Have you ever had a week where your major accomplishment was picking up the used tissues strewn on the floor of various rooms of the house? I have.
There’s this bit of physical humor that I act out when driving in my car. If I have finished eating or drinking anything, I pitch it over my shoulder -full speed- into the hatchback, which I clean out about once a week (okay, maybe once a month.) The unexpected immediacy of the transition between using/eating an item and throwing it away, the swiftness of the toss, and the childishness of the act usually elicit a smile or giggle from my passenger. (Side note: Pellet is to BF Skinner rat what laughter is to Tracy.)
Over time, we’ve moved some of this vaudeville act in doors, but have excluded food items and most trash from the prop list. Tissues are soft enough to be safely whizzed across a room. We aim in the general direction of the trash bucket; but frankly, it’s funnier if we don’t even aim.
When one of us has a period of extreme mucus production (most commonly caused by illness and/or tears) the other of us has the job of giggling at and then cleaning up tissues tossed (brusquely) in anger, disgust, or despair.
Sometimes you wake up, wipe your puffy eyes and realize you must be in a rough patch if no one has noticed that mucho mucus production has left empty tissue boxes overturned and once soggy (now crusty) tissues crumpled on the floor like plot points on a scatter chart in every room of the house.
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