I had an early morning appointment with my dermatologist Tuesday. (Early morning for me is 9:15, as I usually don’t start my day until I wake up for good around 9 am. Such is the life of the retired. At least my life.) Anyway, I wanted him to tell me why the fingertips on both my hands were shedding skin like a snake molting its outer derma. Why were my fingertips rippled with ridges, looking like an old man’s (shh, don’t say it’s because I am 77). My hands and fingers didn’t itch.
As I was washing my hands Sunday morning a thought came to me. I had recently changed our bathroom soap to Mrs. Meyer’s Clean Day, geranium scent. Despite its pleasant scent, could geranium be the culprit ingredient?
A quick Google inquiry produced the following: “Geranium oil is generally safe, but it can cause side effects like skin redness, rashes, a burning feeling, or headaches from strong smells. You must always mix it with a carrier oil first and never swallow it.
“Skin and Allergy Reactions
- Redness and rash: The skin may turn red or form hives.
- Burning or itching: Undiluted oil can sting or itch badly.
- Contact dermatitis: Repeated use can make skin extra sensitive over time.”
So, is my choice of soap disrupting my skin’s equilibrium?
I don’t want to believe this, but has our penchant for wanting everything—everything different to meet our divergent tastes and sensitivities—has that quest for self-indulgence put at least some of us at risk? Did I really need geranium scented soap to clean my hands?
Turns out, according to my dermatologist, my skin condition was probably a combination of geranium and Mrs. Meyer’s intensive soap formula. I’ve stopped using Mrs. Meyers. My skin is gradually returning to normal.
Pins and Needles: I have numerous reactions when I peruse the front page of The New York Times. Sometimes, outrage at Donald Trump’s newest excess. Sometimes, anguish at our failed mission in Iran. Sometimes, pain when I read about the difficulties too many Americans suffer through in their daily lives.
Wednesday I experienced heebie-jeebies while reading about our nation’s embrace of self-administered needle medications and an unfortunate byproduct—sanitation workers getting pierced when picking up garbage bags with exposed needle points (https://www.nytimes.com/2026/08/17/well/needle-injections-peptides-glp1-drugs-botox.html?smid=url-share).
Some of my earliest childhood memories were of my absolute fear of an injection when I felt sick. Our family physician, Doctor Harry—his real given name was Bernard; why he preferred Harry we never knew—was a family friend. As physicians made house calls back in the 1950s, Doctor Harry would socialize with my mother, and father if he was around, as I awaited his determination to stick me or not.
My terror was side-splitting fun to my older siblings. Even if they too had to endure an injection, they gloried in my anticipated, prolonged agony.
I would start moaning the moment Dr. Harry entered our home. Tall, with a looping gait, bulging eyes and a shock of receding, not necessarily combed, wiry grey hair, Dr. Harry would slowly make his way down the carpeted hallway to the bedroom I shared with my brother.
An examination—my last hope for a shot reprieve—was a source of giggles. He’d poke me where I was ticklish, always asking when was the last time I had a bowel movement. It was decades before I knew the significance of that question. Invariably, Dr. Harry diagnosed an illness best treated by a shot in the tush.
He would vanish from the bedroom into either the kitchen or bathroom to wash his hands and prepare the needle. By this time I’d be screaming.
My mother would hold me down, trying to soothe me, making sure my bare buttocks faced upward. Dr. Harry would slip into the room, say a few nonsensical remarks and quickly, surprisingly, thrust the needle into my behind. I’d scream some more. Cry a little louder. Hug my mother a little tighter. Dr. Harry would retreat to the dinette where he and my mother would gossip awhile over coffee.
To this day I remain squeamish about needles. I have no shame advising any doctor who has to inject me about my fear. To treat my shoulder tendonitis last month my orthopedist said he would stick me on the count of three. It was so painless I did not realize he had pierced me at two.
