Dear Cheerios,
Every morning, while I'm getting ready for work, one of your commercials airs on CNN and I stare at it in horror. I can't find the commercial on your YouTube channel, which may be for the best, but I'm sure you'd recognize it if I described it:
There are no adult actors. There is no sound, other than the noise of consumption. For fifteen seconds, the camera shows a baby scooping handfuls of Cheerios into its mouth and then beginning to chew them before it has removed the fingers. After that, the camera mercifully fades to a Cheerios branding screen.
I'm willing to bet that your company is very happy with this commercial. I bet the advertising firm showed it to your executives and spoke of how it would melt the hearts of parents everyone, tugging at their instincts to feed their human larvae solid foods that are both vaguely healthy and easy to mash into a pulp with gums and a few newly sprouted teeth. In all likelihood, parents do love that commercial.
You know who doesn't love it?
Me.
When I see that commercial I'm not reminded of my child (actual or aspirational), a favorite niece or nephew, a younger sibling, or even the child of close friends. Instead, I see a baby whose sticky soiled fingers, cheeks, chin, and shirtfront are probably smeared with saliva-coated, partially digested and half-chewed bits and lumps of Cheerios and whatever else manages to stick to it. I see jam-hands, and I want nothing to do with them.
Why do I mention this?
Because tonight I was in Kroger, in the breakfast foods aisle. I was looking for the new peanut butter flavored Pop Tarts, but they have not reached Tennessee yet. Disappointed, I turned away, and was confronted with a selection of Cheerios on the other side of the aisle. I thought, "Mmmmm... Cheerios. They even make peanut butter ones. Maybe I should..." and then my internal monologue was silenced by the image of a sticky baby jamming handfuls of Cheerios into its gaping maw, chewing and smearing and jamming and then reaching for me with its slimy wet hands, dripping with spit and whole grains. I cringed away from your cereal display so hard that for a second I felt like I had abs, and they were crunching me into a fetal position.
I had to buy two different kinds of cheese to settle myself.
I just thought you should know.
Showing posts with label gross. Show all posts
Showing posts with label gross. Show all posts
Wednesday, May 15, 2013
Saturday, December 1, 2012
Maybe This Time: The Return of the Carnation Famous Fudge Kit
Two years ago, I tried to make fudge with the Carnation Famous Fudge Kit, with mixed success. I had some tasty fudge, but the top layer was grainy and flaky. I summed it up at the time with this quote:
"My fudge looks like an old pioneer woman's face."
Last year, I tried again. I believed that I had conquered the original problem because I realized that I used margarine instead of butter and I paused for several seconds before adding the marshmallows and chocolate chips rather than dumping them right in like the box said to, because I hadn't pre-opened their bags as part of my mis en place.
It was, again, a partial failure: Creamy middle, flaky top.
This year, I was sure it would be different. I decided to switch to a different pot, as the old pot was possibly unlucky, and carried the taint of past attempts. I decided to slightly lower the temperature of the sugar/milk/butter mixture, in case it was so hot that it was crystallizing the chocolate chips instead of melting them. Possibly most importantly, I decided to maintain a positive attitude by blasting a preplanned soundtrack while making the fudge, and singing along at the top of my lungs: I set "Maybe This Time" from "Cabaret" on repeat, and belted the hell out of it while stirring.
It is a song of hope, an anthem of optimism, but after this year it could also end up being a tragic ode to culinary failure.
Whether this was the case wasn't immediately apparent, though. My fudge spread smoothly into the pan provided, and while it didn't look swirly and glossy it also didn't look like I ran sandpaper over the top. I put it into the fridge to set, and then I had some potentially disgusting holiday snacks to entertain myself while waiting.
Snack #1: Target's Red Velvet Holiday Chocolate Milk
I saw this in the grocery department of the Supertarget the other night, and was curious enough to buy it. I like red velvet cake, but I also know that it's just chocolate cake with dye in it. Logically, this should just taste like chocolate milk, right?
Before you can see what it tastes like, though, you have to get past the color:
It looks like a cup of paint. It looks like the blood of some animal that Klingons would feed their children. Worf should be slamming a glass of this onto the table in front of Alexander and telling him to drink his blood milk or go to bed without dinner.
That doesn't mean you shouldn't drink it, though, right?
Wrong.
You shouldn't drink this.
The color has nothing to do with that, though. As predicted, this tastes like chocolate milk, but it tastes like white chocolate, that vile, waxy fake chocolate that doesn't have any real chocolate in it at all. It's a very distinctive flavor, and that's what this "holiday milk" tastes like: the worst kind of chocolate in the world.
