I’ve had a cold for the past few days and have mostly been sitting around watching too much Big Bang Theory and singing “Soft Kitty” to myself. If you also watch too much Big Bang Theory, you’ll get the reference.

While I was back in the US last month my friend introduced me to the neti pot. If you’re not familiar with it, it’s a little pot. You fill it with a salt water solution and pour it up one nostril and it comes out the other. For real. I’m not exactly sure how pouring water up your nose came up in conversation with my friend but it probably had to do with my constant sneezing over her cats. She told me I should try a neti pot for my allergies, so when my Amazon order needed an extra few dollars to get free shipping (darn you, Amazon.com for making me always spend $25 instead of giving me free shipping on everything like Amazon.co.uk!), I bought a neti pot. I tried it once and almost forgot about it until my recent sickness.

That first time I tried nasal irrigation (the fancy name for it. See also “nasal douching,” the always comical name for it) I hated it. The reason I failed swimming lessons as a kid is because I hate getting water up my nose. Even as an adult I always have to hold my nose when going under. So pouring water up my nose was not at all an enjoyable or relieving sensation. I didn’t understand the hype. But when I was desperate to breathe and relieve my sinus pressure during my recent illness, I brought my little pot out again. I can now say that the neti pot is the best thing ever if you’re sick… as long as you do it correctly.

For starters, never use tap water. When I told my friend I got my neti pot, one of her friends freaked out and told me on Facebook that I was going to die. OK, not really, but she said there were many cases of people dying because they used neti pots. That’s not exactly what you want to hear when you’re nasal douching (hehe) — that it won’t just make you feel like you’re drowning in the ocean, it will also kill you. So I put on my investigative journalist hat and decided to check it out. It turns out only two people died and they were both in Louisiana, where apparently they have brain-eating amoebas in their tap water. (Note to self: do not drink the tap water in Louisiana). I even asked my doctor and he told me neti pots are perfectly safe and effective as long as you use distilled or filtered water. If you have to use tap water, boil it and let it cool a bit first.

I also learned there’s a right way to tilt your head. At one point the solution started coming out my mouth, which is equally as gross as milk coming out your nose when you laugh really hard, but no where near as hilarious.

My final tip is to watch how you blow your nose when you’re through irrigating. If you hold one nostril closed, you can blow mucus into your ear canals. I found this out after googling “neti pot ear pain” because I apparently don’t know how to blow my nose correctly.

So my ears hurt a little and I had to deal with a salt water mucus taste in my mouth, but I could breathe again. So if you’re suffering from a wicked head cold, I recommend pouring salt water up your nose and watching it come out the other nostril. It will make you feel much better. I also recommend watching a lot of Big Bang Theory.

(Final Deep Thought While Sick: Are can’t-breathe-out-of-either-nostril colds as miserable for mouth breathers? Discuss.)

Remember when I was obsessed with finding a good deal on a DSLR on Black Friday? Well, there were no deals. I also realized I don’t really need a $500+ camera to accomplish what I want in my photos — specifically, shallow depth of field.

I believe my fascination with such photos started with this one:

I took it with the fancy Nikon I rented for my photojournalism class. To me it screamed “Look, I’m a good photographer with a good camera!” My photojournalism professor told me it sucked. (OK, not really, but he said I shouldn’t use it as my photo for the week. I’m hoping that’s because the assignment was a news photo and this picture doesn’t fully depict the giant sinkhole on Montrose Avenue.)

Ever since I took that picture I got it into my head that I could only take cool photos like that with an expensive DSLR. And then I got a super zoom camera and I fell in love. I could manually change the settings, get my shallow depth of field photos, and, well, super zoom. I’d have to buy an expensive lens to super zoom on a DSLR. So now I’m going to show off my mad photography skills in a series of random pictures from my trip back to the states.

Below you will find a photo of the best chicken wings in the world. And in true American fashion, they were all you can eat. They try to tempt you with other flavors, but the only kind you should ever get are garlic ranch. They serve garlic ranch wings in heaven, except in heaven they don’t give you a massive stomach ache or contain any calories. (And if you’re wondering why I photographed chicken wings, it’s because they are the best chicken wings in the world. Also, it was the first day I had my camera.)

