Anyway, Dad is infamous in our family for his finely-tuned skill at "hawking loogies." These are not small, insignificant blobs of clear mucous. As far back as I can remember, my father has been bringing up and expelling phlegm wads in his own uniquely ritualized style.
But wait, I should probably let you know what instigated this topic. You're dying to know, right?
Okay, so I'm walking through the living room today. Mom and Dad are both sitting in their respective recliners, watching CNN's coverage of the Health Reform Vote. Dad has been demanding minute-by-minute updates from both Mom and I (remember, he can't hear or see the TV clearly enough to keep tabs himself). As I pass by him on my way to the hallway, he stops me, "Hey!"
"Hey what!" I answer.
"What's the vote?"
"They're still counting" I tell him. I didn't really know, but I knew that was the only answer that would keep more questions from coming. It doesn't work. Dad starts to ask me another question. I think it was something political. Thank god there was a reason for me to interrupt him.
His question starts out something like this, "Hey, don't you think that the Republicans....."
His question starts out something like this, "Hey, don't you think that the Republicans....."
"EWWWWWW! GRRRRROSSSS!"
That was me, responding to the GI-normous wad of wet, green phlegm I suddenly see perched on the gaping button-closure of Dad's rugby shirt. Apparently, Dad's most recent hawking attempt missed its mark.
You see, normally Dad's Hawking-the-Loogy ritual goes something like this:
First, Dad makes this gawd-awful sound in this throat--like some weird Jabba-the-Hut-like alien is trying to cough up another weird Jabba-the-Hut-like alien. The sound goes on for at least 15 seconds, maybe longer, while Dad epiglottal-ly sweeps every nook and cranny of his entire pharyngeal cavity. I'm not sure if the sound is as gross as it is because of the sound itself, or because I know what's coming next. It's probably both.
The next step is the actual expulsion part of this ritual and it has two possible endpoints--either a carefully folded piece of Kleenex, or any object, living or non-living, that has terrible misfortune of being within a three-foot radius of my father's mouth (Case in point: the time when we were kids, in the family station wagon, and my sister was sitting directly behind Dad.....her window down. In a fraction of a second, the laws of physics that govern moving vehicles and wind, carried that loogy directly from my father's mouth smack into my sister's face. I've never laughed so hard in my life.)
But I digress.
By the looks of Exhibit A, which is now setting, like a jiggling little wad of fermented Jello, on my father's shirt, clearly even the presence of Kleenex is no guarantee that said phlegm wad will, in fact, end up in the Kleenex even when said Kleenex is implemented in the intended fashion.
But I digress.
By the looks of Exhibit A, which is now setting, like a jiggling little wad of fermented Jello, on my father's shirt, clearly even the presence of Kleenex is no guarantee that said phlegm wad will, in fact, end up in the Kleenex even when said Kleenex is implemented in the intended fashion.
Right. So.......anyway, there it was. All slimy and green and just setting there on his shirt. My hands are flapping in disgust amid cries of "Ew, Ew, Ew!" and my face is all squished up because, I mean, it's just soooo gross! My mother is smiling, amused, and Dad is like, "What? What?! What's the matter?"
And I just keep pointing, "EW! EW! EW!"
And he says innocently, "Oh. Did I miss?"
"EWWWWW! DAD! That is SO gross!"
And he grabs a piece of Kleenex, hands it to me, and says, "Well, here, clean it off for me."
"EWWWW!!! Nooooo! I am not touching it!"
And so he says (and he's just so calm about the whole thing.....which is even more disgusting and unnerving......because, gawd, that thing is right there, under his face, like a giant dormant amoeba!), "Well then, show me where it is so I can clean it off."
So I point.
And he wipes.
But it's still there.
So I point again.
And he wipes again.
But it's still there.
I point one last time.
He wipes.
It's gone.
But wait, there's more.
Yes, he tosses his three Kleenex tissues into the trash can that's next to his chair.
But.......he misses!!! And then Emily, the ravenous bulldog, immediately makes a beeline to those tissues which are now lying on the floor right next to the trash can. She has every intention of eating them (EWWWW!), and I scream, "NOOOO!" and dive for the floor before she can get to them.
Yes, he tosses his three Kleenex tissues into the trash can that's next to his chair.
But.......he misses!!! And then Emily, the ravenous bulldog, immediately makes a beeline to those tissues which are now lying on the floor right next to the trash can. She has every intention of eating them (EWWWW!), and I scream, "NOOOO!" and dive for the floor before she can get to them.
Holding the snorting bulldog at bay with one arm, I carefully and meticulously use my other arm to pick up each tissue by the extreme edge and drop them into the trash can, punctuating each effort with a grimaced and squish-faced "EW!"
I get up off the floor, heave a huge sigh of relief, "There!" and leave the room.
I get up off the floor, heave a huge sigh of relief, "There!" and leave the room.
All I hear as I walk down the hallway is Dad saying to Mom, "What was so gross about that?"
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