Eager to cleanse my palate, I reached for:
Snack #2: Pumpkin Pie Spice Pringles
For when regular Pringles aren't gross enough.
I'll be honest: I like pumpkin pie, but I'm rather dubious of anything else that's flavored like it. I don't enjoy the Starbucks Pumpkin Spice latte that everyone seems to go crazy over every year, but I did like that pumpkin spice eggnog that I drank once, so maybe the Pringles would somehow be delicious.
When I opened them, they smelled really strongly of pumpkin pie, not just the spices but the whole smell of filling and crust. The chips themselves look like regular Pringles, but if you look closely they have little brown spots on them, which I guess are the flavoring. They could use a ton more spots, though, because they don't taste like anything. It's like eating a can of unflavored Pringles. Intrigued, I tried eating two at once, then three, and finally four at the same time before I got even a slight hint of something other than Pringle.
I don't understand how they can smell so much like pumpkin pie without tasting like it. They're like eating chips of potpourri.
Somewhat disappointed, I turned to the final holiday snack:
Snack #3: White Chocolate Peppermint Pringles
I had the lowest expectations for these, because of my feelings about white chocolate, which I mentioned above, but I figured that they would probably end up being as bland and tasteless as the Pumpkin Pie Spice Pringles were. When I opened them, the smell convinced me that I was probably right: it smelled like the cardboard inside of a Pringles can. Remembering how blandly flavored the other ones were, I stuck three into my mouth at once.
And then lurched to the sink to spit them out.
I'm not sure I can properly convey this, but imagine a baked potato topped with white chocolate chips and a spritz of creme de menthe. Now imagine that you have a mouthful of it. I went for the sink because the garbage can was further away and I didn't think I would make it.
I will not eat another bite of these. Instead, I will take the can to work, put it on the table in the kitchen, and walk away.
What happens to them after that isn't my affair.
What is my affair, though, is this year's attempt at the famous fudge.
I had so much hope.
I stirred vigorously, as instructed.
I belted over my stove, at the top of my lungs, that, "It's gonna happen! Happen sometime! Maybe this time... maybe this time, I'llllllllll..... WIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIN!"
And what did I end up with?
Fudge that is slightly rough on top, but so glossy, smooth, and creamy inside that it reflects the pan in its surface. Look:
Look at the white pan reflected in the fudge. It's so close to perfect that I could weep.
Or my eyes may just still be tearing from the effort not to vomit up those Pringles.
"My fudge looks like an old pioneer woman's face."
Last year, I tried again. I believed that I had conquered the original problem because I realized that I used margarine instead of butter and I paused for several seconds before adding the marshmallows and chocolate chips rather than dumping them right in like the box said to, because I hadn't pre-opened their bags as part of my mis en place.
It was, again, a partial failure: Creamy middle, flaky top.
This year, I was sure it would be different. I decided to switch to a different pot, as the old pot was possibly unlucky, and carried the taint of past attempts. I decided to slightly lower the temperature of the sugar/milk/butter mixture, in case it was so hot that it was crystallizing the chocolate chips instead of melting them. Possibly most importantly, I decided to maintain a positive attitude by blasting a preplanned soundtrack while making the fudge, and singing along at the top of my lungs: I set "Maybe This Time" from "Cabaret" on repeat, and belted the hell out of it while stirring.
It is a song of hope, an anthem of optimism, but after this year it could also end up being a tragic ode to culinary failure.
Whether this was the case wasn't immediately apparent, though. My fudge spread smoothly into the pan provided, and while it didn't look swirly and glossy it also didn't look like I ran sandpaper over the top. I put it into the fridge to set, and then I had some potentially disgusting holiday snacks to entertain myself while waiting.
Snack #1: Target's Red Velvet Holiday Chocolate Milk
I saw this in the grocery department of the Supertarget the other night, and was curious enough to buy it. I like red velvet cake, but I also know that it's just chocolate cake with dye in it. Logically, this should just taste like chocolate milk, right?
Before you can see what it tastes like, though, you have to get past the color:
It looks like a cup of paint. It looks like the blood of some animal that Klingons would feed their children. Worf should be slamming a glass of this onto the table in front of Alexander and telling him to drink his blood milk or go to bed without dinner.
That doesn't mean you shouldn't drink it, though, right?
Wrong.
You shouldn't drink this.
