Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Sickness
Today i had some sinus problems again. I've had sinus problems for a while now, probably because of allergys. But this time it got ALOT worse. My right ear started to hurt really bad because apparently my eustation tube is plugged. Ive had tylonol, ibeprophen, and I even tried chewing gum because that's supposed to help. Much to my dislike, it did not work. So my Mom looked on the internet and found that certain ear drops are supposed to help. She called CVS and they didn't have any. Then she called the doctor and got me a little subscription. She went upstairs and when she came back she told me that we had to wait for my dad to come back. All this time, I'm sitting on the couch watching Pirates Of The Carribean: Dead Mans Chest and feeling miserable. And of course, my sinuses are bad because I can barely breath through my right nostril and even as I write this my subscription is not doing anything to make my ear feel better. Ive been sick before, but never like this. I suppose sickness didn't start until after The Fall but no matter what, It's got to be the worst thing ever invented.
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Phil--
ReplyDeleteSo sorry you are not feeling well.
I know exactly what you are going through, too--the Mariner has been there a time or two.
I believe I can cheer you up with some of my
typically inane--or, perhaps, insane-- comments, though.
So, you'll hear from me again soon.
Meantime, here's what I do when I get sick.
I remember what It says in James 5:13.
It says to pray.
So, close your eyes, concentrate on God, and
ask him to take away your misery. And then,
even if everything still feels miserable,
just thank Him for doing what you asked--
because if you ask Him, He won't fail you,
no matter what things SEEM like. And then, just keep thanking Him. (He loves that. And it's always great to be able to do something
for Him that makes Him happy.)
In other words, don't look at what you can
feel--just keep looking at Him, and
His power.
Look at Mark 11: 22-24, to really see what
I mean.
I just prayed for you, too. Which means, as
I type this, you're better.
Talk to you soon, warrior. And remember: pray.
The Ancient One
Phil--
ReplyDeleteI have faith that you are feeling better.
Which means: you are.
And both those thoughts are fine ones.
Along with: I'm still praying for your recovery.
Meantime, grab a hot mug of something (or,
if you prefer, a hot something of mug--your
call), make sure your pajamas are the ones with the little feet at the ends,
draw your mosquito netting so it well-insulates your sickbed, pull your Spongebob duvet up to your disgustingly
suppurating nostrils, dismiss all unpleasant thoughts from your mind (hard these days, but
just try thinking of how good melted cheese
is), and simply allow the Mariner to humbly regale you with the following.
I know, despite your youth, you have at least a vague sense who Woody Allen is. Well, about
40 years ago, he got ahold of a terrible Japanese movie that no one had ever seen---
some kind of gangster flick--and redubbed it
in English with some comedic dialogue he
wrote. The movie was called WHAT'S UP, TIGER LILY? (Stupid title, but I had no control over the matter, despite all my efforts. Sorry.)
In a scene I will never forget, two guys are
talking to one other. One reaches into his
pocket, and pulls out a business card to show
the other. "This," he says, holding up the
card, "is the home of Shepard Wong."
What he means, of course, is that Shepard Wong's address is printed on the card.
Phil...Phil...wake up, Phil..Are you with me? Good.
Well, to this, the other guy says:
"Do you mean he lives in that piece of paper?"
Now, that's funny.
Even so, though, you might be wondering: why
is the Mariner running this bon mot by me, Phil Rienstra, the, "boy who formerly had the hideously infected sinuses?"
Ah, well, you will have to wait till next time to get the answer to that question, my
friend.
Suffice it to say I am setting you up for
quite a comedic wallop--to be delivered then,
and no sooner.
For now, I can only say I'll next write about...well, about
a recent conversation I had with my interior
decorator, Raoul.
Until then--well, I know you are on the mend.
And nice to know your folks are taking such
good care of you--boiling down marsupials into soothing syrup for you, changing your
leeches every hour, amusing you with shadow
puppets, and turning the lights on and off all the time really fast until you begin to hallucinate.
They love you, pal. It's a trustworthy statement.
Give my best to your brother, too. I know he
must be bogged down in trying to finish his
latest rant--the two-part one about winter squash, isn't it?
Remember: you are already better.
With respect for your valor,
AM, in the PM where IM
Phil--
ReplyDeleteLong ago and far away, a popular congestion- remedy marketed itself with the slogan, "Taking (name of remedy) is like sending your sinuses to Arizona!" (Arizona: a dry clime.
