01.29.25: My neck and I are still here, as unhappily attached as George and Martha (the Albee characters, not the Washingtons), but the two of us still managed to drag ourselves outside this morning and lug the solar panels around to recharge a portable power station. For around two weeks now, my most-used devices — laptop, tablet, earbuds, watch, and phone — have been exclusively powered by the sun. That’s less impressive than it sounds since my consumption needs are low and I’ve optimized efficiency by using DC power whenever possible, but it knocks my socks off anyway.
I’ll sing the praises of portable power in a more detailed disaster preparedness post, but an unexpected benefit is how useful the smaller ones have been in my daily life. Our house has a mix of old and new wiring and some rooms have fewer outlets than we’d like, or outlets in inconvenient locations. That’ll be fixed when we do a whole-house electrical update, but in the meantime we’ve gained the ability to work from anywhere, stick lamps wherever we please, and use corded tools indoors and out without the hassle of long extension cords.*
One thing portable power can’t do is carry Crankenstein’s coveted window AC unit (with inverter) into the basement, so this monstrosity is hanging out by the door for now, while the generator we got to power it was garage-bound. Off to the side, in a storage tote, were a couple of Canadian-manufactured water storage jugs since taken to the basement.** Our credit card’s been howling in pain since late November, when we decided to finally acquire these and similar items, and I’ve felt pretty defeated at times by how hard it’s been to open much of the packaging and set stuff up. But we’re both very thankful there’s a little less to worry about next time a big storm rolls through.
* Little things like that become much bigger when you have mobility or dexterity challenges.
** At least two of the highest-rated water storage container manufacturers, Scepter and Reliance, are Canadian. Whether or not these much-ballyhooed tariffs will materialize is anyone’s guess, but the bottom line for us was that we needed more water storage, just like we needed backup power, a chain saw, a garden cart, and so on. Buying when we did took us off that merry-go-round of crazy; we got what we wanted at a price we deemed fair and now we don’t have to closely track the latest daily threats and cliffhangers about this particular aspect of our financial future.
01.28.25: If you never hear from me again, it’s because my DIY attempts at neck removal went horribly awry.* There’s been a throbbing pain on the right side of my neck all day that’s made it hard to concentrate on anything requiring deep thought. Over-the-counter pain relievers didn’t help and there’s not much that can currently be done in the way of stretching, so I’m trying to ignore it with the hope it will improve tomorrow.
Did dystonia twist my head around Exorcist-style during the three hours of sleep I logged before Muriel demanded breakfast? When Crankenstein, who was obviously awake, pretended she didn’t hear her, I got up and angrily muttered some choice words, grabbed my pillow, and slowly worked my way downstairs as Muriel thrashed around with no regard for her recently injured leg. While she inhaled her food, I lowered my carcass to her jumbo-sized dog bed (which isn’t really a dog bed but a memory foam sleeper chair large enough to accommodate both of us) and fell asleep so quickly I might’ve failed to properly situate the pillow.
Whatever the cause, I spent a couple hours trying to write something decent tonight (about a topic unrelated to any of this) and got little more than a few sentences out of it. It was a productive day in other ways, though: I plowed through a long to-do list, batch-cooked lunches for the next few days, and am getting better at positioning the solar panels so they only need to be adjusted twice per day. They aren’t currently mounted to anything but they’re cabled to each other, which makes moving them a hassle. But just like Papa had a guy for everything, I have a cart for everything, I just have to figure out the best way to attach three solar panels to one of them.**
* It’s also possible Crankenstein finally had enough of my nagging and threw me down the laundry chute.
** He had a guy for appliances, a guy for auto repair, a guy for outdoor furniture, etc., — which isn’t necessarily unusual — but he also had a guy for glassware (so my mom and her sister received, as wedding gifts in the late 1970s, the same hideous sets they both hated) and weirdly specific stuff like that. If you told him “I need 5,000 yards of dental floss” or “I need my former business partner to disappear,” he would’ve had guys for that, too. Or maybe it was one guy who had a couple of special skills and the right connections; I wouldn’t put it past him.
01.26.25: It’s 10:27 pm and I’m checking in from bed, where an impatient Crankenstein is waiting for me to put down my tablet so she, like Muriel the night before last, can snore on my chest. How she can want to cuddle when we’ve been on the cusp of a massive quarrel all day, and when she knows I’ll eventually startle — thereby startling and jostling her — is beyond me, but she’s nobly endured enough Hallmark movies lately that I’ll oblige. Back tomorrow, for real, with a long post or review. Oh, and on the dog front, Muriel had ‘the zoomies’ for the first time since Friday, though it didn’t last as long as usual. If she runs me ragged tomorrow, she’ll be back to 100%.
01.25.25: There wasn’t a dry eye in the house after Madison Keys, who turned pro at 14, won her first Grand Slam at 29 last night (or this morning, for those of us stateside). ESPN commentators were teary, Keys and her team were crying, and I wasn’t quite sure if my own emotional reaction was more about Joe or the woman of the hour, whose resilience was so wonderfully rewarded; it was all interwoven in ways I didn’t care to parse. The parallels between Keys’ remarkable achievement and Stan Wawrinka’s legendary 2014 run at the same tournament are obvious (among other things, they had to take out the top two seeds), and both came at times in my life when I desperately needed the inspiration. When my feelings about tennis are a little less raw, I’ll watch her matches from the previous six rounds and rewatch the final, this time with a tissue box handy.
After a long night with Muriel, who was in better spirits today, I’m almost too tired to see straight, so the tale of my triumph in connecting several solar panels in parallel (to recharge our power stations faster) will have to wait. As best we can tell, her paw is uninjured and the problem is with her left leg, which is supposed to be her ‘good’ leg. She was comfortable putting weight on it today — and comfortable waking me up at 5:30 am by lying on top of me longways, wedging herself between my legs, and snoring on my chest until it was time for breakfast — but we also kept her relatively inactive since her veterinarian won’t be in until Monday. Her steps mostly looked normal but some were off, so we have no idea whether it’s possibly spine-related or if she merely pulled a muscle and needs a little more rest.
01.23.25: The sleep rehabilitation effort continues tonight and I have exactly 24 minutes to scribble this, floss, brush my teeth, wash my face, and get into bed. Before I turn off the light, I’ll put my earbuds on the bedside table and queue up an audiobook as a precautionary measure. If sleep refuses to come, I’ll hit ‘play’ on Means of Ascent and test whether the second volume of The Years of Lyndon Johnson is better at inducing drowsiness than melatonin.
It was an uneventful day in which I made minimal progress in writing and almost everything I attempted. The low point, early this evening, was another clash over ‘Niles,’ and the high point was catching the last 20 minutes of the Madison Keys/Iga Świątek semifinal, the first tennis I’ve watched this year. As soon as Keys took the third-set tiebreak, I turned off the TV; it was a bittersweet result — though Joe and I were both Świątek fans, we’d been waiting since 2017 for the American to book another Grand Slam final.