The color has nothing to do with that, though. As predicted, this tastes like chocolate milk, but it tastes like white chocolate, that vile, waxy fake chocolate that doesn't have any real chocolate in it at all. It's a very distinctive flavor, and that's what this "holiday milk" tastes like: the worst kind of chocolate in the world.
Eager to cleanse my palate, I reached for:
Snack #2: Pumpkin Pie Spice Pringles
For when regular Pringles aren't gross enough.
I'll be honest: I like pumpkin pie, but I'm rather dubious of anything else that's flavored like it. I don't enjoy the Starbucks Pumpkin Spice latte that everyone seems to go crazy over every year, but I did like that pumpkin spice eggnog that I drank once, so maybe the Pringles would somehow be delicious.
When I opened them, they smelled really strongly of pumpkin pie, not just the spices but the whole smell of filling and crust. The chips themselves look like regular Pringles, but if you look closely they have little brown spots on them, which I guess are the flavoring. They could use a ton more spots, though, because they don't taste like anything. It's like eating a can of unflavored Pringles. Intrigued, I tried eating two at once, then three, and finally four at the same time before I got even a slight hint of something other than Pringle.
I don't understand how they can smell so much like pumpkin pie without tasting like it. They're like eating chips of potpourri.
Somewhat disappointed, I turned to the final holiday snack:
Snack #3: White Chocolate Peppermint Pringles
I had the lowest expectations for these, because of my feelings about white chocolate, which I mentioned above, but I figured that they would probably end up being as bland and tasteless as the Pumpkin Pie Spice Pringles were. When I opened them, the smell convinced me that I was probably right: it smelled like the cardboard inside of a Pringles can. Remembering how blandly flavored the other ones were, I stuck three into my mouth at once.
And then lurched to the sink to spit them out.
I'm not sure I can properly convey this, but imagine a baked potato topped with white chocolate chips and a spritz of creme de menthe. Now imagine that you have a mouthful of it. I went for the sink because the garbage can was further away and I didn't think I would make it.
I will not eat another bite of these. Instead, I will take the can to work, put it on the table in the kitchen, and walk away.
What happens to them after that isn't my affair.
What is my affair, though, is this year's attempt at the famous fudge.
I had so much hope.
I stirred vigorously, as instructed.
I belted over my stove, at the top of my lungs, that, "It's gonna happen! Happen sometime! Maybe this time... maybe this time, I'llllllllll..... WIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIN!"
And what did I end up with?
Fudge that is slightly rough on top, but so glossy, smooth, and creamy inside that it reflects the pan in its surface. Look:
Look at the white pan reflected in the fudge. It's so close to perfect that I could weep.
Or my eyes may just still be tearing from the effort not to vomit up those Pringles.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Gummi Lunch
The other day, I was in the candy section of Mast General (because why would you go to Mast General and not go to the candy section?), and I noticed gummi hamburgers and hot dogs:
I like candy, and I like gummi candy, but somewhere in the back of my mind I had a vague memory of not liking these particular gummi candies. I tried to remember why, but couldn't come up with anything. Did they actually taste like hamburgers? Chewy hamburgers? Because that would be disgusting, and might explain it. I think I'd remember if I'd eaten that, though. Maybe I had some deap-seated psychological reason for not liking them? Like a long-buried memory of some guy that I thought was really hot but wouldn't give me the time of day as he sat eating hamburger gummi candies and I wallowed in misery and loneliness and swore in my cold, black heart that I would never, ever eat gummi hamburgers as long as I lived? No, I'd probably remember that, too.
There must be some reason I remember not liking them, though. In the interests of science, I decided to try to figure it out. I bought one of each, and then today I decided to eat them.
The first step, of course, would be unwrapping them:
They're pretty tiny. The top bun of the burger is somewhere between the size of a dime and a penny. They felt, like most gummies that haven't been in your pocket getting nice and warm, a little firm and rubbery, and they smelled vaguely fruity. Not like any specific fruit, but that random smell of fruit flavoring that gummies always have.
I dissected the burger first:
I was impressed with the level of detail. The patty has little grill marks, and the lettuce leaf really does look leafy. The fruit smell was maybe cherry? Like cough drop cherry?
So far nothing seemed offensive, so I reassembled the burger and bit:
Now I remember why I don't like gummi hamburgers.
They taste like nothing. Rubbery, slightly tough, flavorless nothing. They're not even sweet. It's just a little lump that you chew up and swallow as quickly as possible.
