There are stages to being a son or daughter, and I’ve experienced most of them, from the joy of early times when it is perfectly acceptable for you to go in your pants and having someone else clean it up, to enduring the surliness of the teen years, to expressing your independence by asking your folks for a few thousand dollars so you can get your own apartment.

But recently I entered a latter stage of being someone’s child: Picking Off Your Parents’ Shit.

I had not idea I’d entered this stage until a recent visit to the ancestral home in California. Mom, Dad and I were enjoying a beer on the patio when I mentioned how much I liked the landscape hanging in the family room. In the pastel sketch, a small sailboat was moored at the end of the small dock, on top of which was perched a weathered wooden shack. Behind that, trees crowded along the shore leaving only a sliver for the beach. Each line was meticulous and perfectly drawn, and it was the kind of sketch that made drawing look easy (knowing in the back of your mind that it certainly isn’t).

“That was done by your great great grandmother, it’s been in the family for years,” Mom said. “She didn’t take up painting until very late in life, so she didn’t do many. That was always one of our favorites.”

As I took another sip, wondering why such talents had not been passed down to me. Mom added, “Your brother is getting it when we go. He put his name on it years ago.”

Mom thought (wrongly) that Gary had actually written his name on the back of the painting, which, when it comes to inheritance, clearly made the painting his. That would stand up in any probate court. (Judge: “I see from submitted documents your brother did not just make casual references to his interest in the sketch, but actually put his name to the back of the canvas. Thus according to ordinances and rules pertaining to Picking Off Your Parents’ Shit, the sketch is his. Now let us continue to the silverware and the applicability of Post-Its.”)

Of course, I had a couple of problems with this. First, I had no idea the starter’s gun had fired and we were allowed to start marking territory. Yes, Mom and Dad are straddling their 80s, but they’re in relatively good health (remarkable given their nicotine habit) and have shown no signs of going anytime soon. Gary clearly got an unacceptable head start. It would be one thing if perhaps Mom or Dad were in the hospital being treated for a serious condition (and when you are in your 80s, just about everything is a serious condition). There would be an argument there starting to pick off your parents’ shit. And if they were hooked to life support or in a hospice, then it’s almost required to children to start picking shit off.

Secondly, I live in Arizona and Gary lives 15 minutes from the ancestral home. He has abused his home field advantage. I would be OK with that if Mom and Dad were in ill health and he had to stop by often to take care of them, either turning them or cleaning up after unsightly accidents. Then by all means, you certainly get the top picks when it comes to Picking Off Your Parents’ Shit. But that is not happening. In fact, Mom and Dad are still taking Gary out to dinner once or twice a week (while like a sucker, I’m still paying for every meal in Arizona).

So this is why I had a problem with the situation. It wasn’t about Gary getting the sketch. It was about not receiving advance notice that we had now entered the Picking Off Your Parents’ Shit stage.

“So as far as you’re concerned, that painting is already spoken for, right?” I asked.

“Well, you never said anything,” Dad said.

“Of course not,” I said. “I had no idea it was time to start marking territory. Now I’m going to have to start looking at things a little differently. Like inventory.”

This was no longer the ancestral home. It was now an estate sale, and I was in the front of the line with a price gun I could use to mark everything “Free.” It was time for Picking Off My Parents’ Shit.

“What about the painting in the living room? Is that still on the block?”

“Which one?” Mom said. “There’s the one I did and the one by your Aunt Barb.”

While there are few rules to Picking Off Your Parents’ Shit, the golden one is “Do not piss off the original owners while they remain in sound enough mind to know who just pissed them off.”

But here’s the problem. Mom took a few lessons in her 30s and 40s and painted a lot of fruit. There’s fruit hanging all over the house. Apples, oranges, bananas – she stuck to basic fruit (grapes were a bit out of reach).

Aunt Barb, on the other hand, co-owns a gallery back east, one she bought with earnings as an artist. Her cheapest creations go for $5,000, and my guess is that her three kids likely picked off her shit years ago (“Mom, this one is too special to be sold, it should remain in the family, here, let me just put my name on the back of it to remind us not to put it in the gallery”).

So at this point I could state the obvious, or lie and protect further interests as I pick off my parents’ shit.

“Are you kidding? Aunt Barb’s.”

Yeah, I totally violated the Gold Rule. Ah, she’ll forget. These are people who, and I swear this is true, not only watch their favorite shows, but tape them to watch later, and then tape the reruns. I was banking on their frail grasp of short-term memory.

“Honey, has Gary said anything about Aunt Barb’s painting?” Mom said.

“Which one?”

Note to self: Look for other Aunt Barb painting with Sharpie in hand.

“The one in the living room.”

“Not that I know of. No, wait, yes, I think he has. The one in the living room, is that the original? What about the one in our bedroom?”

“The one in the living room is original. The one in our bedroom is a photo of one of her paintings.”

Note to self: Forget the Sharpei, but sell Gary on idea that second Aunt Barb painting is original and worth a high pick.

“OK, so I’d like the one in the living … “ I stopped. I was being a bit hasty here. “So Gary put his name on a painting and it’s his, right? OK, so you know what? Mom, do you have marker handy?”

“Why?”

“I’m putting my name on the wall there, just right of the patio door. The house” pause for dramatic effect “is mine. Based on established rules of getting your shit.”

Mom and Dad laughed, but I knew what I was going to do. “Don’t worry, next time I see Gary I’ll say, ‘Hey, just found out you had first pick and chose that painting. With the second pick in the Picking Off Your Parents’ Shit draft, I took the house. You’re up.”

Of course, my 13-year-old son happened to hear our discussion. He grabbed the Toyota. Which made me think, where was I when it was time for Picking Off My Grandparents’ Shit?

This is hardly the best of times thanks to gas, the war and the economy. But for the worst of times, the male groin area has that hands down.

First, Chris Snyder suffered an injury that few outside the medical community probably knew was possible. The catcher for the Arizona Diamondbacks fractured a testicle. Yes, he fractured a testicle (those with a Y chromosome know why I had to repeat that, as the sheer horror makes it so unbelievable). Snyder takes all the usual precautions when suiting up for duty behind the plate, but I am sure that if he thought for one second that there was just a minuscule chance he would break a nut, he'd be in right field before you could say, "Don't forget your cup."

Apparently a fractured testicle involves tearing of the soft tissue. I imagined an overripe grapefruit that is slammed against the wall and split, pulp oozing from the gash. Then I stopped imagining that for obvious reasons. I am pretty sure if given a choice, 99.9 percent of men would choose Novocain-free dental surgery over even the slightest possibility of fracturing a testicle. The other .1 percent are eunuchs.

I thought that was the worst thing that could happen until I came across this story out of Romania -- a court there ordered a surgeon to pay $795,000 to a man whose penis he accidentally severed during surgery on the man's testicles (note to Snyder: do not outsource your medical care to Romania to save a few bucks).

At first you might not think this is a bad thing. A penis worth a nice home in Scottsdale, or a lovely walkup in Manhattan? Not bad. Or you could sell it on eBay and not have to worry about your plummeting 401k. And everytime you went to the bathroom, you'd have this comfortable feeling that your financial future was in your hands.

But wait, there's more. Doctors took a tendon from the arm of the man with no penis and attached it down there, Why? For aesthetic reasons. And perhaps aiming as well.

There are worse things than going through life with an aesthetic penis. I just can't come up with any right now.