When Keys sustained a heartbreaker of an injury at last year’s Wimbledon, we feared what the future might hold for her. Now, just a few weeks shy of her 30th birthday, the end of her career approaching as she embarks on married life with longtime boyfriend and recent coach Bjorn Fratangelo, she’ll meet defending champion Aryna Sabalenka in Saturday’s final. Common sense tells us that Keys, who has only beaten the Belarusian on grass, will get thrashed. But her win against Świątek, who’d served more bagels and breadsticks this tournament than Einstein Bros. or Olive Garden, was nearly as improbable.
Whoever Daphne goes home with this weekend — that’s the trophy awarded to the AO women’s singles champion, not the terrible TV movie — I’ll be happy, and of course I’ll also be sad. And hopefully, not long from now, I’ll also be asleep.
01.21.25: There’s so much to catch up on here that I don’t know where to start. A partial list includes Eight is Enough; dioramas; Lyft drivers who know the secret(s) to curing any illness; the genetic counselor’s spiel about PD and familial risk; tennis; grisly Death Becomes Her-inspired plans for my head if my neck doesn’t loosen up soon; Tom’s perplexing new Schrödinger’s sister approach to estrangement and why it might culminate in Youngest Sister shanking her; the collection of carts I’ve continued to (literally and figuratively) assemble, their purposes, and whether we’ll be forced to move to a larger plot of land to accommodate them…
[Pauses to take a breath.]
… my growing confusion about the frequency with which the Hartleys replace their furniture on The Bob Newhart Show; the joys of Suzanne Pleshette, an old crush of mine and a new crush of Crankenstein’s (who was amused to learn that Pleshette, like 90% of her crushes, was Jewish); my special Blu-ray acquisition of the complete Charlie’s Angels series and whether it might lead to a revival of “Pervy Shit Charlie Said to His Angels;” more on emergency preparedness and why I’m falling in love with solar power stations and wish we’d gotten one sooner; and what to do when a reader (not of this particular site) goes a little Single White Female on you.
Alas, we’ll get to none of those topics tonight because I’m taking another shot at resetting my sleep; this is as good an opportunity as any since last night’s final tally was four hours and I mostly resisted napping today. We’ll end with a photo of Muriel, who had no idea what we were about to do with all those salvaged packing materials but was eager to help, anyway. Trying to keep a drafty old house reasonably warm in sub-zero temperatures takes a little creativity, especially when our boiler might predate the Eisenhower presidency, and I was able to utilize these scraps (and the hot wire foam cutter I’m learning to use for scale-modeling) to better insulate the cabinet under the kitchen sink. Similar efforts in other parts of the house have paid off in terms of comfort — unfortunately, it’s a lost cause monetarily until the boiler and aluminum windows are replaced — and the high point of my week so far was when Crankenstein raved about how toasty our bedroom was during her nap.
01.20.25: Yesterday’s bad day carried over into this morning: I was up until 4:30 am or so, unable to sleep, and was so tired by the time of Muriel’s wake-up call (which Crankenstein answered) that I fell right back asleep without taking my first dose of levodopa. Missed doses have repercussions, as some of you might know; and so, for the second time in two days, Crankenstein seemed surprised by something that’s old hat to me — without those 6:00 am pills, I move so slowly that even an ancient mummy could outpace me.
Since I’m usually ‘on’ by the time she sees me each morning, or at least not in motion, I tried not to feel irritated as she studied my movements. (“Are you looking at me as a wife or as a doctor?” I’ve semi-crankily asked before, and her eyes smiled as she answered “Both.”) There’s a rich history in our relationship of Crankenstein — despite her profession and the health anxiety that leads her to suspect every paper cut she sustains is about to turn fatal — being slow to notice when things are wrong with me.* It’s happened with Crohn’s flares, YOPD, and cognitive impairment, and if she outlives me there’s a non-zero chance some sort of Weekend at Bernie’s incident could happen.
Maybe there’s also an element of denial with some of this Parkinson’s stuff, which is normal and understandable. But that accounts for only a sliver of her recent realizations about what my life’s become; a larger factor is that we’ve been cooped up together for long stretches because of the weather and her holiday vacation. Just as my contorted posture surprised her when I fell asleep on the couch midway through a Roy Wood, Jr. comedy special yesterday (“I almost woke you up because you’d slumped so much to the side that you were going to fall on Muriel”), so too was she caught off-guard today by things she would’ve already picked up on by now if she wasn’t always sleeping.
“Really?!” she later admitted she wanted to ask about my ultra-slow shuffling. “Are you even moving?”
I felt her watchful eyes on my hands as I joined her on the couch and shakily plugged my computer’s charging cord into a power station, missing the mark a few times before the connection was made. A half-hour later, dopamine restored, I was close to normal — whatever that means these days — and wondered if she’d gained a better understanding of what I’m dealing with and why I get so frustrated when precious ‘on’ time must be spent doing things around the house she could’ve helped with or taken care of herself. In the short-term, she gets it — she volunteered to fold a mountain of laundry today while I showered — but we’ll see if that’s still the case two weeks or months from now.
Last night’s post was still being tinkered with after midnight. Apologies if anyone caught it between revisions.
* Though I try to spin it as a long-running joke, it has a way of stirring resentments. It’s not the medical aspect that bugs me but the lack of intimacy in our relationship — intimacy in general, not in a sexual sense — that it reveals. Sometimes it takes her years to notice things about me that Former Partner, or Joe, or anyone else who pays attention, would’ve picked up on almost immediately. She protests when I liken myself to an ottoman she breezes past every day unless it’s moved just a smidgen, in which case she trips over it like Rob Petrie, but it’s an accurate assessment. It’s not a damning indictment of her as a partner; once she’s clued-in to what’s going on, she’s considerate and supportive. But you feel foolish having a spouse who is so inattentive and spends so little time around you that it’s almost like you have completely separate lives.
01.19.25: This was a bad day — physically, not mentally — and I’ll explain more tomorrow but it’s nothing new or frightening, just odd exacerbations of an ongoing issue. The end result was that I was so tired today that even Crankenstein, who boasts she’d medal in napping if it became an Olympic sport, seemed a little perturbed. That’s understandable since today was probably her introduction to a fun new Parkinson’s thing: whether lying supine in bed or sitting on the couch, I’m starting to lean like the Tower of Pisa while I doze.
Though it genuinely pains me to go another night without a long post, I’m not too capable of expressing myself coherently while this tired.* One thing I want to mention before returning to my Pisa-like state is that there’s no reason to get mired in hopelessness tomorrow. Avoid the TV, unplug from the Internet, and politely redirect the conversation if talk of the inauguration will only add to your anxiety or despair. Listen to music that cheers you up, watch a movie that makes you laugh, reread a favorite book, or channel your trepidation into something useful like learning a new skill or finishing a long-delayed task around the house. There will always be beauty in the world and unexpected moments of warmth and humor and connection; even the blight of rancid politics can’t erase that.
If you’re inclined to dismiss such suggestions as trite, I’d suggest girding your loins and trying it anyway. One of the few things in life we have near-total control of is how we handle our emotions, including our responses to disappointments, setbacks, and uncertainty. Drama queen hysteria, which is all around us at the moment, is unproductive; it delights and emboldens far-right trolls by granting them unearned power. Remember four years ago, when people like my in-laws were convinced ‘Antifa’ would kidnap them off the streets the second Biden took office? They needed a patented Moonstruck face-slap from Cher, and so do any U.S. citizens who are running around like chickens with their heads cut off right now, squawking about their imminent persecution despite not belonging to any of the groups being threatened with deportation or revocation of their rights.**
* “How can she be tired if she couldn’t stay awake?” is only a logical question if you’ve never been chronically sleep-deprived.