Given the letdown of the burger, I had pretty low expectations for the hot dog, which breaks down into two unimpressive pieces:
I guess there's not a lot of creativity you can do with something that's pretty bland to begin with, design-wise. It looks like a hot dog. Like the burger, it smelled vaguely fruity and seemed a little rubbery. I put it back together, took a deep breath, and bit down:
That has to be the least appetizing photo of food that I have ever taken, but a picture really is worth a thousand words, especially if those words include things like, "flavorless", "rubbery", or "kind of gross".
I think I'll stick to the gummi candies that I like from now on.
I like candy, and I like gummi candy, but somewhere in the back of my mind I had a vague memory of not liking these particular gummi candies. I tried to remember why, but couldn't come up with anything. Did they actually taste like hamburgers? Chewy hamburgers? Because that would be disgusting, and might explain it. I think I'd remember if I'd eaten that, though. Maybe I had some deap-seated psychological reason for not liking them? Like a long-buried memory of some guy that I thought was really hot but wouldn't give me the time of day as he sat eating hamburger gummi candies and I wallowed in misery and loneliness and swore in my cold, black heart that I would never, ever eat gummi hamburgers as long as I lived? No, I'd probably remember that, too.
There must be some reason I remember not liking them, though. In the interests of science, I decided to try to figure it out. I bought one of each, and then today I decided to eat them.
The first step, of course, would be unwrapping them:
They're pretty tiny. The top bun of the burger is somewhere between the size of a dime and a penny. They felt, like most gummies that haven't been in your pocket getting nice and warm, a little firm and rubbery, and they smelled vaguely fruity. Not like any specific fruit, but that random smell of fruit flavoring that gummies always have.
I dissected the burger first:
I was impressed with the level of detail. The patty has little grill marks, and the lettuce leaf really does look leafy. The fruit smell was maybe cherry? Like cough drop cherry?
So far nothing seemed offensive, so I reassembled the burger and bit:
Now I remember why I don't like gummi hamburgers.
They taste like nothing. Rubbery, slightly tough, flavorless nothing. They're not even sweet. It's just a little lump that you chew up and swallow as quickly as possible.
Given the letdown of the burger, I had pretty low expectations for the hot dog, which breaks down into two unimpressive pieces:
I guess there's not a lot of creativity you can do with something that's pretty bland to begin with, design-wise. It looks like a hot dog. Like the burger, it smelled vaguely fruity and seemed a little rubbery. I put it back together, took a deep breath, and bit down:
That has to be the least appetizing photo of food that I have ever taken, but a picture really is worth a thousand words, especially if those words include things like, "flavorless", "rubbery", or "kind of gross".
I think I'll stick to the gummi candies that I like from now on.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Candy Everybody Wants
Back in June, our maintenance staff sent an email to let us know that a bunch of furniture from various places around campus was about to be sent out to the surplus furniture warehouse, and they asked if any of us wanted any of it before it was trucked over. Looking through the pictures attached to the email, I decided that my office needed an end table, so I wrote back and the next day my table was promptly delivered:
It really classes up the office, right? Not as much as cleaning out that bookcase and getting rid of all those sloppy stacks of unfiled papers on it did, or moving that shredder to someone else's office did, but it was a step in the right direction. The table was nice looking, and paired nicely with the fancy armchair that Angi and I rescued from the hallway when someone at the other end of the building was sending it out to be surplussed.
Once I had the table, though, I had a small problem: It needed something on it. Just look at it. It cries out for ornamentation of some sort, but what? I couldn't get a plant, because my office has no windows and plants die. I didn't want one of those little office fountains, because the noise would be grating, rather than soothing. Fish were out of the question, too, because then I'd just feel sad when the fish died since it would just reiterate that I'm incapable of nurturing. Maybe some art? Possibly a sculpture?
Yes, I thought. Perhaps I'll place a bust of Pallas, there beside my chamber door? Maybe not. After all, a raven might perch upon the bust of Pallas, there beside my chamber door. It might perch and sit and nothing more, and then perhaps might quoth the raven, "Nevermore."
Maybe not a sculpture. I have to work in there, and don't have time to beg phantom birds to take thy beaks from out my heart, you know?
I decided instead to get a candy dish. People like candy dishes, because people like candy. I could fill the dish with candy, people would come and eat it, and they would leave my office happy. Putting a candy dish on my shiny table was a win/win situation, and even better was the fact that I already had an empty glass pumpkin on the shelf above my desk, because my staff gave it to me filled with candy for my birthday the year before.
For a while, the candy dish worked out exactly as planned, but then I was reminded of something horrible that I already knew and had somehow forgotten: No good deed goes unpunished. In this particular case, I learned that if you steadily provide candy, people will eventually feel entitled to it, and then they will start to feel entitled to give opinions about it.
