I don’t think that’s right
My doctor said I need to use a neti pot.
A neti pot is not a dish you find in the international foods aisle at the grocery story.
I know, I asked.
After I couldn’t find one.
“Wouldn’t that be with the pot noodles?” I asked. I saw something called Bombay Bad Boy Pot Noodles. Are Bombay Bad Boy Pot Noodles set on a shelf by themselves because they are so unruly and use harsh language?
What do they do that gives them a bad boy reputation?
And, are they tasty?
“You want to look in the pharmacy area,” I was told.
Was that a threat? Were the Bombay Bad Boy Pot Noodles going to do something to me if I didn’t walk all the way to the other side of the store — to the pharmacy section? I’m pretty sure a neti pot is designed to kill you, so Bombay Bad Boy Pot Noodles must be some kind of really bad.
I did find said neti pot in the pharmacy area of the store. I read the instructions.
Twice.
“Part of the instructions are missing,” I told the helpful person who responded to my pleas of, “Help! Help!”
They looked at the box the neti pot came in. They read the instructions. They looked at me.
“I think the instructions are pretty clear,” I was told.
“Where’s the part about the lifeguard?” I asked.
I was asked, politely, to leave.
I hate when that happens.
The next store I hunted for the tricksy hiding neti pot device in didn’t have an international food aisle, so I was saved that particular embarrassment.
After looking at the various neti pot brands, I decided on the one I thought would look best with a White Sox sticker on the bottle.
“I don’t think all of the instructions are here,” I told a person working in the pharmacy department.
“I don’t work here,” came the reply.
“But you have a badge with your name on it,” I said.
“It’s not a badge. It’s a name tag. My badge is in my wallet,” came the reply. “In my pants. Don’t make me reach for my wallet.”
“But the instructions are incomplete, look,” I whined.
Okay, whine is kinda strong. I pointed out, yeah, I pointed out, that’s what I did.
He took the box from me and read the instructions.
“Here,” he said, handing me an ink pen. “I’ll keep watch.”
With my new best friend in tow we finally found someone who worked there.
“I’m reading the instructions for this neti pot, but it doesn’t say where to find a lifeguard,” I pointed out.
The store employee looked at me, looked at my new best friend with the name plate (and the badge), looked at the neti pot box, looked back at me ...
“This is handwritten and isn’t part of the original packaging,” the employee said.
“Is too,” I retorted. “It’s just a different font because it’s a very important part of the instructions.”
Then he pointed out lifeguard was spelled “lifegaurd,” and asked me to leave the store, although I had to pay for the neti pot in the box with the more-complete set of instructions.
I looked at my new best friend with the name plate on his shirt and badge in his wallet.
“Ever have one of those days?” I asked.
He shook his head.
“See, I don’t use a neti pot because of that very reason,” he said. “Everyone knows that if you’re going to put water in your nose a lifeguard should be standing by. It’s crazy not to have one near by.”
I thought about this for a minute. Luckily my new best friend caught me before I fell on my face when I fell asleep.
“So, what do you do then?” I asked.
“Simple, I just snort some Bombay Bad Bot Pot Noodle mix. That stuff smells so strong it’ll clear the sinuses of a Tibetan Skullhorn Yak.”