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Like Ron Burgundy, I’m in a glass case of emotion: the GI appointment I thought was set for August is actually slated for tomorrow. You know your Crohn’s is on its best behavior when the doctor lets you go six months between appointments, so I won’t complain about that. But for the last 38 years […]

A few years ago, after returning from an ill-fated outing recommended by her exposure therapist, I asked Crankenstein if she could honestly say she was in love with me. “You first,” she timorously deflected. What followed was one of the hardest talks we’ve ever had, and once it was over I felt slightly relieved despite

Important news, guys, as June nears its end: Heather G. still wants us to know she’s gay. And her enthusiasm for coming out is infectious, because over lunch today Crankenstein announced “I’m gay, Heather” for probably the third time this month. Next up, because I’m short on time — Crankenstein made the mistake of asking

Another PT appointment is done and dusted and apparently — prepare for a shock — I’m slow. That’s all I gleaned from an otherwise confusing and frustrating experience, other than to not be so obliging next time. To accommodate a scheduler who couldn’t find any timely openings in the neurologic PT’s schedule, I agreed to

While Crankenstein was at a speaking engagement this evening, educating a group of pediatricians about something-or-other, I was feigning interest in Muriel’s favorite squeak toy, a stuffed fox that I dutifully try to steal from her several times a day so she can courageously defend it. Normally I’d write or work on miniatures in Crankenstein’s

“I’m about to rip [Tom] a new asshole,” Youngest Sister fumed this evening, and it seems I hear that a lot these days, often as a greeting. Then she detailed recent developments and I was glad to have previously delayed posting “Same Trailer, Different Park,” a story that’s veered sharply in an unexpected direction due

I’ve thought of my grandfather even more than usual in the days since October 7th. With every anti-Semitic chant brainlessly repeated by youthful American protesters, and each time I walked past the neighborhood shul and saw police stationed at its entrance, I thought of all the cumulative hours he spent telling me, from elementary school

A stranger named Heather G. has emailed me repeatedly in June, each message arriving with the same subject line: “I’m gay, Heather.” Then she asks for money. It’s a political fundraising email tailored for Pride, sent by an organization I’ve never donated to called Voter Protection Project, and if I’d marked it as spam the

When we weren’t lazing around the house today, or working on a LEGO kit as Muriel napped at our feet, Crankenstein and I made our usual treks to Aldi and the Asian market — her beloved king oyster mushrooms don’t procure themselves. In between errands, we delicately discussed whether to ask my neurologist if neurocognitive

Crankenstein requested a screwball comedy tonight, so I asked if she’s seen My Man Godfrey. “What’s it about?” she replied, and after half-listening to my synopsis she said “Yeah, let’s watch rich kids kidnap a hobo!” That’s how I’ll think of Gregory La Cava’s ageless madcap masterpiece from now on, even though it features no