"All you have are Jolly Ranchers? You should get some other candy."
"Are you going to get chocolate next time? I really like chocolate."
"Why are the Skittles that color? Are they the regular kind?"
Today a person who will remain nameless leaned into my office, noticed that someone had finally eaten all of the Christmas candy left in the dish, and told me, "You're out of candy. You better go get some more."
Oh really?
Fortunately, they left my office before I could smash the candy dish over their head, but I spent a good portion of the next ten minutes before I was distracted by the telephone seething with rage. I realize that, by giving candy freely for several months now, I have tacitly agreed to continue doing so for as long as I continue to work here, but still, a little gratitude or at the very least a little bit of manners doesn't seem like too much to ask. I thought about not refilling the candy dish, but then a worse thought occured to me, and I suddenly felt all warm and cheery inside.
I better go get some candy? I better go get some candy? Oh, you bet I will. I know exactly what kind of candy that dish needs, because I know that sometimes candy is not your friend. Sometimes candy is the enemy, because sometimes candy... is Durian Candy.
My friend Sandy introduced me to the horrorshow known as durian candy way back in 2006, in the parking lot of an IHOP near Chattanooga. Sandy warned me that Durian Candy, which you can sometimes find at the Asian grocery, "has kind of a strong flavor," and offered to hold my camera while I tasted a piece.
What follows is a frame by frame documentary of the Durian Candy experience.
It started out with a deceptively innocent looking piece of wrapped hard candy:
which I carefully unwrapped:
and then put in my mouth. The effect was immediate:
This candy was not good. Really not good. The longer it sat in my mouth, the more not good it became:
Oh, God, it was disgusting. It was like a fruity candy wrapped in rotting meat and then doused with turpentine and photo-developing chemicals. I don't think I even made it through a full thirty seconds before I couldn't take it any more and spit it across the parking lot:
After that I spent about five minutes spitting continuously, trying to clear my mouth, before we went inside and I let the waitress know that I needed an orange juice RIGHT NOW while Sandy giggled and pretended to be sympathetic.
If they had candy in hell, it would be Durian Candy.
And I think I might head to the Asian grocery store this weekend and see about getting some for my candy dish.
It really classes up the office, right? Not as much as cleaning out that bookcase and getting rid of all those sloppy stacks of unfiled papers on it did, or moving that shredder to someone else's office did, but it was a step in the right direction. The table was nice looking, and paired nicely with the fancy armchair that Angi and I rescued from the hallway when someone at the other end of the building was sending it out to be surplussed.
Once I had the table, though, I had a small problem: It needed something on it. Just look at it. It cries out for ornamentation of some sort, but what? I couldn't get a plant, because my office has no windows and plants die. I didn't want one of those little office fountains, because the noise would be grating, rather than soothing. Fish were out of the question, too, because then I'd just feel sad when the fish died since it would just reiterate that I'm incapable of nurturing. Maybe some art? Possibly a sculpture?
Yes, I thought. Perhaps I'll place a bust of Pallas, there beside my chamber door? Maybe not. After all, a raven might perch upon the bust of Pallas, there beside my chamber door. It might perch and sit and nothing more, and then perhaps might quoth the raven, "Nevermore."
Maybe not a sculpture. I have to work in there, and don't have time to beg phantom birds to take thy beaks from out my heart, you know?
I decided instead to get a candy dish. People like candy dishes, because people like candy. I could fill the dish with candy, people would come and eat it, and they would leave my office happy. Putting a candy dish on my shiny table was a win/win situation, and even better was the fact that I already had an empty glass pumpkin on the shelf above my desk, because my staff gave it to me filled with candy for my birthday the year before.
For a while, the candy dish worked out exactly as planned, but then I was reminded of something horrible that I already knew and had somehow forgotten: No good deed goes unpunished. In this particular case, I learned that if you steadily provide candy, people will eventually feel entitled to it, and then they will start to feel entitled to give opinions about it.
"All you have are Jolly Ranchers? You should get some other candy."
"Are you going to get chocolate next time? I really like chocolate."
"Why are the Skittles that color? Are they the regular kind?"
Today a person who will remain nameless leaned into my office, noticed that someone had finally eaten all of the Christmas candy left in the dish, and told me, "You're out of candy. You better go get some more."
Oh really?
