Green Tea

You know you’re sick when you get excited about new ways to remove mucous from your sinuses.

And while we’re on the subject, there should be a name for the feeling you get when you blow a pound of gunk from your nose. It’s a weird/surprised/proud/relieved kind of emotion and, inexplicably, you feel the need to share your experience with the person you love the most. Thus the unfortunate announcement, “Honey, you’re not gonna believe what just came out of my nose!”

I say we call it Mucous Satisfaction.

You might have guessed that I have a cold. Yesterday I finally went to the doctor because it felt like I had a Pomeranian crammed in my right ear. The doctor looked in my ear, leaned back and said, “You actually have an infection in there. Adults don’t usually get ear infections.”

Nice to know one part of my body is still youthful.

He fixed me up with some meds, so off I went to Walgreens. While waiting for my prescription to get filled, I discovered the Neti Pot. It looked so homey, so comforting, so British. I thought, Wow, this has got to be gentler than the sinus rinse. You know the sinus rinse? You fill a sports bottle with warm water and saline, cram it in your nostril, and proceed to irrigate your brain. It’s . . . unpleasant.

An aside: Now is as good a time as ever to talk about what I call The Denmark Mating Call. My husband, while possessing some really spectacular genes in most regards, unfortunately has a cursed sinus cavity. It runs in the family. As we were dating and I got to know his family, I discovered that all the males emit a certain sound almost unconsciously and entirely without warning. It sounds something like this:

Shhhhhrrronk!

I liken this noise to the calls of certain wild animals one sees on the Discovery Channel. You know, where the male of the species puffs up his feathers or fur or whatever he has and screeches and you think, how is that going to get him a girl?

All this to say, I’m well-acquainted with the sinus rinse. It’s a fixture in our bathroom—along with body glitter. But that’s another story.

I didn’t buy the Neti Pot. But I told my husband about it at dinner, because when you’ve been married eleven years, you talk about drainage at the dinner table. My husband looked at me and said, “You have to be coordinated to use that.”

“Oh,” I said, shoulders drooping. We both know that excludes me from the possible benefits of the Neti Pot.

“Well, I thought it looked gentler than the sinus rinse,” I told him.

“It’s basically a tea pot for your sinuses.”

“Oh. I thought maybe you just breathed the steam. “

“No.” Kory mimed holding a tea pot up to his face, tipped his head and said, “You have to poor it in one nostril then let if flow into the other and drain out.”

I assume this process creates the most disgusting “tea” ever concocted by mankind. But I’ll never know. The Neti Pot is not for me and my lack of fine or gross motor skills. I’d probably manage to spill it all over myself and the floor. Then I’d slip in the puddle, smack my head and end up in the ER, where I would have to explain that the accident was caused by “green” tea.