** The biggest part of being a ‘good ally,’ to use the preferred terminology of exhausting Twitter scolds, is removing yourself from the emotional equation (and dramatic narratives) and focusing on the needs of other people. Social media has perverted that so obscenely that activism is increasingly reduced to mere performative bullshit. If you actually believe in ‘resistance,’ for example, it’s not a passive slogan; it’s reflected in your daily actions.
01.18.25: “Rules of Estrangement,” the tentative title of the post I failed to complete yesterday, still isn’t ready for primetime; Crankenstein stayed up later than usual tonight and we watched The Bob Newhart Show during the time I usually devote to this site. It was a nice cap to a day that started with a trip to the mechanic to diagnose the cause of her car’s new oil leak. Our best guess, based on the timing, was that it was somehow weather-related, so we weren’t surprised when the mechanic said her oil filter was punctured and that he’s seen a lot of that lately due to the poor condition of our roads for much of January.
In other boring news, we had Italian carryout for lunch and both of us thought it was horrible. As long as it wasn’t seasoned with norovirus I’m willing to round up its grade to a C-minus, but this made two disappointing years in a row that my (belated) birthday meal was a dud.* Other than that, I did a bunch of housework and prepped my rarely-driven car for another round of bitter cold while Crankenstein finished some work and then napped. This evening, to Muriel’s consternation, a UPS truck visited our neighborhood for the first time in two weeks — and the ice packs in my pharmacy cooler were melted, so another phone call awaits.
Tomorrow I have a date with a Lisa Whelchel movie and my only other concrete plan is to avoid websites where one’s likely to encounter discussion of TikTok. My unpopular opinion is that it should’ve been banned a long time ago and nothing good will come from any lifelines or reprieves it’s extended by politicians, but more than that it’s become the latest in a long line of sideshows associated with people I’m tired of hearing about. That means I’ll watch a YouTube video or two about generator maintenance and tinker with solar panels while listening to an ex-Mormon podcast, activities that might explain why Crankenstein’s always falling asleep.
* ‘Niles’ is gravely concerned about norovirus, of course, while I prefer to joke that norovirus is afraid of my stomach. Mostly I’m glad there are only two of us, because we know someone whose four kids, including a baby, are all currently sick with it, which is a hellish scenario. In the mid-’90s, my parents and siblings were all stricken with the stomach flu at the same time and I had to play Florence Nightingale. When I think back on that experience, and all the time spent trying to remove red Pedialyte stains from light carpet, my inner monologue culminates in a Colonel Kurtz cry of “The horror! The horror!”
01.17.25: My best efforts have fallen short and the post I’ve been working on this evening is only half-finished as midnight approaches. In all likelihood, it’ll be another two hours or longer until I fall asleep, so there’s that part of me that’s saying Psst, stay downstairs and finish it! But I must resist and give slumber the old college try since Crankenstein and I have morning plans.
It’s much harder now to hit ‘pause’ on activities I’m immersed in than it was in the past; everything already takes so long, from snow shoveling or breaking down boxes to writing and even thinking, that I want to keep going at any cost just to get it done. Walking away’s the better strategy sometimes because it gives you time to reset, but awareness of the stubbornness trap doesn’t stop me from falling into it on a daily basis.
This sometimes frustrates Crankenstein and often frustrates me — I want to feel energetic, accomplished, and competent much more often than I currently do. What was once my default now seems to fluctuate with my dopamine levels, and it’s fair to say I resent (and lament) these mental losses and limitations more bitterly than their physical counterparts; it’s not like I ever moved gracefully, anyway. With that bellyaching out of the way, I’m off to bed with the usual pledge to try again tomorrow.
01.16.25: It seemed too good to be true and it was: the January pharmacy curse continues. I was wonderstruck when my first adalimumab refill of 2025 appeared to go off without a hitch; since starting on Humira (adalimumab’s best-known brand name) eight years ago, I’ve come to associate the new year with bureaucratic kerfuffles and agonizingly long phone calls. If you’ve ever taken a hellaciously expensive medication, you know the drill — a bunch of faceless corporations squabble over who’s supposed to pick up the tab for what, because the health of their balance sheets is more important than the health of their subscribers.
In a good year, I spent 60 to 90 minutes being passed around like a collection plate as insurance company representatives, the specialty pharmacy, benefits coordinators, drug manufacturers, and occasionally HR reps from Crankenstein’s employer hashed things out.* In the worst year, my first as Crankenstein’s dependent, it took over six hours altogether, spread across several days. But I digress. What made this January different than all the rest was that I’m no longer on Humira: AbbVie’s rights of exclusivity expired in 2023 and the insurance company switched me to an astronomically cheaper biosimilar midway through 2024.
When it took fewer than 10 minutes to order my refill on January 2nd — if not for the obligatory legal disclaimers and identity verification questions, we would’ve been done in under three — I could hardly believe my good fortune. “Is there anything else I can help you with today?” the customer service agent asked at the end of the call. Exhilarated by the realization that I’d escaped AbbVie’s clutches forever (or until they develop another medication I need), I wanted to say yes and burst into song, preferably “(I’ve Had) The Time of My Life” — but only after asking if she’d rather be Bill Medley or Jennifer Warnes.
Unfortunately, the delivery of that refill has been repeatedly delayed by UPS due to the weather, and because it’s temperature-sensitive I had to call the pharmacy today to ask what they wanted me to do with the injectors once they arrived. It took thirty minutes and two transfers before I was connected to a pharmacist who said I’m supposed to call back if the delivery’s delayed again on Friday, or if it’s delivered but the ice packs have melted. Whatever happens tomorrow, someone’s anguished cries will echo throughout the land — either mine if this snafu requires additional calls, or the UPS driver’s if the medication is still usable and I launch into my Bill Medley act.
* This was in addition to annual calls to me and letters to my gastroenterologist to confirm I still had the lifelong incurable disease for which the medication’s prescribed, not to mention monthly calls from ‘Humira ambassadors’ who make painfully awkward small talk before hounding you about your symptoms, upcoming doctors’ appointments, whether you’ve experienced any side effects, and so on.
01.15.25: Scarred by last year’s “Oops, forgot your birthday” debacle, Crankenstein decided to be proactive this evening and picked up a cookie cake on her way home.
“Thank you,” I said with a laugh when she handed it over, unsure if it was a self-deprecating joke or if she mistakenly thought today was my birthday.
“It’s close enough,” she shrugged, stashing her backpack in the dining room and running upstairs to change clothes.
This, I realized, could be the beginning of a tradition — she could bring home a cake a bit earlier each year, until we observe the occasion in another month entirely.
Sorry this was so short, it was a busy day and the time I carve out to write here was derailed by the accidental discovery of Lisa Whelchel Hallmark movies. As you might expect, this will have far-reaching implications for the reviews I’m allegedly writing this month. The other exciting thing that happened today was I found a great spot for solar shenanigans and charged a 245Wh EcoFlow River 3 using a 100w panel. More on this small victory later in the week; and even though I’ve not yet watched any tennis this year, I should explain why the Iga Świątek ‘doping’ suspension was idiotic and changes nothing about my fandom, unlike the Jannik Sinner situation (which gives me pause for other reasons, even though his explanation makes sense).