Fortunately, they left my office before I could smash the candy dish over their head, but I spent a good portion of the next ten minutes before I was distracted by the telephone seething with rage. I realize that, by giving candy freely for several months now, I have tacitly agreed to continue doing so for as long as I continue to work here, but still, a little gratitude or at the very least a little bit of manners doesn't seem like too much to ask. I thought about not refilling the candy dish, but then a worse thought occured to me, and I suddenly felt all warm and cheery inside.
I better go get some candy? I better go get some candy? Oh, you bet I will. I know exactly what kind of candy that dish needs, because I know that sometimes candy is not your friend. Sometimes candy is the enemy, because sometimes candy... is Durian Candy.
My friend Sandy introduced me to the horrorshow known as durian candy way back in 2006, in the parking lot of an IHOP near Chattanooga. Sandy warned me that Durian Candy, which you can sometimes find at the Asian grocery, "has kind of a strong flavor," and offered to hold my camera while I tasted a piece.
What follows is a frame by frame documentary of the Durian Candy experience.
It started out with a deceptively innocent looking piece of wrapped hard candy:
which I carefully unwrapped:
and then put in my mouth. The effect was immediate:
This candy was not good. Really not good. The longer it sat in my mouth, the more not good it became:
Oh, God, it was disgusting. It was like a fruity candy wrapped in rotting meat and then doused with turpentine and photo-developing chemicals. I don't think I even made it through a full thirty seconds before I couldn't take it any more and spit it across the parking lot:
After that I spent about five minutes spitting continuously, trying to clear my mouth, before we went inside and I let the waitress know that I needed an orange juice RIGHT NOW while Sandy giggled and pretended to be sympathetic.
If they had candy in hell, it would be Durian Candy.
And I think I might head to the Asian grocery store this weekend and see about getting some for my candy dish.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
I'm a little teapot, and it's disgusting
I sometimes wonder what my friends do with their time. What happens when they go home? What do they do when no one else is around? After a week of facebook posting about my cold, I have an answer:
My friends are all sitting at home irrigating their sinuses.
Maybe not all of my friends, but I've had a bad cold all week and the minute I posted that my nose was filled with snot and I couldn't breathe, people immediately started chiming in with, "You should try a Neti Pot!"
A what? What the hell is a Neti Pot?
"Oh, a Neti Pot! It'll cure what ails ya! You use it to rinse out your sinuses."
Wait, what?
People kept chiming in about the wonders of the Neti Pot, and I started to get kind of suspicious. Everyone was raving like it was a miracle cure, but when I looked it up online it just seemed to be a little teapot that you fill with saltwater and then somehow pour into your nose without drowning yourself. I like my friends and all, but this whole thing sounded less like medicine and more like folk remedy. In short, it sounded like the ear candle.
I learned about ear candles from a former coworker, Peggy, who was pretty much the worst mother in the world. Two examples, before you think I'm exaggerating:
1) Once Peggy's kid was in the office with us, and I was eating a pudding cup. She came over and held up her hands and Peggy was like, "She wants your pudding cup. Give her some," and I was like, "No. It's mine," and ate it in front of her. I threw the cup away and went on about my business, and about a minute later heard a rustling noise. I turned around to see Peggy's kid licking my pudding cup, which she had fished out of a very full garbage can.
"Peggy, Theo's eating out of the trash."
Peggy just shrugged.
"You should have given her that pudding cup like I said."
2) Once in the middle of December some coworkers and I were out at the Boston Market for lunch when we got a call from the office telling us that one of us had to come back and be in charge.
"It's Peggy's day. We're at lunch."
"She had to go get Theo at the daycare. The state shut it down."
"What?"
Later in the day our coworker Pat, who ended the school year by having the cops called on her when she tried to stab her boyfriend, explained to us that Peggy had been sending her child to a daycare with no heat in the middle of winter in central New York because it was cheaper than any of the other daycares in the area. Peggy thought it would be fine because the kids kept their coats on all day, but the state of New York disagreed and condemned the building.
Like I said, worst mother ever, or at least the worst mother I ever worked with. Anyway, one day we were sitting around the office talking about what we were going to do that weekend, and Peggy volunteered that her friend was coming over so that they could candle Theo's ears. I had never heard of such a thing.
"What?"
"An ear candle. It's like a spiral. You hold the baby still, and then you light the end of it, and when it burns down it pulls all the wax out of their ears."
"You're going to light something on fire and stick it in your kid's ear?"
"Well, yeah. Everyone I know back home does it."
