Fingers in the nose – no, no! Using a tissue for boogers – yes, yes!

a page from “No No Yes Yes” by Lisa Patricelli

For a very long time, this is a rule that Braden has respected. Hey, if Mommy says fingers in the nose is a “no-no” and there’s even a book backing her up, it must be true.

But now we have reached the Age of Contrary. We see evidence of this with classic conversations like, “Here’s your peanut butter and jelly sandwich.” “NO. Dat’s not peanut butter jelly sandwich, DAT’S PEANUT BUTTER JELLY.”

And who could not see the genius in “Sit down at the table now.” “NO, I HAVE TO SIT IN DIS CHAIR NOW.” (The chair at the table.)

And if it’s fun to say “NO” to things just so you can restate them in a different way, well, then it must also be delightful to do things that have been forbidden. It’s all just part of the same circle of fun, right? Of course it is!

Life without testing the boundaries is boring, my friends. And the boundary between fingers and boogers is just SCREAMING TO BE BROKEN.

I mean, just look at how much fun this little dingaling is clearly having!

did he really have to be wearing the shit eating grin?

And so it goes, the boy realized that perhaps even if the book and The Mommy say fingers in the nose is not so groovy a thing to do, it can, in theory, still be done. And so he tested this idea, and found that yes, it can be done, and in fact, he quite enjoys sticking his fingers in his nose.

Over and over again.

it kills me that he can make even booger picking cute

Though it is clearly quite a bother to request a tissue before nostril exploration has begun, apparently it is no problem at all to do the same thing once one’s finger has been befouled. He walks over to me with his finger stuck out in front of him, a fine specimen riding the peak of his pointer, and says, “Put my booger in a tissue.”

Such gifts he presents to me, and lo, they take my breath away. It is an honor, such an honor.

And hey, I guess I have some idea of where he gets the appreciation for sticking things in his nostrils.

i.am.dead.sexy.

At least he’s not sticking other things in his nose.

Yet.

Dancing to the beat of my own piercing.

HappyCampers:
“When did you get your nose pierced? Did it hurt a lot?”

Tracy D:
“Does Braden ever try to pull your nose ring out? (Mine does)”

Amy:
“This may have come before me but I want to know the story of the nose piercing. Why? How bad did it hurt? How long do you plan to have it? Is it a problem when you’re sick and all boogery and blowing?”

When I moved to Texas because of a certain person in 2002, I was planning on finding a job working in mental health, or some such job that would allow me to use my psychology degree.  A teaching job at a University or Community College would have been really nice, but that was what we like to call a “fat effin chance.”  Which, by the way, really doesn’t make sense when you think about it.  Because it should be a “skinny chance,” as in slim, as in very little chance. Now I’m annoyed by that phrase.  Great.  Anyway.  There were no new “Soft Sciences” teaching positions being created (and don’t even get me started on how that term irritates the shit out of me) because even way back then, the economy was already heading shit-face first into the fan.

I actually had a job offer at a community college back in NC, but I had to turn it down when I didn’t finish my degree on schedule.  And that?  Sucked.  But it doesn’t pay to keep being upset about it now, so lets move on. (I’ll save it for a day when I’m feeling more bitter and looking for something to bitch about.)

For a couple of months I was just a total, mooching bum.  And I think John was really excited to, you know, have brought the cow home to his pasture without buying it.  So he didn’t really mind putting up with my unemployed ass.  I lived with him and he totally supported me, financially and otherwise.  And from July through October, I was just floating along from day to day, just kind of existing.  I looked into this and that, but nothing good was coming my way.  By October, this and that lookering was getting old.  I was starting to feel a little too much like, what is it they call it? Oh, yeah.

A TOTAL, ASSBAG LOSER.

So I sucked it up and filled out an application at a mall retail store with a referral from a good friend.

Part-Time, Temporary Holiday help, my friends.  That’s what you earn a BA and MA to do.

Riiiight.

By the new year, as I had impressed my boss enough with my immense intelligence and hardworking attitude (or maybe she was just really desperate), I was offered a regular position.

And because I so enjoyed the life of a “mall worker” (John referred to me as such ONCE and ONLY ONCE because he likes his testicles and prefers walking without a limp) I worked diligently and flashed my winning smile at everyone who would look my way.

And when they weren’t looking I ripped and tore at my face, made demonic sounds, and banged my head against the wall in the back room. (If you have ever worked retail, you know that it will drive you to such behavior.)