01.14.25: Here we are, two weeks into January, and I haven’t yet bothered to calculate how many shares of VFIFX were added to our retirement portfolio via dividend (and capital gains) reinvestment last year. This would make anyone who’s ever lived with me gasp in horror, and the old me would be appalled, but maybe it’s who I am now; maybe this is how apathy manifests itself in a personal finance geek. Come tax season, we’ll have a better idea of what we’re dealing with — if, for the second year running, I find no joy in tax preparation, I might as well put rocks in my pockets and walk into the sea.*
In other financial news, we made our last big purchase of the Biden administration tonight: a Honda EU2200i, which is exactly the sort of ‘old reliable’ gas generator people who own VFIFX would value.** It’s nothing fancy, but it gives me a reason to sing “Little Honda” and it can power a window AC unit in a pinch, which has been one of Niles’s biggest fixations since our heatwave power outage of two summers ago. Unlike our year-end purchases (mostly of Chinese imports) that were motivated by the threat of tariffs, this was planned simply as a quiet form of protest: we’re not interested in doing much to stimulate a Trump economy.
Now that the snow’s off the patio roof, I’ve been experimenting with our smallest solar panel, a 45w foldable contraption that came with a lower-capacity power bank used for charging phones, laptops, and tablets. After a bungee cord mishap yesterday that saw the panel slide down the roof and land on a pile of snow, I was extra-careful in securing it today. As I looped one end of the cords through the panel’s grommets and attached the other end to a radiator, then opened a window and slid the panel onto the roof, I tried to imagine the motley solar array that Gramps, my miserly great-grandfather, would’ve built in his backyard when he wasn’t tending to his roses.
It wasn’t sunny enough today to reach maximum wattage, but I was able to top off the bank. (The temperature reading is for the battery; it was in a room heated to 67 degrees.) Eventually I decided that Gramps, who was notorious for stuffing his pockets with napkins and condiment packets during a weekly coffee date with friends at McDonald’s, wouldn’t buy panels of his own — he’d scavenge for castoffs and try to repair them. And once he was a widower with no one to keep his worst impulses in check, but before panels became ubiquitous, he would’ve tried replacing lamps with dim solar path lights from the dollar store, putting them outside on his way into work each morning and carrying them inside when he got home.
* That’s what did it for Virginia Woolf, reduced interest in tax optimization strategies.
** For accuracy’s sake I should clarify that we don’t only hold VFIFX in our retirement accounts, but it’s all similarly unadventurous.
01.13.25: Taking the night off and thinking about how strange it was to mark Best Friend’s 49th birthday without him. Back tomorrow.
01.10.25: The snow blower and shovel got another workout today and I’m afraid to look at the seven-day forecast because we’re running out of room for additional accumulation.* Muriel, on the other hand paw, couldn’t be happier, romping through the yard at every opportunity and burying her face so deep in the snow that her snoot and eyebrows turn white. After almost a full week of battling all this powder and ice, my hands feel like they’ll never close again and I’d like to guzzle a bottle of ZzzQuil and sleep for 18 or 20 hours straight. But I’m in good shape compared to the protagonists of the terrible Lifetime blizzard movie we watched this evening, which will possibly be the subject of one of my January reviews.**
Little of note happened today other than I checked the mail and found a typewritten envelope addressed to “Dr. & Mrs. Crankenstein,” which was weird since I don’t use her name; social invitations and fundraising appeals call us Dr. Crankenstein & Ms. Cranky. Inside was an unexpected thank-you note from Tom, who accepted a holiday gift from us despite kicking me out of a family group chat and blocking us from contacting her a few months ago.
Would I have sent her a jump-starting gadget had I known she recently horrified our mom and Youngest Sister with hateful comments about Parkinson’s?^ On a purely selfish level, no, I wouldn’t have wanted to give her even a lump of coal, and only belatedly did I understand why Youngest Sister said “You shouldn’t have gotten her anything” at the time. But it isn’t something I regret — she drives long distances to see her new girlfriend and this isn’t a great time of year to have to wait for roadside assistance or the help of a friendly stranger if your battery dies.
“Do you think this means she’s ready to stop being an asshole?” Crankenstein asked when I showed her the note.
“No,” I answered with a laugh, resisting the urge to add “Where have you been the last 10 years?”
* Slate roofs are the norm around here and most, including ours, are quite steep, so the snow they collect eventually comes down in mini-avalanches. This can be dangerous in parts of the backyard where we often stand with Muriel, so we have to be extra-careful after significant storms. The worst of yesterday’s deluges piled snow so high it almost blocked a door from opening.
** It’s terrible-terrible, not fun-terrible. Only the most ardent of Jami Gertz fans might find anything interesting there.
^ I know nothing about cars, so don’t take that selection as an endorsement. All I did was watch a Project Farm comparison video on YouTube and look up the brands (not the specific models, some of which were pretty pricey) that performed best.
01.09.25: Just when I thought I was done with the driveway late this afternoon, a city plow finally scraped its way down our street. Surveying the gargantuan mound of snow, ice, and slush left in its wake, I wasn’t sure whether to reach for a shovel or a trombone — a mournful womp-womp noise was in order. Crankenstein would return in a couple hours and I’d wanted everything to be perfect for her after a stressful day of navigating slick roads and unplowed side streets; now her small sedan was effectively blocked from the driveway.
It’s much harder to shovel with only one good arm than it is to chip ice or push a snow blower, so I had to grit my teeth, accept my limitations, and settle for clearing enough of that obscenely heavy mess to get her through. Afterward, I went inside and shakily sat down for what felt like the first time all week. When Crankenstein called a few minutes later to say she’d rearranged her hectic Friday schedule to keep her trainees and patients at home, I was relieved; sure, virtual clinics are a pain in the neck for everyone involved, but their commutes were already dicey and more accumulation’s on the way.
If there’s time to watch a TV movie tomorrow, I’ll be ecstatic. This week has been an endurance test but it’s always nice to feel useful. We’ve also had it easy in the grand scheme of things, something that wasn’t lost on us today as reports trickled in from friends preparing to evacuate their homes due to wildfires.
01.07.25: The ice-chipping continued in my sleep last night, which isn’t a joke or a figure of speech: my overnight repertoire of odd movements and vivid dreams has come to include miming winter weather cleanup. Stay tuned for the suspenseful spring installment of these outdoor adventures — will I spread mulch in an imaginary retaining wall between snores? Awkwardly brandish a string trimmer designed for taller users? Awaken Crankenstein by shouting profanities as I confront a neighbor who didn’t use his sprinkler system properly last summer and spent hours each morning watering our fence, the sides of our respective houses, and his gas grill?*
We were snowed-in again today due to plowing delays, so I had ample time to ponder such scenarios. Crankenstein attended meetings from her home office as I hacked away at thick patches of ice on the driveway, then she dressed our bed in flannel sheets after seeing her last patient of the day. A symphony of scraping and chipping from neighboring yards, and the wheezing protestations of car engines reluctant to turn over, swelled on and off in the morning and afternoon. A FedEx truck got stuck on our street and had to be dug out, Crankenstein reports, but I’d fallen asleep on the couch by then and can only assume Muriel was napping beside me since she didn’t harangue the driver in her customary fashion.
