Boogers, Spoons, and a Reminder to Check Your Boobies

Went to get blood drawn today—because that’s what you do on a Wednesday when you’re a cancer survivor and apparently a “frequent flyer” at the lab. I’m on a first-name basis with most of the phlebotomists now. I even joked that they’re working on a punch card just for me: ten sticks and the next one’s free.

Anyway, on my way home, I was stuck behind some guy who kept flicking something out his car window. For a mile I was praying it wasn’t boogers. I mean, no one wants windshield boogers. And then I thought of my dad—who could turn picking into an Olympic event. He’d roll boogers into perfect little pellets and flick them onto the carpet, and he used his car keys not just to scratch, but to mine for earwax like he was digging for gold. (Pro tip: don’t do this. You won’t die of earwax—my dad died of cancer, not from striking wax—but you will gross out your children forever.)

Speaking of noses, he also taught us how to hang spoons from ours. Sadly, neither my nose nor my brother’s were built for spoon-hanging, but my sister nailed it—so much so that she decided to show off at a fancy dinner with the governor. My mother nearly fainted with embarrassment and, naturally, blamed my dad.

Less embarrassing for her: the time my dad licked his dinner plate clean. More embarrassing for me: he did it in front of my date. My mom laughed. My date never came back. (Can’t blame him. We were chaos before it was cool.)

Families are a little cray-cray, right?

This week marks 33 years since my dad died—October 4, 1992. He was 50. Two years younger than my husband is now. He had breast cancer, and any time I see someone hang a spoon from their nose, I think of him.

Check your boobies, guys and gals. It could save your life.