The word two-year-olds worldwide choose not to acknowledge was uttered in the wake of countless attempts by an ungainly girl with a tangle of brown curls covering her head to wreak havoc on the living room and all it's occupants - "NO!" Mommy had spoken. With a stomp of her foot and a severely down-turned lower lip, Little Miss Ringlets blew an gust of upset and unhappiness out her nostrils both clotted with ropey, green snot. With results no decongestant can produce, a lumpy spray of gunk exited her nose holes and speckled the sleeve of her mother's blouse and the side of mommy's made up face. Spying me, Little Miss Ringlets made a move toward my perch on a too-soft, stained sofa, sizing me up as she approached. While it was likely that much of the nasty congealed contents of her snout had already been purged, I was regretting my decision not to don my Hazmat suit before heading out of the house this morning. Little Miss stopped just short of me and tilted back her head to take aim. Her nostrils appeared to pulsate with her desire to give me this little gift of her discontent. Taking a big breath in, she then shot the air out her nose and two things happened - I quickly moved my things and as much of myself as I could out of the line of fire and Little Miss's lower face was covered by what burst forth from her nose. She had a look of triumph on her face when she leveled her head again to meet my gaze, yellowish-green goo hanging from her chin. Relieved at not having been slimed by nasal mucus, I looked her square in the face, smiled and continued my conversation with her mother.