Long story a little less long, within a couple of years time I moved through the ranks… Part-Time Temporary Seasonal Associate, Part-Time Regular Sales Associate, Second Assistant Manager, Assistant Manager, Store Manager.  (The word “ass” was in a lot of the positions I held.  Mere coincidence.)

During this entire time I had normal, long, brown hair.  Never, you know, purple like it had been years before, or anything like that.  And the thought of a facial piercing or visible tattoo?  A POX ON THAT!  I’d have lost my job.

For almost four years, my appearance was restricted to what my employers felt was acceptable.  And while it didn’t bother me all the time, it nagged just below the surface.  I’d always liked the idea of dying my hair funky colors or someday getting some type of facial piercing.  On top of that, right around the time I started working there, I suddenly developed a piercing allergy in my ears.  I’d been wearing cheap earrings in my ears since I’d had them pierced at age 11. One day when I was 26 my ear-holes started burning, bleeding, and crusted over.  I can’t put anything but real gold there now.  Frankly, I don’t make it a habit to purchase tiny, excessively expensive things.  It’s like BEGGING the universe to just swallow my money whole and then blow a big, juicy STINK BURP in my face. So no more earrings for me.

And I guess you could say the desire to wear a nose gem was intensified by my inability to wear my earrings any longer.

When I found out I was pregnant in February (which would mean leaving work at some point), and shorty after that learned that John was changing jobs and we were moving to another state? (Translation: I was losing my job.) I took it as my chance to FINALLY RELAX.

One of my friends/employees made my hair lovely for me.

First it was orange and red.  Eventually it looked like this, and I maintained it myself.

And then she did the proverbial Hand-Hold-Go-Along trip with me to The Nostril Stabber.

Because I wanted to have a huge, sharp, metal stick jabbed into my face.  I am nothing if not mentally STABLE. But at least I was a little scared of it, so I brought her with me.

Oh, did I mention I was pregnant?  Yeah, I’m not endorsing doing stupid things to your body when you’re pregnant.  (Lecture me about it, though, and I’m going to show you one of my favorite 2 fingers.)

I sat on the edge of a cold metal table; Tasha stood next to me, kind of smirking.  The Nose Stabber positioned himself in front of me, made a mark where I said I wanted the piercing, and then raised a huge sharp stabbing tool at my face.

[Totally sexy, right?  You want one right now.  I can sense it.  Yeah, baby.]

There was a pricking sensation and a bit of pressure.  I waited for the real pain, ready to hold my breath until it was over.

The Nose Stabber stared at me. I looked at him.  I looked at Tasha.

TNS told me it was done.  Huh?

That’s right.  There’s a quick pricking sensation, a bit of pressure, and then it’s over.  And you have a gem in your nose.  And your nose is super sexy and wonderful.

You take care of that bitch with EXTREME CAUTION for the next couple of years because if you don’t, it will hurt like hell.  You AVOID AT ALL COSTS ripping it out of your face with: your shirt, your sunglasses, or your own stupid, flailing hands.

Heh.

You clean it, bathe it with warm salt water, and whisper sweet nothings to it every night at bedtime.  In the morning, you awake and smile at it prettily in the mirror.

And if your husband hates it?  You say, “TOUGH SHIT, BUDDY, THIS IS THE ONE THING YOU MAY NOT HAVE DOMINION OVER.” (Okay, one OF the things.)  And he will get over it.

(And even when he says all wonderful and gushy things like how beautiful your face is without it, you just roll your eyes and tell him that’s great, then, the tiny little gem will not mar your INCREDIBLE BEAUTY AND CLASS.)

The inside of it is a little twirl, like a curved L.  That keeps it in with minimal nostril blockage.  But yes, boogers do sometimes get crusted onto it.  And no, it’s not really all that gross.  You get very used to blowing your nose and cleaning it while it’s in.  I’ve had trouble putting it back in on occasion, but all things in life that are worth it usually require a little extra effort, right?  I sort of believe that nothing worth it is ever easy all the time.

Braden has never snatched at it.  Since he was a little baby I told him what it was, and to be gentle and not pull it, and I let him touch it whenever he wanted.  He often touches it very delicately and says, “Nose tud!” (stud)

One day not long ago, he touched it carefully, and said “Dwum.”  Kids notice the most amazing things.  It does, literally, look like a tiny drum.

And this tiny drum has become as much a part of my face now, to me, as my eyelashes or my freckles.

It’s a little glimmer on the side of my nose that shines even on a day when I feel dull.

It winks in the light even if I’m not smiling.

It’s there every day, unchanging.  Always a source of happiness for me.

Sometimes, that kind of rhythm is better than any beat you can tap out.