much worse than Trevor and Andrew because I ate the biggest one, which had whiskers the size of a large tiger.My little feller was quite crunchy. He didn’t taste as bad as I made it seem to be in the video. Other than the texture and furriness on my tongue, it probably wouldn’t have tasted so bad with a helping of ketchup.

Ultimately I’ve always believed in my ability to survive for a long time if I was stranded on a deserted island. That belief is mainly due to the fact that I’m not a big foodie. Now that I know I can get past the mental block of eating live bugs I am certain I could totally pull a Tom Hanks in Cast Away. Just give me a Wilson volleyball, a sandy beach, an ice skate, and I’m good.

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