This photo was not taken with my new camera, but I’m including it anyway because I made awesome Christmas cookies this year.

After Christmas Stephen and I took a trip to California where I fully got to break in my super zoom camera with dozens of photos of sea lions.

We went to the San Diego Zoo because they have PANDAS. They also had this in the parking lot. God bless America.

We had to wait in a long queue to see the pandas, but when life offers you the opportunity to see pandas, even if you’ve already held a baby panda in China and nothing can ever top that, you get in that queue (OK, line, since we were in America). We were politely told to take our photo then move out of the way so other people could take their photo and move. I think I took 20 photos of the same panda doing the same thing.

This might be the best photo I took of the trip. “What could be better than a panda?” you ask. Well, this:

I swear the only editing I did was add my blog address, so that when people google image “giant zebra wiener” they know what blog to go to.

I have no idea who this guy is, but I thought it made for a nice shot, especially the birds.

And then I got obsessed with shallow depth of field again and Stephen had to tell me to stop taking pictures of rocks. But doesn’t it look cool?!

We took a two-hour boat cruise around the harbor which was a total waste of money except I got this lovely shot of the sun setting under the Coronado Bridge.

We went to LA for the day where we did touristy things like complaining about all the tourists and I took too many photos of birds at Venice Beach.

That is all. Now that I have my new camera, I’ll try to make more photo posts, but, as usual, no promises. I still have photos saved on my desktop for that post I promised to write about Venice in August.

I generally experience two different types of jetlag — the can’t sleep and the can’t wake up variety. I usually get the can’t sleep type going to or coming from Asia and the can’t stop sleeping type coming back to the UK from the US. This time, however, I have some weird combination — I can’t fall asleep, but when I do, I can’t wake up. So I haven’t seen many mornings this past week. I’m trying to get back on a regular schedule, but going to bed late and waking up late is a vicious cycle to break. Jetlag always seems to be the worst when returning “home” (wherever that may be) because you have no motivation to adjust to the correct time zone, especially when you work from home. There are no meetings or scheduled meals to be awake for. I especially hate returning to the UK from the US because the flights always seem to arrive ungodly early — our flight came in at 5 a.m. GMT. That’s midnight EST and I didn’t sleep on the plane. I believe the correct way to beat jetlag is to stay up until an acceptable GMT bed time and then crash. Stephen came home, unpacked, showered, then went to work on Thursday. I, on the other hand, passed out at 7 a.m. for a “nap” and woke up at 2:30 p.m. Whoops. That could explain why my schedule has been out of whack. What meal are you supposed to eat when you wake up at 2:30 in the afternoon, anyway?

So that’s my excuse for not posting lately. I’ve got some ideas in the works (including photos!), but I just need to wake up…

Courtesy: Worcester (MA) Telegram & Gazette

I’m starting a new feature on the blog called Things White Middle Class People Get Overly Worked Up About. Today’s topic: saying “Happy Holidays” instead of “Merry Christmas.”

I’m trying to remember when ‘Happy Holidays” became popular. I even tried googling it, but nothing came up on the first few pages and I didn’t want to put that much research effort into a blog post. I feel like it’s pretty recently though. I can understand it’s intention — not everyone is Christian or celebrates Christmas, and “Happy Holidays” includes those of other faiths or cultures. You can’t tell this to some white middle class people though. You’ll get a lecture about our country’s Christian roots or “Jesus is the reason for the season.” I admit I’m not very adamant about the issue (I’ve even let phrases like “holiday party” slip into my vernacular), but here are my thoughts on the subject.

First, whether Christians like it or not, Christmas has become a commercial buy-buy-buy holiday. I know a lot of people who aren’t Christian but still celebrate the gift-giving aspect of Christmas. People tend to feel uncomfortable around extreme Christians, but “Merry Christmas” isn’t “Accept Jesus as your savior or burn in hell.” I can understand using “holiday” in things like grocery store advertisements, because you might like that giant ham for New Year’s (I almost said Hanukkah…) or another celebration. I also understand store associates want to be inclusive, but I wonder if they’re allowed to mix it up — for example, saying “Happy Hanukkah” to someone buying a menorah and “Merry Christmas” to someone buying an ugly Christmas sweater.