The Neti Pot sounded exactly like this, but when I mentioned that it sounded like the kind of folk remedy that I'd have to buy from a conjure woman on the edge of the bayou, everyone assured me that sinus irrigation was totally normal and medically sound. All you had to do was flush a little salt water up there, and suddenly you would be breathing freely like... well, like somebody with really big lungs? And nostrils? Rather than wheezing and gasping for air like when Taylor Lautner tries to breathe through his squashed nostril-less alpaca nose?
After a week of loading up on drugs, hacking, coughing, and blowing my nose, I broke down and bought a Neti Pot:
It's smaller than I thought it would be. Everybody kept saying it was a teapot, but it only holds a cup of water. It looks less like a medical device than it does a toy, but I tried reading the instructions with an open mind. Here, let me paraphrase a little:
1) Fill the Neti Pot with lukewarm water. Don't use hot water, or you will burn out your sinuses. Don't use cold water, either, because you'll get a brainfreeze. I wasn't sure how to decide if the water was too hot or too cold, because my nose might be more temperature sensitive than my fingers, but eventually I decided to stick my finger in the water and then stick my finger in my nose, and when it felt ok I decided the water temperature was fine.
Then I washed my finger, and continued.
2) Cut open one of the packets, dump it in the pot, and mix it until all the powder dissolves:
That seemed easy enough.
3) While standing over the sink, put your chin down, tilt your head to the side, lean kind of forward, put the spout in the higher nostril, open your mouth and breathe normally, and raise the handle while doing so. I tried this a couple times, but still had no idea if I was doing it right or not, and wondered if there might be a photo or a diagram in the instructions that could help me. There certainly was:
THE SMALLEST POSSIBLE PICTURE THAT YOU CAN SEE WITH THE UNAIDED EYE.
What the hell, Neti Pot? The picture of the most important part of the whole operation, and it's almost smaller than a penny. Not only that, but the woman in the picture is doing it wrong! Her mouth is closed! How is this supposed to help me?
I decided to go ahead and try to do what I could almost see in the picture. I put my chin down, tilted my head to the side, leaned kind of forward, opened my mouth to breathe normally, and raised the handle:
If you click on that and view it at normal size, you will clearly see a stream of water exiting my lower nostril. Just in case, though, here's a slightly blurry closeup:
It is the strangest feeling ever. Even though you're breathing, you can feel the water moving inside your sinus cavity, and when it comes through your nose the feeling is warm and wet and violently organic. It was so jarring and disorienting that I thought I might vomit for a second, and there's a moment of panic when you feel water inside you and try to instinctively stand up, but trust me, you do not want to do that because the minute your head shifts the water starts running into your mouth instead of out of your nose and it's all warm and salty and then you really, really want to vomit.
4) Finish pouring, remove spout, and then blow your nose.
5) Repeat on other nostril.
So, did the Neti Pot cure all my ills?
No. I still have a cold.
On the other hand, my nose has been rather clear for the rest of the day.
My friends are all sitting at home irrigating their sinuses.
Maybe not all of my friends, but I've had a bad cold all week and the minute I posted that my nose was filled with snot and I couldn't breathe, people immediately started chiming in with, "You should try a Neti Pot!"
A what? What the hell is a Neti Pot?
"Oh, a Neti Pot! It'll cure what ails ya! You use it to rinse out your sinuses."
Wait, what?
People kept chiming in about the wonders of the Neti Pot, and I started to get kind of suspicious. Everyone was raving like it was a miracle cure, but when I looked it up online it just seemed to be a little teapot that you fill with saltwater and then somehow pour into your nose without drowning yourself. I like my friends and all, but this whole thing sounded less like medicine and more like folk remedy. In short, it sounded like the ear candle.
I learned about ear candles from a former coworker, Peggy, who was pretty much the worst mother in the world. Two examples, before you think I'm exaggerating:
1) Once Peggy's kid was in the office with us, and I was eating a pudding cup. She came over and held up her hands and Peggy was like, "She wants your pudding cup. Give her some," and I was like, "No. It's mine," and ate it in front of her. I threw the cup away and went on about my business, and about a minute later heard a rustling noise. I turned around to see Peggy's kid licking my pudding cup, which she had fished out of a very full garbage can.
"Peggy, Theo's eating out of the trash."
Peggy just shrugged.
"You should have given her that pudding cup like I said."
2) Once in the middle of December some coworkers and I were out at the Boston Market for lunch when we got a call from the office telling us that one of us had to come back and be in charge.
"It's Peggy's day. We're at lunch."
"She had to go get Theo at the daycare. The state shut it down."
"What?"