I’m off to bed early tonight, tired and achy and coughing enough that ‘Niles’ has given me the side-eye a couple times, so the genetic testing recap will have to wait. But since I don’t like cliffhangers about health matters, I’ll say the results were what we expected based on what the MDS previously explained about PD and genetics. It’s estimated that only 1 in 10 people with Parkinson’s have a genetic link to the disease and I had none of the handful of variants this study’s investigating. However, my family wasn’t completely off the hook and my siblings are at higher risk of developing Parkinson’s since I have it. That might sound counterintuitive based on my results, so I’ll explain more later.
* It was his first summer using the system so I tried to give him a little space to figure it out; he doesn’t seem like the type of guy who values input from women. I base that opinion on the way he treats his fiancee in general and a meltdown he had right outside our window a couple months ago when she tried to offer assistance as he struggled to change a tire. But if he resumes watering our fence this year, I’ll search for a tactful way to say, “Hey, see those patches of dead grass over there? And there? And there? It’s you, you’re the murderer, you and the goddamn sprinklers that work harder than the Godfather of Soul. Are you trying to fill a pool? Open a water park? Should we build an ark?”
01.03.25: I felt like Hank Hill today when Crankenstein and I bought propane (but not propane accessories) for three different households; as we entered the store I told her, “From now on, the only woman I’m pimping is sweet lady propane. And I’m tricking her out all over this town.”
Hank would’ve tried to talk us into bigger tanks, but the plan was to get only six 16 oz. cylinders for each (generator-less) home. Should we lose power during our upcoming freeze, they can be used with Mr. Heater’s ‘Buddy’ line of portable heaters. If you’re unfamiliar with Buddies, which are often used on camping trips, in sheds, and on job sites, but are intrigued by the possibility of emergency indoor usage, you can learn more about it here; the video contains several demonstrations of its safety features.*
Can you tell from my improvised delivery vehicle that I’m an underemployed lesbian with warehouse experience? I considered slapping a Strickland Propane logo on the crate but there wasn’t time for that; there was too much going on with ‘Niles’ and other preparations to make, like continuing to fiddle with solar panels. That’s mostly been a bust so far since there’s limited sunlight even on rare days that aren’t overcast; our foldable 220w panel struggles to eke past the eighties even when it isn’t late in the afternoon.
Fortunately, wall-charging’s an option, so our Ecoflows are ready to go. This weekend I’ll charge the pocket-size Anker power banks we rarely use, fill our 5-gallon water jugs, and cut some pieces of styrofoam to use as basement window insulation. I also need to select a TV movie to review within the next few days and would like to find something about blizzards or frigid temperatures; hopefully there’s a Not Without My Weatherstripping: The Nan Frost King Story, starring Melissa Gilbert or Veronica Hamel, on YouTube.
* Don’t use them in enclosed spaces without also having a working carbon monoxide detector there with you.
01.02.25: There are things I say here, in a relatively private pseudonymous space, that I wouldn’t say (nearly) anywhere else. If you were a regular acquaintance, a long-time neighbor or coworker, or even my own flesh and blood, you’d know little to nothing of my marital morass or existential grappling or deep sentimentality. It’s a reminder I make here periodically not because of incipient dementia or some bizarre form of logorrhea, but to contextualize confessions like the following: I would’ve been sorely tempted to throw ‘Niles’ into a polar vortex had the opportunity presented itself earlier.
Like much of the country, Crankenstein and I are currently being menaced by the threat of extreme winter weather. But it’s ‘Niles’ that brought a chill to our house this evening, during a disagreement about how to stay warm if we lose power; and it was the last thing I was in the mood for after several days in a row of physical drudgery and several nights in a row of 3.5 to 4.5 hours of fitful sleep.* I’d intended to write about my latest Internet run-in with someone whose work I’ve reviewed, or about tennis and solar panels and an unintentionally hilarious YouTube video I found while looking for ideas for Crankenstein’s ‘get-home’ bag, but now I just want to decompress before the next round of this endless aggravation begins tomorrow.
All these short entries here have also worn on me lately; I’m happier with posts that are longer and more substantive and will try to find time for one this weekend.
* Dealing with ‘Niles’ is similar to dealing with Felix, except Felix worries that other people are out to get him and ‘Niles’ worries about deadly pathogens, natural disasters, medication shortages, accidental poisoning, Stevens-Johnson syndrome, spontaneous Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease, etc.
01.01.25: Wig fur aficionados, have I got a recommendation for you: The Spencer Sisters. This CTV whodunit from 2023 lasted only one season and recently landed on the Hallmark+ streaming service, where its ribald humor, (mild) profanity, and lusty embrace of premarital sex will pleasantly surprise some viewers and scandalize others.* It stars Lea Thompson as a bestselling author whose quasi-estrangement from her cop daughter (Stacey Farber, of the instant holiday classic Hanukkah on the Rocks) begins to thaw as they solve mysteries together — including, perhaps, the case of Thompson’s large and torturously tousled wig, whose brazen attacks on the diminutive actress escalate from kidnapping to attempted cannibalism halfway through the series.
Please note that my Spencer endorsement extends no further than appreciation of this wig and its voracious criminal appetite, and that I’m only sharing this information tonight because there wouldn’t have been a post or entry otherwise. This was an “I’d like to live in seclusion in the woods, or in a cave, minus a biannual trek back to civilization to grab a hot burrito” sort of day, though I still interacted with people and did things. I’ll probably feel peppier and more verbose tomorrow, if I can figure out what to write about. Potential topics include Tom’s holiday insanity; building a backyard shelter for a neighborhood cat whose owners leave it outside in frigid temperatures; and the quiet suspense of wielding a hot wire foam cutter when you have a movement disorder.
* I’ll admit I assumed it was a Hallmark original and was quickly confused by its content, particularly the pilot’s plot, which takes inspiration from Lori Loughlin’s USC caper.
12.30.24*: It wasn’t until after 4 am that I finally fell asleep last night, which was odd because I’d been up for 22 hours by then and hadn’t consumed caffeine since mid-morning. Earlier in the day I’d resisted the urge to nap but by bedtime I wasn’t tired at all; if not for mid-morning plans with Crankenstein, I could’ve stayed up hours later. We ran the Costco gauntlet, emerging with toddler-sized sacks of jasmine rice and dates, our supplies of Clif Bars and protein shakes replenished, and as we waited our turn at the register I heard a father scold his children.
“No shoes on the couch!” he warned them — they were swarming one of the many sofas inconveniently situated near the checkout lines as he and his wife investigated neighboring merchandise. Not more than three seconds passed before he admonished them again: “Keep your shoes on!” He sounded as beleaguered as I felt this evening while trying to discuss ‘Niles’ stuff with Crankenstein, a conversation that left us so depleted I wanted to skip writing anything tonight altogether.
On this second-to-last day of the year, I’m struck by the poor mental health of almost everyone around me and nervous about the likelihood it will only worsen in 2025. My own mental health’s hardly impressive, I know, but my 2024, while grueling in its own way, was uneventful: I’m still here, I’ve destroyed no families (so much for the gay agenda), and the only relationships I lost were due to death and not the gleeful burning of bridges. With any luck, I’ll be saying that again this time next year.
