Winner of the Coolest Tissue Box, Summer 2013: Personnelle “Summer Festivities” 3-ply, 65, ($1.79) at Jean Coutu.
Just when it seemed like nobody could top Kleenex’s ode to ice cream in 2011, or Scotties Supreme Peacock box of tissues, Sinus Sister found this psychedelic box on the shelves of Jean Coutu. It’s classy. It features flip-flops. It sparkles like the sun glinting off a rippling lake. If you have to reach for a tissue 25 times a day when Hay Fever hits, it should be this box.
Because it’s unnecessary to write anything about tennis after David Foster Wallace’s hommage to the game in The New York Times, Sinus Sister will just post her pics from The Rogers Cup.
Yep, that’s Nadal on centre court. And that’s Sinus Sister enjoying the largess of the Nespresso VIP box–an excellent location from which to see Nadal prance at the baseline like an angry dressage pony. The only Spaniard with more testosterone was Picasso.
Watching Rafa bury The Other Guy, while sipping her decaf iced mochachino, Sinus Sister was reminded of a great line from Foster Wallace’s article on the limitations of watching tennis on television:
TV tennis is to live tennis pretty much as video porn is to the felt reality of human love.
This is the story of a blog whose future was abruptly cancelled and the one writer who had no choice but to keep herself together. It’s Sinus Sister’s arrested development.
When the Bluth family adopted Lindsay, they didn’t count on her having yet another sister—the third Sitwell girl. She was a writer who had recently been dragged off to Lucille Austero’s rehab clinic because of her fondness for Benadryl and Sudafed. Since her last blog post in March 2012, she’d hit rock bottom, chasing pseudoephedrine with antihistamines with Jesse from Breaking Bad. She smashed her nette pot and went back on nasal sprays, using five or six times a day. Her dealer operated out of the same corner store where Gob got his Forget-Me-Now pills. The only one who noticed her mounting addiction was Max Fowler, the pharmacist.
Angered by all the “Non-Drowsy” sinus medications, she started throwing boxes of pills on the floor.
Sinus Sister [grabbing the pharmacist by the collar]: “I want drowsy. I need drowsy!”
Pharmacist: “Sorry. That’s all we have.”
Sinus Sister: “What? First they take Teamocil off the market and now this? [dancing like a hobbled chicken] I think you’re just afraid to give drowsy to a woman? That’s sexist.”
Gob was shopping for lighter fluid in a nearby isle when he heard “give drowsy to a woman”. He was intrigued. Was there an untapped supply of drowsy pills? His dealer had just run out of Forget-Me-Nows.
Gob approached: “Nobody can accuse me of being sexist. I just tried to drug my nephew so he’d forget I kissed him at a gay bar. And I’d do the exact same thing to my niece.”
Sinus Sister recognized Gob from the news. She knew him as the satirical magician from the family of treasonous sex offenders….She was wrong about the satire. And she was wrong, a few years back, to break into the adoption agency to read her file. Her college boyfriend, Tony Wonder, helped her pick the lock and open the sealed records. [Tony uses a crow bar on the filing cabinet, but smashes his fingers and accidentally trashes the office.]
That’s how Sinus Sister learned Lindsay Bluth and Sally Sitwell are her biological sisters.
[Sinus Sister wears a SLUT t-shirt while reading her adoption file. Police sirens get louder. Tony Wonder hides inside a desk and discovers his gimmick for a career in magic]
Sinus Sister: “What kind of horrible couple would adopt only one daughter from a family with two other girls?
[Young Lucille gulps a martini, saying to Michael and his house guests, “Are these the exchange students? Irish twins are bad luck, Michael. Send one BACK!”]
Someone needed to save Lindsay from that family of reprobates….and see if her sister could score any Teamocil.
The narrator defines the word reprobate in the recap; Tobias conducts Sinus Sister’s intake interview at Austerity; Lucille Bluth confides in her new rehab buddy and Michael won’t let Irish twins buy a home in Sudden Valley.
We needed a hockey player—especially a center who can take a punch.
Brandon Dubinsky’s is on the bench with sinus pressure stemming from a few blows he sustained in a fight with the Devils’ Ryan Carter.
“I’m OK. I took it in the nose pretty good,” he said to Newsday. “The issue is the [sinus] pressure. The flight here was OK. It affects me more when I’m sleeping, lying down.
Brandon, welcome to the Sleep Sitting Up Club. I’d shake your hand, but we don’t shake hands. (See germ posts). Sinus Sister hasn’t slept flat on her back in years. Other things she does on her back notwithstanding. Here are a few tips from the Club.
1. Move the clock radio out of your new sight line. You will stare at it.
2. If a hotel has thin pillows, use a sofa cushion, wrapped in a towel.
3. Drink a steaming cup of tea or broth in bed.
4. Ease the sinus pressure with a hot compress. If you can’t sleep, get up and re-heat the compress a few times.
5. Ask your Puck Bunny to do #4 when she’s done watching Jersey Shore.*
*Sinus Sister doesn’t know if Dubinsky has a Puck Bunny or an actual wife. If he does, she may not watch Jersey Shore, but I bet she has a long ponytail and lots of baseball hats.
