Since this is senior citizen appreciation week on this blog, I'll tell you that when Margot and Greta were four and three, we were driving down Main Street in our town and, as part of some kind of Family Day, the nursing home had a bouncy castle set up in front of it. Margot looked out the window and said, "Hey, why is there a bouncy castle at the nursing home?" And Greta said, "Because old people are lucky." 

When it comes to accidents, area rugs are the trampolines of the senior citizen set. They are Things One and Two, living at Grandma's house, and occasionally doing that funny trick where One gets on his hands and knees behind her and Two gives her a push from the front. They take down people who shuffle when they walk, or those who are losing their muscle memory for things strewn around the floor in the house. Yet, to many seniors, a spread of area rugs is like soil, a porous, permeable, water-holding unsung hero, underfoot and essential to their survival. 

Though I've never set foot in the actual clinic of the orthopedic surgery practice that I "manage," I do overhear my husband ask patients over 75 if area rugs were present during unfortunate incidents in which they "took a fall" (people under this age are still allowed to "fall down"). "Yes," they chuckle, "but what would you have me do, remove them?," as they lean over to the person who drove them to the appointment and give a little elbow nudge, plus a "what an idiot!" eye roll.

So protect your loved ones and and roll up their "dare-ya" rugs during the dark of night, or while they are in the bathroom. Then, and this is important, remove and destroy them in a scorched-earth approach. If you simply put them in the basement, they will reappear, as though they've grown back. 

I learned a new word today and it's called "scutes." We've all seen scutes before, but we didn't know exactly what to call them. They're the small panels that our turtle Natasha wears to form the outer layer of her shell:

Turtle scutes have two things in common with human hair and nails.  One is that they are all primarily made up of keratin, a fibrous protein. The other commonality is that you don't want to find any of these items in your Moo Shi Chicken at a Chinese restaurant. Scutes are pretty gross, so let's try to think of them as presented in this image: 

I'm assuming that Natasha has scutes on her plastron but she's too modest to let us see what's going on beneath her bridge. 

When your turtle starts shedding scutes, it means that her shell is expanding with the rest of her body. In other words, Natasha is growing, which happened as soon as certain family members bought her a larger tank against my wishes. Natasha's shell, which she calls a "carapace" because it sounds more tony, has grown an inch longer since we bought the 20 gallon aquarium in March. All of this is getting under my skin, which I call an epidermis because is sounds more intellectual. 

But despite my protests, I think some people in my family secretly want Natasha to realize her full growth potential, which would require an unsightly 90 gallon tank. Someone carelessly left the website for the Tilda Swinton Aquaspan 90 up on the family computer. I see where this is heading. 

Sorry people, but our turtle Natasha is going to rear her/his red-eared head again in this post.  It's a delicate matter actually.  Bo asked us the other day if we had noticed that her water had become "milky."  

"Okay, I think this is on me," I said. "The other day, when I was giving her some milk, I got a little ahead of her and a bunch of it spilled into her turtle water."

"Wait," said Greta. "I think I may have accidentally made things worse. The other day, when I was milking Natasha, things got a little out of hand and I'm guessing her tank is now like a quarter turtle milk." 

I helped Margot move home from college last week and I couldn't be happier that she'll be here for the next three months.  Over the weekend we started to unpack and find places for her to put her stuff. In the process, I couldn't help but notice the essentials that I snuck into her luggage last fall, and I wondered which of these items she came to depend on the most:

Strap on head lamps (2) for vexing people at night.

Giant Pee Wee Herman Underpants (2), naturally.  

A Wiffle Bat (1) and Balls (2) for when you want to go outside and be social, but need an activity that validates your presence. This is the equivalent of doing The Bump with your friends at a school dance.

A giant roll of tickets (1), perfect for the impromptu raffling off of things from your dorm that don't belong to you.

A professional grade button maker (1) because no one else will have the ability to make and wear legit-looking buttons that advocate the "freeing" of people who are really not in any kind of pinch.

Yellow plastic police tape (1 roll), because the cordoning off of unpleasant college debris is always a hilarious come upon.

I've written about safe words three times now, which I believe constitutes a body of work. I also believe that having a body of work on safe words makes me an expert, which is a great thing because I'm being peppered with questions on the topic.

Just today, an acquaintance called me for help with her mother, who has become increasingly loud in social situations, interrupting her daughter and continually trying to be the center of attention. After reading my body of work, they agreed that a safe word might decrease their public run-ins, but they were having trouble selecting the perfect one.

"Okay, let's start by ruling out the word cairn," I suggested, "which is the worst sounding word in the English language."  

"Right," she agreed. "How do you feel about palomino?" 

"It's a really good one," I said. "But unfortunately, it's already taken."

"Oh no," she said. "So, where do we go from here?" 

"I think that you should consider the word gimlets," I weighed in. "It's fun to say, and in my experience, senior citizens tend to relax when they hear it."  