Later in the day our coworker Pat, who ended the school year by having the cops called on her when she tried to stab her boyfriend, explained to us that Peggy had been sending her child to a daycare with no heat in the middle of winter in central New York because it was cheaper than any of the other daycares in the area. Peggy thought it would be fine because the kids kept their coats on all day, but the state of New York disagreed and condemned the building.
Like I said, worst mother ever, or at least the worst mother I ever worked with. Anyway, one day we were sitting around the office talking about what we were going to do that weekend, and Peggy volunteered that her friend was coming over so that they could candle Theo's ears. I had never heard of such a thing.
"What?"
"An ear candle. It's like a spiral. You hold the baby still, and then you light the end of it, and when it burns down it pulls all the wax out of their ears."
"You're going to light something on fire and stick it in your kid's ear?"
"Well, yeah. Everyone I know back home does it."
The Neti Pot sounded exactly like this, but when I mentioned that it sounded like the kind of folk remedy that I'd have to buy from a conjure woman on the edge of the bayou, everyone assured me that sinus irrigation was totally normal and medically sound. All you had to do was flush a little salt water up there, and suddenly you would be breathing freely like... well, like somebody with really big lungs? And nostrils? Rather than wheezing and gasping for air like when Taylor Lautner tries to breathe through his squashed nostril-less alpaca nose?
After a week of loading up on drugs, hacking, coughing, and blowing my nose, I broke down and bought a Neti Pot:
It's smaller than I thought it would be. Everybody kept saying it was a teapot, but it only holds a cup of water. It looks less like a medical device than it does a toy, but I tried reading the instructions with an open mind. Here, let me paraphrase a little:
1) Fill the Neti Pot with lukewarm water. Don't use hot water, or you will burn out your sinuses. Don't use cold water, either, because you'll get a brainfreeze. I wasn't sure how to decide if the water was too hot or too cold, because my nose might be more temperature sensitive than my fingers, but eventually I decided to stick my finger in the water and then stick my finger in my nose, and when it felt ok I decided the water temperature was fine.
Then I washed my finger, and continued.
2) Cut open one of the packets, dump it in the pot, and mix it until all the powder dissolves:
That seemed easy enough.
3) While standing over the sink, put your chin down, tilt your head to the side, lean kind of forward, put the spout in the higher nostril, open your mouth and breathe normally, and raise the handle while doing so. I tried this a couple times, but still had no idea if I was doing it right or not, and wondered if there might be a photo or a diagram in the instructions that could help me. There certainly was:
THE SMALLEST POSSIBLE PICTURE THAT YOU CAN SEE WITH THE UNAIDED EYE.
What the hell, Neti Pot? The picture of the most important part of the whole operation, and it's almost smaller than a penny. Not only that, but the woman in the picture is doing it wrong! Her mouth is closed! How is this supposed to help me?
I decided to go ahead and try to do what I could almost see in the picture. I put my chin down, tilted my head to the side, leaned kind of forward, opened my mouth to breathe normally, and raised the handle:
If you click on that and view it at normal size, you will clearly see a stream of water exiting my lower nostril. Just in case, though, here's a slightly blurry closeup:
It is the strangest feeling ever. Even though you're breathing, you can feel the water moving inside your sinus cavity, and when it comes through your nose the feeling is warm and wet and violently organic. It was so jarring and disorienting that I thought I might vomit for a second, and there's a moment of panic when you feel water inside you and try to instinctively stand up, but trust me, you do not want to do that because the minute your head shifts the water starts running into your mouth instead of out of your nose and it's all warm and salty and then you really, really want to vomit.
4) Finish pouring, remove spout, and then blow your nose.
5) Repeat on other nostril.
So, did the Neti Pot cure all my ills?
No. I still have a cold.
On the other hand, my nose has been rather clear for the rest of the day.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
the grossest thing ever
This evening I was driving home when I was stricken by a coughing fit. Since I was in heavy traffic at the time, I couldn't cover my mouth, because I needed both hands on the wheel, but Jeannie wasn't carpooling with me today so I was thinking, "Whatever, I'll just cough."
So I was coughing and coughing, and trying to drive, and all of a sudden this globber of phlegm flew out of my mouth and directly into the heater vent! All the way inside!
Now every time I turn on the heater I'll think about that phlegm globber slowly baking.
So I was coughing and coughing, and trying to drive, and all of a sudden this globber of phlegm flew out of my mouth and directly into the heater vent! All the way inside!
Now every time I turn on the heater I'll think about that phlegm globber slowly baking.
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