I generally don’t get fired up about the Happy Holidays vs Merry Christmas debate, but there are aspects of it that puzzle me. For example, we were in downtown Cincinnati the other day watching Santa repel down a building. When he landed he spoke to the crowd and ended with “Happy Holidays!” He’s Santa — besides Jesus, he’s the most important Christmas person. Surely he should be able to say “Merry Christmas!” I also don’t understand “Happy Holidays” on Christmas cards and gift tags that clearly have pictures of Santa or other images you only associate with Christmas. Are they including New Years in Happy Holidays? (or perhaps my birthday, which falls between Christmas and New Years?)

I know people get really worked up about taking the “Christ” out of Christmas, but maybe we should just be happy the sales associate wishes us a happy or merry anything this time of year — if she’s working retail during Christmastime, she probably hates everyone and everything by now.

(I should probably add a disclaimer that I have horrible taste in movies and TV shows. A lot of my favorite shows revolve around child beauty pageants or polygamists, so you could say I’ve seen some sick things. Which reminds me, movie/TV show idea — a polygamist takes as many wives as he can so he can have as many children as possible enter pageants.)

When I saw Human Centipede was available instantly with my family’s Netflix subscription, I considered it fate and sat down to watch it yesterday. My dad watched most of it with me, equally disgusted in that but-I-can’t-look-away fashion, while my mom made me stop it whenever she entered the room, even when it was only at the “oh no, we’re just two American girls with a flat tire in Germany and oh no there’s no phone reception and look it’s starting to rain!” stereotypical horror movie beginning part.

I admit I didn’t have high expectations for the film, but I was disappointed. The ending was a cliff hanger in the not-good way, and there wasn’t really any surprises — the movie is about a crazed surgeon who attaches people butt-to-mouth, and that’s basically all you get. (I know, I know, what was I expecting?)

But out of the whole sick movie, this is what puzzled me — how badly is your acting career going that when your agent calls you and says, “Hey, I got a film for you. You’ll have to spend half of the movie screaming in fear and the other half muffled screaming because your mouth will be attached to another actor’s butt. Another actor’s mouth may also be attached to your butt. Oh, and you’ll also have to be topless for most of the film. Interested?” And you say “Yes! When does filming start?”

Were my life a movie, there probably would have been some sentimental music playing as I got off the bus and was reunited with my favorite American city. There may even have been one of those panoramic shots that show me taking everything in and smiling with great joy.

In reality I hopped off the bus, lugged my carry on bag to CVS, bought a one-day transit card, then sat at a bus stop for a half hour waiting for a bus that never came. It was not a glamorous reunion with my old home, but I was still glad to be back. I was almost surprised how not weird it was, just like coming back to the US wasn’t weird. I remembered the block system (which I miss terribly in London) and was even giving out directions to tourists like a local. I hit up State Street to go shopping like I used to do, but was surprised to see some of the stores I frequented were closed down or in the process of liquidating. It broke my heart, but I had to remind myself that I don’t live there anymore and may not be back anytime soon.

Besides seeing old friends and stores, my main reason for visiting Chicago was to drop my visa application off at the Chinese consulate. You have to apply in person to get a visitor visa and the London consulate would only issue me a six-month one (“But I’ve gotten a year-long visa before!” “Yeah, in Chicago, not London.”) so I decided to go to Chicago to apply for the year-long one (which curiously costs the same as a six-month visa). I arrived at the consulate Tuesday morning ready to collect material for “Fun Times at the Chinese Consulate Part III,” but everything went smoothly. I barely had to wait and the crabby waits-for-no-one straight-out-of-a-Seinfield-episode clerk took my passport, paperwork, cashier’s check and overpriced UPS return envelope without a question asked. So much for good blogging material.