"I'll run it by her and let you know," she said before she hung up.

I hate to jinx it, but I'm thinking that I really nailed a great safe word for them. Now, armed with gimlets, my friend can sit back and appreciate a courtesy hush if her mother raises a stink.

I'd like to clear things up about my use of the term "safe word" yesterday. I thought it was obvious that I meant it in a non-carnal context. But eyebrows were lifted, so I did a little on-line research and the results were also hair-raising. That said, if anyone wants to learn about the crucial role of a Dungeon Monitor, just sing out.

No, I was talking about safe words for more conventional relationships, when one or both people agree ahead of time to use a word or words that would bring them up short -- no judgments made and no questions asked. When you hear your safe word, it's supposed to stop you in your tracks. I have a safe word with my readers, "chicken-baby," which is to be put in action if I ever use my blog as a teaching moment.

My safe word with Julie is "spruce" which is employed at times of extreme silliness. These times could also be described as: over the top, dangerous or humiliating. Costumes increase our chances for safe word use, especially if we are wearing our rubber butts in public. "Spruce" originated after an incident outside of a Christmas tree seller in the city. The following day, we agreed that it would be a good safe word for me because the vendor was selling spruces, it sounds like "truce," and it reminds me that the manner in which I am conducting myself could use some sprucing. 

This shot captures the moment when mistakes were made 

and "Spruce" was born. 

Getting back to yesterday's blog, I'm proud to share that I haven't been spruced in months, but I guess that doesn't matter to people who are rooting against me being the guy who lives to be 150 years old. 

I walked by this billboard over the weekend and I wondered out loud if the lucky winner of the contest might be me. The answer from the group was a resounding no and I was shocked by their vehemence. There were lots of reasons given, a convincing one being that I take things too far, doing risky things for the sake of a laugh, especially on road trips.  After Julie said, "anyone who has even one safe word agreement is not a great candidate for this kind of longevity," I piped down and let it go.  

 

There's nothing nutty about the weeds in our town until they puff up and do something daring like this:

I'd like to say a special thank you to those readers who trusted me to do their bone and joint surgeries while Bo is off fishing in Montana. Since his departure, I've also had to cook for myself and do my own laundry. This is a trap that you can fall into as a couple; locking in on a role and sticking with it like it's your side of the bed. We've all seen it and done it, and this week is teaching me that it's time to mix things up.

When Bo gets back, I'm going to suggest that he take on some of the business I have to deal with every day. The first thing that comes to mind is the wear and tear of going from restaurant to restaurant, trying to find where I've left my purse. The problem is that Bo doesn't own a purse, so I'll have to find one and buy it for him before he returns. The other problem is that he'll think a handbag might undermine his manliness. So if you see him wandering around town in search mode, please play along and ask him if he's looking for his "European Carry-All."    

If you meet your family for a weekend getaway and upon arrival you discover that you've forgotten your suitcase, it becomes a problem for you.

If you meet your family for a weekend getaway and upon arrival you discover that you've forgotten your suitcase, and also you are wearing the same clothes as your little sister, it becomes a problem for her.

Unlike all of our goldfish, I'm not dead yet. But I do have a eulogist who is also a pediatrician named Greg Parkinson. At a party one night, years ago, I asked Greg to commit to honoring me at my funeral, as I was about to take a weekend trip with my sisters, and I wasn't sure if I'd be able to tough it out and turn up on the other end alive.

Greg is the perfect eulogist for me because he is warm-hearted, yet hilarious, which is just the tone I wanted to achieve at the ceremony. Also, I didn't know him very well, which meant that he wouldn't hit an emotional snag and break down in the middle of his tribute, which would make people sad and potentially bollix the timing of a good anecdote.

The only problem is that Greg tends to latch onto stories that he hears about me that are embarrassing.  For instance, after I had gotten my mother-in-law settled onto the Acela Express train and the doors closed just as I was about to disembark and I had to hide from her because I knew it would upset her because she'd know I was going to miss my board meeting and the conductor got special permission to pull over because the first stop was more than two hours away but he made me go tell her because he was afraid that she'd see me getting off the train and when I popped into her view I had to put my hand over her mouth to muffle her screams.

Okay, that's exactly the kind of situation that I pray Greg doesn't get wind of, but soon the inevitable deflating text will appear, "yeah, the train thing's going in."  There was also this text: "you put a beer in margot's lunch box thinking it was a can of seltzer? thanks for rounding out pp 7."

Only here's the problem.  Since the time that Greg and I entered into this special relationship, we've grown close.  The other day he admitted to me that he's going to bawl lustily during his commemorative speech. So think twice before you make this kind of arrangement, because one of you will wind up dead, and the other one really hurting.