In a bid to get her lungs back, Sinus Sister breathes deep
…in through the nose, out through the nose. No cheating. No mouth breathing. Slow and steady. All goes well with the yoga while I’m vertical. But two breathes into Downward Dog, the pain starts. It’s as if a dentist’s drill slipped off its target and went into a sinus cavity. The drill won’t rest until it dislodges an eye. Ouch….OUCH….
“In through the nose, out through the nose”—my eye!
Staggering forward into Quitter’s Pose, Sinus Sister admits defeat and rolls up her mat, never again to do Downward Dog with a silent sinus infection. With no stuffy nose to warn her of impending pain, she learns that a so-called dry sinus infection is just as bad—and brutal for yoga.
Rating:“Colour is so…last year”, thought Sinus Sister, emerging from a post-Oscar party for The Artist. It’s impossible to see this film and not want to take tap dancing lessons. But before I gush about the charm and grace in this silent film, FULL DISCLOSURE: Sinus Sister is “romantically linked” (wink) to the first cousin of the The Artist‘s director/writer, Michel Hazanavicius, but nobody put me up to this review. Michel hardly needs the endorsement of a small-time blogger when he has Harvey Weinstein in his corner. The Artist debuted at Cannes, where it was robbed of the Palme d’Or. Film critics loved pulling for this underdog entry, a clever homage to the silent era in our over-stimulated culture. With only a film score to highlight the action, Hazanavicius tells the tale of a washed-up silent movie star (Jean Dujardin) and the upstart actress (Bérénice Bejo) who brings him back to life.
Who to take: someone on a first date
Who we loved: Bérénice Bejo, who is all moxy with no mugging
What we didn’t miss: colour
What we wanted afterward: elbow-length gloves
Inspired by the film’s classy black and white palette, Sinus Sister banished all Christmas-sy tissue boxes from the house except one—the seasonal two-ply penguin design by Scotties. It’s understated yet grand, somehow, just like The Artist. Now, let me practice pulling off my long gloves, tugging on one finger (tug) at (tug) a (tug) time (tug).
A Lapsed Anglican Leverages Lent
If you are inclined to give something up for Lent, you already have vices on the chopping block. Forget all those. Here’s a direct order from the Department of Human Decency: Stop sniffing. Everyone. Stop. Sniffing. We hear you sniffing on the metro. We hear you in line at the bank. The pharmacy. The supermarket. Your sniffing does not improve the soundtrack at the movies. It does nothing for our appetite at dinner. It ruins a road trip. Stop horking back your snot in public, then looking around helplessly, as if you couldn’t possibly be expected to carry tissues. Here, here are a few of my tissues. Pass them around.
Wait a sec, as I pry a losenge off my molar. That can’t be good for the enamel. My hacking cough hasn’t stopped, but my dependence on big, sugary losenges must come to an end. It’s time to graduate to a more adult solution—one that isn’t candy in disguise. (I’m talking to you, Cherry Sucrets!)
Emboldened by maturity, I reach for a pack of Fisherman’s Friend. Tearing open the package, I nearly spill the contents. Open with care. Looking at the package again, I catch site of the word “menthol”, but it doesn’t make much impact. Menthol, schmenthol.
People talk about Fisherman’s Friends being strong , so I’m ready—or, as ready as you can be for a turbo-powered menthol kick to your respiratory system. FIRE IN THE HOLE. In full panic mode, my tongue plays hot potato with the losenge, which cannot be confused with its less lethal competitors. Will someone get this losenge a restraining order? Once the panic ends (two long minutes), I make peace with the Fisherman’s Friend and let it do its thing….Hmm. The cough eases up within five minutes and the losenge doesn’t become a carbuncle on my molar. It was a Fisherman’s Friend…with benefits.
Sinus Sister sends a message
Glass. Half. Full.
1) You believe, and therefore can, run to catch the last bus. Wearing boots with heels. This contributes to your financial health (no taxi) and enables a full 7 hours of sleep that night.
2) You can walk without feeling the cold, like Stalin’s red army, to the grocery store. This contributes to your financial health (no take-out delivery) and enables a three course meal.
3) You forget you have to pee while performing #1 and #2. This contributes to your dignity (no begging shopkeepers to let you use their bathroom) and enables longer outtings…in the cold…Wait a minute.
But it’s all for a good cause. Some hectic Googling revealed a study published in The American Journal of Public Health in 1993 showing how those who drink in moderation (insert eye roll) have greater resistance to 5 strains of the common cold versus those who don’t drink. Those people who consumed 2 to 3 drinks daily had an 85% greater resistance. Those people who had 1-2 drinks daily had a 65% lower risk and those who drank less than daily had a 30% risk than abstainers. SOLD!