Chicago will always hold a special place in my heart and it was nice to pop in for 25 hours. Sometimes I wonder why I like Chicago so much, considering it’s high murder and crime rates and ridiculous sales tax and high prices (which still seem low compared to London). As a college student Chicago served as an oasis and escape from the world of academia in Evanston. I went downtown to go shopping with my roommates or went to nice restaurants with Stephen. Once in a while I’d even go down by myself just to walk around or do some studying with a pomegranate ginger ale at Water Tower Place. I admit the city lost a little of its charm when I decided to live there after university and had to deal with things like finding and (affording) a parking spot, but I still enjoy Chicago. London has a very different big city vibe, for better or for worse, but sometimes I just need to see a skyscraper, whether that be in Shanghai or Chicago.

At O’Hare I did experience some reverse culture shock, in the bathroom of all places. In the UK and Europe public restrooms (“toilets”) almost always have a full door — no opening underneith or cracks on the sides. The only way to tell if it’s occupied is by checking if there’s a red line on the lock, or by simply knocking or trying to press the door open. It feels like it should be the other way around considering Americans have the reputation of being prudes and privacy-obsessed, while Europeans are more “free,” with their nude beaches and all. I know that grown women are not interested in peeking through the door cracks, but the girls in my first grade class used to, and ever since then I’ve been paranoid about bathroom doors.

In short, it’s good to be back and I’m adjusting to the time and customs, although I did catch myself saying, “Look how long that queue is! I wonder how many tills they have open?” yesterday.

At first my family set a no-shopping-on-Thanksgiving rule. We were to hang around the house, eat, then relax as a family. But then we saw Old Navy’s coupon was only valid on Thanksgiving and would give better deals than Black Friday. And if my family enjoys anything more than hanging out with each other, it’s hanging out with each other while getting a good deal. So while my dad watched the turkey, my mom, brother and I went to Old Navy. And since that was OK, my brother and I thought we’d go to Michael’s in the evening, since their coupon was also better on Thanksgiving. And since that was OK, we figured we’d just pop into Walmart and get some deals on video games and blu-rays.

Ha.

I don’t know what I imagined Black Friday to be like at Walmart, but there really are no words. So here’s a thousand’s worth:

We waited in a long queue at Michael’s then made it to Walmart just in time for the specials that began at 10 p.m. My brother had his heart set on an Xbox but the minute we walked in the already-busted door he knew that deal was long gone. We didn’t even try to park in the store’s lot, opting to park near the office buildings across the street.  Once we entered the store it was choose-your-own-cliche: a zoo; a madhouse. We wanted to beeline for the electronics section, but we couldn’t move. Aisles were blocked wall to wall with shoppers and their massive carts full of loot. Police officers and security stood guard by giant bins full of goods that could not be sold until midnight or 8 a.m.

“I was trying to get the Paula Deen pan set and somebody stepped on my foot,” we overheard someone shout in a strong southern drawl.

“I just want to get the game and get out,” my brother said. “I don’t care about anything else.”

An employee was blocking off aisles with yellow tape. It was unclear why, so we cut underneath it. She protested but didn’t stop us. We maneuvered our way through the crowds, similar to a motorcyclist in a traffic jam. We were probably breaking some cardinal rule of Walmart Black Friday, but from what I could tell, there were no rules, just utter chaos. There weren’t even any sale prices on anything – you had to remember what was on sale from the flyer. We finally made our way to the electronics section, passing hundreds of customers with carts waiting in line for who-knows-what. We came upon the video game case, only to find the game we really wanted was gone. My brother grabbed a couple blu-rays he remembered were on special and was about to give up on the game when we found a few stashed in another display. We found an electronics till with no line which seemed too good to be true, but went for it. That’s the thing about Black Friday – some things are too good to be true, but some aren’t, and when they aren,’t, you just have to go for it because there are no rules; every man for himself. Purchased goods in hand, we felt a sense of victory… until we realized we had to exit the store.