* For my own future reference, last night’s post was also dated 12/30 (because I didn’t hit ‘publish’ until a few minutes after midnight).
12.28.24: The photos will have to wait until tomorrow, for I mostly napped and argued with ‘Niles’ today. My sore throat was accompanied by overnight chills, but Crankenstein’s fine so far (knock wood). Other than being wiped out and having an even harder time than usual swallowing, I don’t feel too bad. By late afternoon I was awake enough to spend another couple hours tinkering with the four-drawer tool cart we picked up for $150 last month, the one I’d struggled to lug downstairs.*
It arrived with a couple light dents and mild warping to part of its frame, but exchanging it for a replacement that might have similar imperfections was a singularly unappetizing possibility. After taking it downstairs — the steps have thick carpet pads, so the chest was cushioned as we made our painfully slow descent — I let it sit for a few days. The people who posted how-to assembly videos on YouTube made it look so easy; some were finished within a half-hour, a timeline so unrealistic it made me want to sing “The Impossible Dream (The Quest).”
Conservatively, it took at least six hours spread across two days to get mine in working order. Today’s tasks included making shims for recalcitrant drawer slides (the factory-installed side mounts were the problem), which I did with polystyrene sheet scraps from my scale-modeling desk. Physically and mentally, simple challenges like this take more out of me than they should. But the satisfaction of fighting the unbeatable foe, as Richard Kiley exhorted, and smoothly opening those drawers before heading upstairs for dinner, was worth the small humiliations encountered along the way.
* A five-drawer cart would’ve been preferable but getting it into the basement by myself was an iffy proposition.
12.27.24: Crankenstein and I heaved sighs of relief today as we resumed our everyday lives free from holiday obligations. Sure, we occasionally bickered — as we’ll do for the next week of her vacation — but ours was an idyll untarnished by the (clownishly) righteous anger of women in their thirties who are somehow more spoiled and combative than the wayward teens Sally Jessy Raphael once sent to bootcamp. Unfortunately, the same can’t be said of our toddler nephew’s germs, which he generously shared with all he encountered, and I’m under the weather tonight.
Crankenstein, dreading an encore performance of the lingering infection my PCP pinned on an erotic blend of Covid-19 hacking and PD-related microaspiration, is already trying to batter this burgeoning seasonal bug into submission. She brought me vitamin C and D gummies during a Bob Newhart Show commercial break and made me gulp a small glass of kefir (which may, or may not, aid in recovery from respiratory infections); as I write this she’s probably in our bedroom trying to cast a protective spell from Harry Potter while ‘Niles’ sits in the corner writing my epitaph.*
If I’m able to sleep enough to feel human in the morning, I’ll snap some photos of what I’ve been up to lately. Also, excitingly, our big portable power station arrived today, but I don’t yet feel more powerful.
* My prediction: Crankenstein will be sick by tomorrow and she’ll take to bed like Oscar Wilde fighting a duel to the death with his wallpaper. But when I bring her a Powerade Zero and some OTC medications to address whatever symptoms are bothering her, she’ll demur and pledge to take them later without making good on her promise. It will make me want to pour kefir on her head in retaliation, except kefir’s too expensive to waste and I don’t want phrases like “how to deep-clean mattress” in my search history.
12.26.24: “Did you dream about your family last night?” Crankenstein asked this morning.
”Not that I remember,” I said after mulling it over.
”You were definitely talking in your sleep, loud enough to wake me up.” She paused, weighing how to continue, and seemed to search my face for even the vaguest sign I had any clue what might have happened. “Actually, what woke me up was you shouting ‘F*ck you!’”
Her amusement was evident, but I was preoccupied as she joked “I thought maybe you had Tom in a headlock.” Though glad to have confirmation that I’m verbally acting out dreams, Crankenstein’s report also compounded my trepidation that, like many PWPs, I’m doomed to start punching and kicking in my sleep.
In any event, the profanity was a fitting cap to the evening, and Youngest Sister laughed her head off about it this afternoon.
12.25.24: Oh, the humanity! Tom and her girlfriend must’ve had their calendars confused; since yesterday they’ve set fire to my parents’ double holiday like it was the Macy’s Fourth of July celebration. For months prior to this I’d considered writing a post that takes its name from yet another Springsteen song; it would’ve touched on Tom’s animus toward me and my (possibly misguided) theory that it’s less about our relationship than her relationship with herself. This latest blowup, which doesn’t involve me, has solidified it’s a topic worth discussing in greater depth — hopefully before the end of the year.
I don’t think there’s anything unique about the situation she now finds herself in — estrangement from assorted friends and relatives, with more probably still to come — or the quagmire it’s created for our parents. But it’s something that currently seems endemic in American culture: Zoomers and (mostly younger) Millennials who are hopelessly adrift and unable to meet the most basic demands of adulthood due to excessive, prolonged coddling by their parents. Tom and New Girlfriend have that in common and the result is a match made in hell.
The corrosive dogmatism of the internet is another big factor; if you’re 35 and under, it might be all you’ve ever known. This is probably where people will tune out and wonder “Is she turning into Jim Dobson?” But there’s something sad and even grotesque about all the selfish stupidity and smug ignorance the internet has normalized. Much as alt-right websites helped turn my dad’s older sister into someone who ingests aquarium bleach and thinks Hillary Clinton’s pantsuits hide a lizard’s tail, so has my sister emotionally regressed and turned into a perpetually disgruntled grievance machine — because that’s what ‘queer’ social media taught, encouraged her, and rewards her to be.
As a holiday gift to anyone who stuck around for that, I’ll stop my kvetching. And I’ll remember this as the Chrismukkah stolen not by the Grinch but by Twitter and TikTok. Here’s hoping yours was less dramatic.
12.24.24: Merry (almost) Christmas and Happy (almost) Hanukkah to all who celebrate. The two holidays will converge tomorrow night, in a rare gift to interfaith families, and Crankenstein and I are already busy with early festivities. It goes without saying that my heart’s not really in it this year; my (somber) thoughts are mostly with Joe’s family. But I’ve resolved to be the model of holiday cheer to friends and family, having taken the appropriate lessons from repeated viewings of Susan Lucci’s godawful Ebbie, and know it’s a decision I won’t regret — unlike watching Ebbie.
Make the most of your day tomorrow by making someone else happy; even the smallest gestures go a long way this time of year. We can still indulge our inner grinches now and then once the holiday season’s behind us. In fact, it’s one of the few things I’m looking forward to in 2025.
12.23.24: I only have a couple minutes to spare tonight, which isn’t enough time to describe the insipid holiday drama my sister Tom’s foisting on everyone, but I’ll try my best to check in tomorrow. While we’re here, I should also recommend The Holiday Sitter to anyone looking for a mindless Hallmark flick to watch while wrapping gifts.
