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Explorations of mind, paths, and life

Loogie Hacks

Posted on September 3, 2008 - Filed Under self reflect

Again, another busy week has consumed me – and ideas, thoughts, topics, they all banged around in my head for just that long until my metal-head Adonis’ late night “cold” coughing basically rattled them right out my ears. I know Gary feels horrible about keeping me awake – and to make sure I know how horrible he feels he swears and curses at his phlegm and snorting, so I know how mad he is that he is keeping both of us awake. Me? I deal differently; I get mad and practically turn blue barricading a cough deeply in my lungs until either
a) I can escape to the hall,
b) I can cover my head with heaping pillows,
c) I drink enough water to drown myself,
d) I win and my body decides it didn’t need to cough anyway.

Maybe that is why it takes me longer to quit a cold, because I stifle it and have NO IDEA how to “hack a loogie”, and Gary, he gets it all out before it does any damage. Anyhow, my ideas obviously slipped into the abyss between the mattress and the wall as I bounced around on the bed during Gary’s quiet (Ha) episodes [Poor guy, I know he hates it.] I keep thinking if I could just utilize that little sweeper thingy under the kitchen sink I might be able to salvage some of those ideas and reassemble them. Who knows how many of those ideas disappeared into the rug fuzz and dust bunnies. I may have even ground a few thoughts up between my teeth and the mouth guard. But even if I was able to pluck a few from the jumbled dusty mess, it would likely look more like this:

“Dog harness jumped snort HEAD kid gaming breath damn cars for. Traveling “bonk bonk” flower client happy, week another?”

So, I decided I better just try a new bunch of ideas and go from there.

Where in the world did “Hock a Loogie” come from anyway? The Urban Dictionary outlines it well: a large slimy glob of spit, mixed with nose snot. Then their definition goes on to include things like “lung cookie” and “lunger.”

I have had a fascination with the behavior since I was a kid – likely before my little sister was even walking! I remember living in San Diego and playing under the Weeping Willow when my father emerged to expectorate a load that was both awe-inspiring and gag-full just the same. I had no idea what he was doing or why he was doing it. All I know was that what emerged was like a train wreck, followed by a few final spit-tosses. I recall having asked him how to do that when I heard, “Evelyn, no, no, girls don’t do that.” [Just tell that to Whitney (Gary’s sis) who can belch and hack just as good as any man I know!] I think my Dad should have taken the time then to show me how, instead of dismissing me for being a girl. What a dis-service! I can’t do a thing to improve my health when sick, and for as much as Gary tries to instruct me, I really needed to learn that behavior young.

Anyhow, when “they” say you marry your parents then I guess that was one of those rare things I latched on to [Ugh!] Gary really has a knack for it. Although he might not realize it, I am certain it is a delicate science. He is able to streamline a sticky loogie so it moves like a compressed and powerful spit-bullet able to knock down trees, or make it travel at a high velocity so that it arrives at its destination with a violent “thwat” sound, or he can even spit one into the air, and with perfect timing, have it explode like fireworks and rain down spittle (with me screeching, arms over head, eyes upward in horror.) Gary has done this since I have known him. I was amazed at the accuracy of his spit-bombs. I recall times when, as a teenager, he could hurl one out the car window at a vehicle tailing too close and have it land with precision on their windshield. AND he even knows exactly what his spittootle should look like, so that one afternoon while we trudged through the streets of NYC on a museum rampage, he could aptly defy my anger with full certainty that the mysterious loogie that had been piggy-backing my backback was not, and I mean NOT HIS unique sputum. Then, he gallantly handed me a napkin for my backpack, and his hankie for my watering eyes, as I carefully wiped the glob away. It was romantic in a Calvin (and Hobbes) kinda way.

So, as we ride the challenges of marriage with a phlegmy partner, I had to take time to appreciate just what an art it is to expectorate. The careful task of lung cleansing, and making room for the clean air to gain access into welcoming lungs. Despite all the ideas I lost under the pillows and mattress, I gotta love him for the early romance of “hacking loogies” with such precision and respect. I may have lost dozens of writing topics over the last week, but have certianly gained a new respect and appreication for my husbands endearing habits. Gotta love him!

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