My friends want me to tell the story about my parents getting a new iron, so here goes:

One day, I went down into the basement to iron my shirt before I went off to high school.  When I started in on the collar, the iron sent a forceful electric shock through my hand.  I yelled upstairs, "Mom! We need a new iron!"  She yelled back, "Stand on the boot!" I looked down on the concrete floor and saw the green rubber boot that I had actually kicked out of the way moments earlier, not understanding it to be my mom's idea of an appliance protection plan. 

As time went by, college friends came home with us for weekends, and if they happened to need an iron, we'd tell them about the boot. Warnings were earnestly delivered to our guests as though what was going on downstairs was perfectly normal. I vaguely remember telling someone, "You know, you don't have to wear two rubber boots when you iron.  You can just stand there on the one and it works just as well." 

Years later, after my dad hung up his jet pack and retired from the spy business, he announced to my mom that he was going to press his own shirts because he had the spare time. One day, he went downstairs, started in on the collar and, though not thrown clear of the iron by an acute muscle contraction, he did experience that searing sensation that leaves a man wondering if he still has hair in his nostrils. 

Assuming that the defect in the iron was news, he ran up the steps and cried to my mom to be careful because the damn iron just gave him a real jolt.  

"Didn't you stand on the boot?" she asked incredulously. 

Within hours, the boot was retired and we had a brand new iron. After that, when I visited my folks, I missed the old system. It made us all feel like we were holding down household costs. Plus, it sparked up my first, however fleeting, interest in science.

Why is it still politically correct to bash red-haired humans? I'm the mother of someone named Greta who has red hair and though outwardly she lets the denigration roll off her back, she may be experiencing some kind of drain on her soul, and that is not cool. So here's what's going to happen. I'm writing a Public Service Announcement (PSA), with the goal of ending mean talk and discrimination toward red-haired people (notice I'm not saying "red heads" because I've just decided to be appalled by that term. No one would call an American Indian a "red head," right? Or someone with rosacea?).

After looking at several sources, I've learned that successful PSAs utilize key elements that I will be sure to include: 

Capture attention by making the ad relevant to your audience from the very beginning. 

Are you one of the asswipés who thinks it's okay to bash red-haired Americans? 

Make the reason for your PSA clear and include key information. 

If so, I'm begging you to nip it! You may be hurting my daughter's feelings, as well as those of my cousins on one side, and also other people who have red hair.  

Use emotional words to encourage the audience to get involved. 

Your decision to cease your mean-spirited actions will leave you feeling serenity, joy, confidence, and liberation. Whereas before, I hope you were feeling this list of emotions: cowardice, alienation, anguish, woe, emptiness, and also, in a stew.

Make it clear what you expect the audience to do after listening to your message.

So I'm expecting you to listen to my message and be kind to people of hair color.

Include contact information, such as a website address where people can get more information.

For more information, contact International Red-haired Individuals Shunned Heartlessly Systematically Endlessly Thoughtlessly Today Everyday Really Stop (irishsetters.com)

My interests have changed over the years, but when I was little, I was captivated by swear words and crude stuff, because things that are forbidden become hilarious, especially in church. I specialized in the words, "sh*t" and "*ss," but farts could not have been funnier. These were the good old days, before the "f" word popped up on my radar screen. 

One Sunday, my dad and I were watching a Redskins game together, and after they scored, he leaned over conspiratorially and sang:

Rah rah ree, kick 'em in the knee.

Rah rah rass ..... kick 'em in the other knee.

Of course, I had fully expected him to say the forbidden word "*ss," which was beyond exhilarating on its own! But when he pulled that trickery at the end of his chant, the repressive world in which I'd lived for those nine long years was dead to me. I was literally sworn into a new dimension, where adults and kids shared off-color material and nobody got in trouble. 

I collapsed on the ground laughing and followed him around for the next few weekends, offering to hold his ladder, pretending to listen as he taught me how to paint a house correctly, and asking questions that might lead to another almost-vulgar bonding moment -- possibly involving my other, previously-cited specialty word, just for the sake of variety. 

It never happened, but it didn't matter. Having learned at the knee of the master, I was poised to go out on my own crude-sade.  Within weeks, I had discovered "Milk, milk, lemonade, round the corner, fudge is made," and was spending most of my free time trying to make it go viral. It was as though the people who thought that up were paying me to promote it. Then, after a long day of canvasing, I'd come home. And if my mom was super-occupied, which she always was, and if she couldn't see my hand gestures, I'd sing it sweetly when she was just steps away. 

Blog, blog, blog.  I don't have it in me today. Thanks Gin.
And by that I'm not saying, "Gin, you win again!" -- not this time anyway. Actually, I'm thanking my friend Ginna, who gave me the idea to write that when I told her I was too blue to blog today.  

If I were a second grade teacher, feeling this way on a nice day like today, I would send my class out to the playground instead of introducing interrogative sentences. So everybody go run around.