It’s a couple years old — Crankenstein and I are behind the times — and was touted as the channel’s first gay holiday movie, which piqued my interest. Jonathan Bennett, a teen heartthrob circa Mean Girls, had previously played gay for Hallmark in supporting roles (a tradition continued in this year’s Season’s Greetings from Cherry Lane); his ascendence to leading lady status just months after Candace Cameron Bure announced her departure from the network still feels significant. Sitter’s just as stupid and saccharine as any heterosexual Hallmark romance, which is also what makes it special, and who cares that Bennett’s one-note in all these features when it’s a note perfectly calibrated to feel-good family fare?
12.21.24: We watched National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation this afternoon, as we’ve done annually at Crankenstein’s insistence since she first saw it a few years ago.* I hadn’t found it too amusing as a kid when my dad and aunt turned it on at their mom’s house (the good aunt, not the conspiracy theorist whose emergency rations consisted of cake mix and Contadina), but Crankenstein’s mirth during the SWAT raid made me a convert.
Naturally, my favorite scene is Clark dressed as a JC Penney-clad Gloria Swanson in the attic, teary as he watches old home movies, but Ruby Sue’s apology when he corrects her crude language is also good. My fondest Christmas Vacation memories, though, are of my prim and proper grandma and her very formal mother pretending to disapprove of all the Griswold family antics while laughing uproariously at Cousin Eddie.
Normally I’d expand on that and share some stories about Nana, as we called my great-grandmother, including the way she always asked “Do you have a fellow? A young man?” when I was seven or eight and under, but I’m not feeling too funny or jovial tonight. The nearer we draw to Christmas, the 31st, and our birthdays, the harder it is not to get caught in an undertow of grief about Joe. Last Christmas wasn’t a great one for him and reminders of that — and of my hope this year would be different — are all around me, along with the usual haunting questions of how this could’ve been avoided.
* “How the hell could an American born in the 1980s make it all the way into her thirties without watching Christmas Vacation?” is a reasonable question. When Crankenstein missed out on pop cultural touchstones, it was usually because of her fundamentalist parents, the eating disorder (which demanded most of her attention), or school (undergrad and med school required whatever was left of her focus). In this case, you can blame the first and third factors.
12.20.24: Oy vey! Crankenstein and I watched a new Hallmark movie, Hanukkah on the Rocks, after dinner tonight and it’s definitely their dumbest dreidel-fest yet. I’m reluctant to say much about it because I’d rather save my thoughts for the inevitable review, but my biggest takeaway was this: whoever gave final approval to the script (which was credited to a Jewish author) probably wasn’t a Jew.
Imagine a Hallmark Christmas film in which the male lead is repeatedly called a “penis” or “dick,” even by his grandfather. That’s what happens in Hanukkah on the Rocks, presumably because someone unfamiliar with Yiddish didn’t realize what “putz” actually means. (This frequently occurs with “schmuck,” too, though I don’t recall hearing that one this evening.) My search for a decent article explaining this came up empty but Google recommended a Mayim Bialik video from last year in which “putz” and “schmuck” are her Yiddish words of the day, and she knows the score.
Sadly, Blossom and vulgar Yiddish slang are all I have for you this evening. It was an almost nonstop busy day and didn’t have the most promising start — my sleep seems to be getting weirder. Crankenstein’s increasingly aware of strange movements coming from my side of the bed, even though she’s a preternaturally deep sleeper, and lately I’ve been waking up with an unsettling feeling that I just acted out parts of a dream. As long as this doesn’t escalate into behavior that’s dangerous to Crankenstein, I can’t complain too much, but that sometimes happens with Parkinson’s sleep disturbance and it makes me nervous.
12.17.24: “Goonsday Preppers,” an upcoming post, remains unfinished; I spent the late afternoon and evening hauling dusty wood paneling from the basement to the patio and breaking down cardboard boxes. In the 11 months since our partially finished basement was torn up for structural repairs, it’s emerged that Crankenstein didn’t like its previous iteration. Since we won’t reuse those panels after all, it’s time to clear ’em out and expand our current storage to accommodate some preparations we’re making for the next four years.*
We’re not doing anything too peculiar — there’s no fallout shelter in the works, no stockpiling of weapons (or medications the maniacal moron RFK, Jr. might want to ban) — so “Goonsday” will be anticlimactic even as these maneuvers keep me busy.** And speaking of anticlimactic, Crankenstein and I swung by REI while running errands so she could pick up an online order. It was a collection of stocking stuffers she’d purchased for me and it took some effort not to laugh when the cashier loudly read us the name of each item before handing it over.
Afterward, we performed our yearly ritual of ordering pizza and spreading holiday cheer with a lavish tip. It was one of the earliest ‘once you’re an attending…’ splurges we agreed to while charting a future together and it’s held up better than handing out full-size candy bars on Halloween. A few bad apples spoiled the whole bunch for Crankenstein a couple years ago (wasn’t that an Osmonds song?), so we distributed snack-size bars this year. Fortunately, they behaved this time and we won’t be forced to teach them a lesson with kale chips next October.
If you’ve not yet fallen asleep, maybe this will help: Our evening concluded with a little Northern Exposure (RIP, Diane Delano; Barbara was one of Cicely’s many gems), during which I put together a 2-in-1 hand truck that was then used to move a heavy box into the garage; followed by an episode of The Bob Newhart Show. Tune in tomorrow, when we might get really crazy and watch Dobie Gillis or Barney Miller while slapping no-flat tires on a Gorilla Cart.^
* The paneling is real wood so I’m going to give local ‘buy nothing’ groups first crack at it. We’ll keep the lumber that was used for framing because it’s higher quality than what’s standard today.
** I’d call it “a queer anticlimax,” in honor of the terrible TV movie Daphne, if I wasn’t currently boycotting the q-word.
^ Fear not, the hand truck also got no-flats. The pneumatic tires it came with will be given to any neighbor who wants them.
12.16.24: Huge surprise here — I’ve once again run out of time without finishing today’s post. I’ll wrap it up tomorrow after running a few errands with Crankenstein, including picking up some last-minute gifts for her residents and fellows. With any luck, our solar gizmo will arrive so I can include a photo (or attempt to, anyway, before Muriel wanders over and blocks the camera with her caboose, as is her custom).
On the sleep front, getting asleep and staying asleep was a fool’s errand last night, as expected. But Crankenstein was happy to know I was present and accounted for, which counts for something. Since the conversation with Dr. So-and-So, she’s been extra clingy and more solicitous than usual; she even cooked for me a couple times, which rarely happens. I appreciate the help she’s given me around the house, especially with Muriel, but wish the circumstances were different and she wasn’t as fearful of the future.
To do my part for tonight’s sleep effort, I strenuously avoided daytime naps and tried to remain in motion rather than risk sitting and nodding off. I’ll report back tomorrow on whether it worked.
12.15.24: A new reader sent a list this afternoon of four telefilms they want me to cover, like they were placing an order at a drive-thru restaurant, and I almost replied “Would you like fries with that?” Instead, on a whim, I agreed to do it next year. They’re all available online and were already on my to-review list, so why not? This year’s been more of a bust than I ever could’ve anticipated but next year doesn’t have to be, so I’m publicly challenging myself to get back into the swing of things and resume a regular reviewing schedule.
My goal is modest: to post one new review per week in 2025 while continuing to write here and elsewhere. We’ll see how it goes, and how another new challenge — getting to bed early, to appease Crankenstein — works. She’s waiting for me now, so I need to skedaddle, but my sleep expectations are low since I was dead tired last night and still couldn’t fall asleep until 3 am.
