The Ricker keeps his nails short.

But he clips them all over the house. A very frequent Sunday image was the Ricker walking through the living room, cutting his nails as he walked to the door. Once outside, he would sit on the front deck and go after his toenails (well, the eight nails that actually grew). He would also give his heals a good rub-down with some sandpaper and a foot paddle.

Unfortunately, his grooming patterns also extended to other places; namely, my bedroom. When the Ricker would say goodnight, he would come downstairs in his boxers (always shirtless) and sit on the edge of my bed to talk to me. While he was talking, the Ricker would pick and pull pieces of dead skin off his heals and feet . . . and drop them on my floor, into my blue shag carpeting. To this day, there is nothing grosser than someone picking skin off his feet and dropping right beside my bed, where I might step in it in the morning.