Are you unpoopular? Do you pop out at parties???

Today was a rough day, very bad, tense and frustrating.  My head throbbed, I needed a nap, my pants were tight, my shirt pulled at the buttons, I had gas and my ankles swelled.  For the 1st half of the day, no matter what I did or how often I checked myself in the mirror, I felt that I had a booger in my nose.  You ever have one of those days?  I rubbed my nose with my hand, I blew my nose nostril by nostril (left first as always, then right, then I checked the tissue for, well, you know), I pushed a kleenex up there looking for gold and, yes, I even picked it myself when I thought no one was looking.  But no matter how hard I tried, I never saw the least little bit of a nugget or got any satisfaction.

Many of you don't know me well so let's get something straight -- I love to pick my nose.  LOVE IT!!!  It is something I do just for myself.  It is relaxing, satisfying, can be productive, gives me a sense of accomplishment, passes the time and is just darn good fun.

I know that Emily Post, Letitia Baldridge and Oprah would tell me that nose picking is unacceptable in public and, frankly, I don't care.  Not that I do it in public of course -- well, not much anyway.  But, really, who does it hurt?  It doesn't injure anyone -- it doesn't smell -- it doesn't particulate the air around me -- I'm still able to pay my mortgage.  Just where is the harm?  Seriously, it seems like the perfect way to pleasure, relieve and groom myself without offending others.  To me, it is self love without the mess. 

Don't get me wrong, friends.  I am more than happy when my nose picking is productive.  Truly, there are few better things in life.

I learned the power of the booger at a young age.  When my sister Jeri was home from college, she would sometimes chase me around the house, index finger extended and a booger directionally placed on its tip -- in MY direction, that is -- running around the house and threatening to wipe it on me.  These booger fights ended when she got tired, or I got faster (she is 10 years older -- happy birthday by the way) or, most usually, when I tattled on her to our mother.  Without missing a beat, Stella would say "keep your big fat hand off your brother and stop booger fighting, for God's sake."  Usually, she would not even have to look up from her kapama (Greek stew with either chicken, beef or lamb and a seductively rich and thick tomato sauce), that's how often this happened.

I never terrorized others with my nose picking or my boogers -- like my sister did.  Rather, I only used my power for good, frequently amazing and fascinating my nieces and nephews with nasal gymnastics and the prizes therefrom.  Scoring a 10 almost each time, I would often show them a "filigree" (a wide flat booger that is see-through when you hold it up to the light, somewhat like a stained glass window


but with only 1 color -- a favorite of my nephew, Johnny)

                      or a "Laurel & Hardy"                            

(a large booger that is dry on one end and wet on the other)

or a "carpet booger"


(no explanation needed but suffice it to say that the removal of a carpet booger is the best of all).  Some carpet boogers feel so good coming out that I dream and wish I could put them back up in there to remove them yet again.  "Why oh why can't I do that, God?" I ask in prayer.  Alas, it never works so well in practice.

I never give my boogers proper names, oh no, that would be wrong.  I mean, what sort of sick bastard would do something like that?  I consider naming boogers to be taboo, tasteless and common, although, to be honest, I do remember receiving a booger named Bartholomew in the mail when I lived in Miami, Florida and worked for the IRS.  My niece had wrapped him up in paper, then plastic, then put him in a zip-loc bag (her attention to detail at such a young age was impressive) then into an envelope.  She then mailed the entire care package to my apartment.  I opened the envelope with great interest and was immediately introduced to Bartholomew.  I don't know where she got that name but, to this day, whenever I meet a Bartholomew, I am filled with a swelling sense of pride and familial love.  For my niece.  Every once in a while, when I am cleaning out my closet, I come across Bartholomew and I immediately think of Heather.  Now, that is family.

But, back to the point of this posting.  Today was shit.  Here, on the 28th day of the rest of my life, I found myself saying things to Jerry, my partner, like "you are not paying enough attention to me" and "just do what I say" and "this conversation is over" and "I think I can only work 4 days a week from now on."  I was being a bastard but rightfully so.  Still, I didn't like the way it sounded.  Here I was with the great fortune to work not for a slave driver or a old miser or Scrooge himself -- but for Jerry.  It's really like having no boss at all.  Hallo!

It made me wonder -- that kind of wonder you do alone, when nobody is around and you have to stop what you're doing, stop walking and look blindly at one vague spot near the ground, stop everything else and just wonder -- whether or not I was the problem in my life.  Since 1987, when I had graduated law school and begun my legal career, I had always put the blame and the focus on others.  "That partner was such an asshole," or "they simply don't have enough people to do what needs to be done," or "I don't mind constructive criticism, but does she have to be such a bitch on top of it all?" Was I just trying to rationalize?  Were these just things I said to divert attention from the real problem here -- me?

Aw jeez!  Who can really contemplate this sort of self-hate?  Maybe I should just forget about it and pick my nose.  And so I did.  And so I felt better.  WAY better.  And not in any small way because of Jerry and Jeri and Johnny and Heather and Bartholomew.  Thanks, guys.