You get it, right?) True story: so many people then sent their sinuses to Arizona, sinuses were actually given the right to vote in that state, and in 1965, Arizonans elected a sinus as governor, only to impeach him shortly afterwards when he was caught stealing a case of Kleenex, which led to a law prohibiting any sinuses from entering Arizona's confines unless they were actually inside a person's head, a law that still stands today.
All of this, not to beat around the bush, is
just to signify that I have been thinking
about how much better you are feeling--by
faith, of course--and only remain sorry you
had any sickness at all. Now...
A few weeks back, when you and your brother put on goggles and flowing scarves and climbed in your antique biplane and navigated the clouds over the upper Midwest--you will
recall that you forgot to bring things to snack on, but that otherwise the trip went well--you might have looked down from your aeronautic perch and seen two chaps, standing in a forest clearing miles beneath you, engaged in a histrionic verbal exchange.
I was one of the duo. The other was--you'll
remember I mentioned him a comment ago--
my (then) interior decorator, Raoul. Raoul comes from one of the Benelux countries, has a neatly trimmed goatee, and used to be a member of a modern dance company. He is what the dictionary calls "imperious." Which is why he has since left my employ. At the end of one of my Florsheims.
Anyway, back in the clearing--as you may have seen--I showed Raoul a piece of paper. It was actually a page torn from one of the Berenstein Bears books--showing the B.B.
family at home, snug in their winter home
(fireplace, pies on stove, circular rugs,
overstuffed furniture, Daddy Bear asleep in
his chair, Momma Bear wearing her bonnet...)
"Raoul," I said, emphatically, pointing to
the paper, "this is what I want." "Bien sur," he said, agreeably. "You shall have it in a nonce, I think."
Time passed. Raoul called me finally (I hate
it when people call me "finally" instead
of "Mariner"), and, in broken Eurotrash, said he had "tasked the complete," and that we should meet. We did, at a fashionable boite. We chatted for a while, over cassis and mollusks, and then I saw him slyly reach into his alligator-skin valise.
He pulled out a piece of paper. The same one I had shown him.
"I think you asked this and so I am giving
you," he chirped. "It is exactly what you
asked to me have do, and I was being to do
it for only $1M euros I think. My bill has
been in the mail."
I stared, cod-like, at the middle distance.
And regretted the day I had ever told Raoul about--well, "the home of Shepherd Wong."
And what as to the little home I wanted?
I rolled up my sleeves. Did the job myself.
I now have a wee nest inside a tree in a forest--my stout front door, carved neatly out of the redwood in question, is inset right into its gigantic base (probably a violation of Forest Service regulations, but I cooked my friend Ranger Rick a delicious batch of mofungo the other day, so I think he is choosing to "look the other way", and the inside(on the other side of the door)is as Berenstein-like as the day is long.
So there I am--here--a-wintering.
Hello to your 'bro,
Mariner
P.S.: The chipmunks here send special regards. They've saved up enough to buy you both reading glasses for Christmas--I wasn't
supposed to tell, but I just had to!
Phil,
ReplyDeleteLast Sunday's NEW YORK TIMES had a special
section devoted to children's books.
When I saw it, I thought of you and your
siblings (you have a sister, right? Sorry
I haven't mentioned her). And the wonders
all of you might find inside its pages.
I suppose it is a bit offputting, when you
are a child, to be thought of as a "child"--
I know it rankled me, in my youth--but try
to ignore that condescension, see if you
can get a copy of the section, check off the
titles that sound good and demand that your
local library order them for you, so that
you can save the rest of your money for
whatever you are saving it for.
I mean, it's just my suggestion--but, I think,
a sound one.
Knowing the Rienstra brood, however, it's
probably the case that you all not only have
read the section already, but also are
solely responsible for all the writing and
expertise within it, having been asked by
the TIMES to create the section itself on
a freelance basis.
So telling you about it might be like bringing
coals to Newcastle.
But it's just a way for me to let you know
that you and your sinuses are in my thoughts.
With affection and respect,
The AM
P.S. Had a conversation today with Maurice,
a vole I see nearly every day here in the
forest. "Hey," he squeaked, "when are them
kids gonna get off their duffs and rant again?
Especially that Jacob character?"
I looked the vole squarely in its eyes, which
was hard, because they are so small, but I
persisted, just so I could write this sentence
about it later, which I just have.
"Genius," I told him, "has its own alarm clock."
The vole whistled, in appreciation.
Wanted you to know.
am