Miraculously the whole ordeal only took us a half hour, but if we had waited in the lines to check out up front, we probably would have been there until 2 a.m. We lucked out by parking across the street and not trying to manuver a cart around, but I would still never go to Walmart again on a Black Friday (or Thursday) ever. No deal is worth that. That’s why God invented the Internet.

We went to the mall this morning and could not turn in because a gaggle of geese were crossing.

I am also mad at Black Friday because no site has the camera I want on sale, and the one that did jacked their price up $30 from Monday. Maybe this is a sign I don’t need a fancy camera right now.

During the two warm days we had in London this summer, we dug out our fan from the US and used the giant 1,500-watt transformer to power it. We had unplugged the transformer from the second TV and Wii to use it. Eventually autumn rolled around and we realized we had no need for the fan anymore and should return the transformer to the TV so I can once again use my Wii Fit. I was in the other room when Stephen plugged it in. The minute he turned the TV on, all the lights in the flat went out and there was a faint smell of burning electronics. I yelled to Stephen to see what happened, but he didn’t respond. Imagining the worst, I rushed in to find him standing with the TV remote in his hand. “Crap,” he said. If you remember, it was around this time last year when we almost blew out our main TV. (First world problem: my second flat screen TV doesn’t work.) At least he learned from that mistake and didn’t immediately plug the TV back in again. We unplugged everything from the transformer then did what anyone else would do — we didn’t touch the TV for months and hoped the problem would fix itself.

Yesterday Stephen decided he was going to have another go at it before he dug up the Best Buy warranty and tried to explain to the British Geek Squad what happened to our American TV. He gave the transformer plenty of time to warm up and used a new US power strip (we’ve blown out at least three so far and are now on our last one. Better stock up on Black Friday!). He tested the power out by plugging his iPod charger in and it worked. Long story short — turns out we didn’t blow out the TV, the surge protector on the power strip saved us, and we can once again use the Wii and secondary TV!

I used the Wii Fit this morning to weigh my suitcases — 47 and 42 lbs. I really hope the airport scale is as accurate as the Wii Fit, that 47-pounder might be pushing it. I’m not looking forward to pushing both of them around Heathrow and O’Hare tomorrow, but I’m excited that everything fit and that I’ll finally be on US soil again soon!

Yes, apparently I’m not the only one who makes a habit of shopping every Monday morning. For the past few weeks I’ve encountered this old woman in a motorized scooter. She’s incredibly bossy, but I wouldn’t have noticed her too much if it weren’t for the man with her. Since she’s in a scooter and can’t reach much, he helps her do her shopping. And he talks. A lot. I encountered him for the first time in the frozen meat aisle a few weeks ago. We were both looking at chicken and the old lady was crabbing about something. “Can you believe this?” he joked. “I don’t even get paid for this!” I smiled and laughed and pushed my cart away. Then I saw him again the next week in the vegetable aisle. I assumed he was the lady’s husband, but I heard him refer to her as Mrs., like he was some type of employee of hers who apparently doesn’t get paid. The lady was once again complaining and he looked at me and said, “And I’m not even getting paid!” Once again I smiled and laughed and went onward. A few minutes later I overheard him in the butter aisle giving the same “I’m not getting paid” spiel to another shopper. I started wondering if he was somehow being paid by someone to say that he’s not getting paid, because he surely said it every chance he got. I ran into him again by the milk and he just kept talking. I don’t think he had an exact recipient of his words in mind, he just liked to hear himself speak. Last week I heard the crabby scooter lady’s voice an aisle over and decided I’d rather make a detour than have to smile and laugh to “I’m not getting paid,” once again. I thought for certain I was on the opposite side of the store, but I turned down the cereal aisle and there he was. “Can you believe this?” he said. “No,” I wanted to say. “I am trying to avoid you and you miraculously turned up on the other side of the store,” but instead I smiled and laughed. “The things I do,” he went on as Crabby McScooter rolled away. “I’m not even being paid!”

Once again Old Scooter McGee was at the store yesterday, and I waited for the familiar voice of her helper as I planned my escape route. But to my dismay, she was with a young woman, no more talkative gentleman friend.

I guess he got tired of not being paid.