Addict

In addition to the Zithromax (so that good cats ask for it by name) I got the okay from the Doc in the Box to use Afrin.

Afrin! If you are one of those people who is blessed with normal sinus function, you don't know the lure of Lady Afrin. Because if you have a chronically messed-up schnozz, as do I, Afrin makes you feel normal.

A squirt up the ol' snotbox (as my dad calls it, poet that he is) and suddenly your sinuses are so clear you can smell the Tide at the laundromat three blocks away. It is a true miracle, a blessed amazing thing. It is like having an all-new nose.

But like all things that are too good to be true, it is.

Because if you use it too long Afrin begins to turn on you, and then your savior becomes your master - you end up in a never ending cycle of terrible snotbox congestion.

"Three days," intoned the pharmacist, glaring at me over the counter. He knew a potential addict when he saw one.

My old boyfriend Mojo's mom had a serious long-term Afrin addiction. I mean for years. She may still have it - it isn't something you want to bring up in polite conversation.

Back when there was only four-hour Afrin, she would wake up in the middle of the night to do her hits. If she made it four hours and ten minutes before she did her hit, she would feel proud of herself. She had an Afrin bottle within reach at all times.

So I am enjoying my three days of Perfect Snotbox Clarity. Then I go back to my normal semi-plugged self.

Some things are just too good to be of this world. I wonder if there is Afrin in heaven, where the Flying Spaghetti Monster lives? I hope so.