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If anyone would like to join me in recreating the “Love Shack” video, please read the following in your best Fred Schneider voice and hop into my sweet new ride: “I got me a car(t), it seats about twenty, so come on/And bring your jukebox money.” This sporty import boasts plenty of cargo space and […]

“Jeez, where’d you get that bruise?!” Crankenstein asked as I stood before her in a t-shirt this morning, yawning and stretching. “You’re going to have to be more specific,” I answered semi-unintelligibly, still yawning. “Your arm!” “They’re both bruised and so’s this shoulder,” I said, poking my shirt. “The big honkin’ one over there,” she

This was a lost day, as is often the case after I go all-in on finishing a longer post. There were things I needed to finish and schedule, followed by a conversation with Youngest Sister. Mostly we talked about family matters, including in-laws and holiday stress, but I also ran a list of books by

The word “prepper” conjures mental images of paranoid survivalists LARPing as John Rambo, so I used to chafe when my dad jokingly called me one.* Yes, I stockpiled practical goods like pantry staples, toiletries, and pet supplies. But there wasn’t a Gadsden flag in my yard (the “Don’t tread on me” crowd, well-represented among preppers,

At the end of our conversation, before ceding his chair to the student who administered the tests, Dr. So-and-So said he’d call to discuss the results in a week. We agreed to a time and I nodded, ready to thank him for his help, but he had one last thing to do. Plucking a business

My love affair with flashlights began early enough in life that I remember using one to read under the covers of my bed at my parents’ first house, which they sold when I was five.* Several times as a kid I was gifted reading lamps with clips that attached to books, a thoughtful concept that

My first bedroom was at the end of a short hall that opened into the living room. Once I’d graduated from a crib to what my mom called a ‘big girl bed’ — one-half of my dad’s boyhood bunk set from the 1960s, topped with a pink and purple comforter — I was afforded a

I’ve returned, brimming with carbs and tired enough to have napped twice with Muriel today. Our Thanksgiving went well and Crankenstein and I spent this evening yawning on the couch, blankets on our laps and a dog dozing between us as we watched The Grey on Freevee. It held Crankenstein’s attention, which is no small

There I sat, pleased that a short afternoon appointment from which I’d just returned ostensibly marked the last of my medical obligations for the year, when the phone rang. A scheduler with the neuropsychologist’s office introduced herself and said she was calling about the testing my MDS ordered, an evaluation we assumed wouldn’t be done

“Verify you’re human,” read a message on my computer after I clicked a search result today, but no CAPTCHAs appeared; the small matter of my humanity was quickly and satisfactorily resolved by automated process and I was sent on my way. That my input wasn’t required was a wry reminder of, and apt metaphor for,