I’ll be back tomorrow, to talk about one of two things, unless something more interesting happens — my dismay (and disgust) at my peers cheering the murder of a healthcare executive; or the practical plans Crankenstein and I are making for what could be a volatile next four years.*
* This shouldn’t require clarification, but I’m not endorsing the deplorable state of healthcare in the United States. As an IBD patient I’ve had more negative dealings with insurers than I can count, not to mention everyone I know who’s had experiences that were worse. (Felix and Crankenstein, among others, have suffered greatly at times due to these companies caring more about bottom lines than patients.) But there’s nothing even slightly noble about this crime and support for its perpetrator is alarming.
12.14.24: It’s 11:50 pm as I write this but tonight’s delay wasn’t caused by the glacial speed of my movement or thought. It was caused by someone else’s Parkinson’s. As mentioned in an earlier post, I participate in Parkinson’s outreach and informally counsel patients and caregivers. This involves a lot of talking people off the ledge, metaphorically speaking, or explaining why symptoms or behaviors that appear irrational to spouses (or more often, adult children) of PWPs are normal within the context of the disease.*
Most of these exchanges go swimmingly and other times it’s like talking to a brick wall — one you eventually want to bash your head against in exasperation. It’s appropriate that I, someone who regularly inspires the same response in others, should do penance on the opposite side of these interactions, and I can already hear Crankenstein’s Nelson Muntz laugh as she reads this. Tonight’s conversation wasn’t angering but it was sobering. Sometimes it’s like looking into the future, which isn’t necessarily the best view if you have Parkinson’s.
On a lighter note, there’s a new addition to my gender stupidity list (the previous being the library/Hallmark incident). I was reading a discussion about hiking packs when it was interrupted by absurd criticism of the gendered language a manufacturer used about the bags. This consisted solely of taking the same design, in the same colors, and tweaking it slightly in some areas. One version was marked ‘men’s’ and the other ‘women’s,’ which seems innocuous but had sparked minor outrage. What’s worse, their complaint was being upvoted.
Like every other person on the face of the earth, I use plenty of unisex products. And like many women, I also use men’s products — I shaved my legs earlier using a shaving cream marketed to men, because it’s cheaper than the same brand’s equivalent for women. Finally, I understand their broader point and will join them in rolling my eyes at the strange ‘gendering’ of things myself if it’s warranted. But when it comes to something like a hiking pack, female options must exist. Despite the skewed demographics you’ll find on some corners of the internet, or on college campuses, 99.999% of men aren’t 5’2″ and don’t have curves in the same places most of us do.**
* For the uninitiated, PWPs means persons (or people) with Parkinson’s.
** The second part’s not exactly true — in the US, there’s no shortage of voluptuous men — but you know what I mean.
12.13.24: When I say everything takes longer now, it’s not just folding laundry and raking leaves: last night’s post took all the spare time I could cobble together over the course of two days — a cumulative total of eight to 10 hours, including a couple late at night when I couldn’t sleep. It wasn’t an unusually long or complicated post, which makes the effort required to complete it so bizarre; in a past life I could’ve produced the same thing in less than the 70 minutes it traditionally took for RKO’s B movie gumshoes (and amateur sleuths like Hildegarde Withers) to crack cases.*
Today I caught up on most of what fell by the wayside while my attention was elsewhere, including housework and several rounds of play-fighting with Muriel over custody of a plush turkey, but am left with little time for tonight’s entry. Muriel also alerted me (and the rest of the neighborhood) to the arrival of a FedEx package: a solar panel. All that’s missing is the contraption it will power, which was shipped separately. Maybe tomorrow I’ll hook myself up to the panel instead and see if it’s good for an energy boost.
* You never hear the name Hildegarde Withers anymore but between the 1930s and early ’70s she was played by no less than Edna Mae Oliver, Helen Broderick, ZaSu Pitts, Agnes Moorehead (in a lost television pilot), and Eve Arden. Withers will make it onto Cranky one of these days when I review Arden’s A Very Missing Person, a 1972 TV movie, and ask which name is more ridiculous: Hildegarde Withers or Hetty Wainthropp.
12.11.24: In a shocking turn of events, I’m only 70% done with what I wrote today. Rather than stay up and finish it, which is what I want to do, I’m going to save the draft, brush my teeth, and go to bed. Resetting my sleep schedule post-Botox is typically easier than it’s been this time around, which has been quite disappointing, and it’s possibly because of the dosage tweaks my doctor made to add another injection site.
It’s too early to call the experiment a bust — we’ll see how I’m swallowing a month, and two months, from now — but the reduction of Botox in a couple of spots has left me less comfortable than usual. When I’m off my game it disrupts the rhythm of the house in ways all three of us find annoying, since I’m responsible for most of the grunt work that keeps the trains running on time. If I can’t find a way to sleep more at night so I’m less zombie-like during the day, Muriel and Crankenstein might start slipping sedatives into my protein shakes.*
In other news, I’m slightly late in wrapping up holiday shopping this year and have only purchased gifts for three people so far: Crankenstein (who will see this, so I can say no more); my dad (the power bank he wanted for camping trips); and my brother-in-law (a multitool geared at his profession, engraved with his name and contact info in case he loses it at a jobsite). This is our first holiday season without student loans and it’s gratifying to be able to give fancier gifts than usual, but I’m flummoxed by what to get a toddler nephew whose newfound passions in his terrible twos are smacking people and uncapping bottles to pour the contents onto the floor.
A tiny mop, maybe? I’m not sure my sister would appreciate a pint-sized folding chair he could hit people with like a miniature professional wrestler, but his dad would think it’s funny and our youngest and most violent niece would be enthusiastic about it. Isn’t that what the holidays are all about? The airing of grievances, feats of strength, and practicing WWE chair shots with all the extra seating stuffed around the tables?
* My protein intake is carefully scheduled so it doesn’t interfere with the levodopa, lest anyone familiar with Parkinson’s worry.
12.10.24: The results are in on last week’s neurocognitive evaluation and I’ll probably be able to write more about it tomorrow, but I’ll say there were no surprises on my end, though Crankenstein looked stricken during and after our call with Dr. So-and-So. He’s sending the full report to my MDS and PCP and I’m not sure whether we’ll eventually get a copy, too, but as best we could tell his findings matched the observations we shared with him prior to testing.
That was this morning and I’ve kept busy since then rather than think too much about it, throwing myself into unappealing tasks just to get them done. Among my triumphs: replacing a busted cord loop on a wide set of blinds and, with great difficulty, hauling something heavy (to a 5’2″ weakling) into the basement for assembly. To do this by myself I had to remove its drawers and place it on a furniture dolly, roll it to the door, and slowly lower it from step to step.
Lesbians are often accused of having penis envy, which baffles many of us for obvious reasons, but I’ve always been pleased not to have one.* If there’s anything I envy men beyond the usual “Imagine never directly experiencing misogyny! Imagine being impervious to danger!” stuff, it’s how easily most of them can lift (and reach) things I can’t.** How wondrous it would be to have long enough and strong enough arms to hoist an unwieldy 100 lb. box like it was a 5 lb. sack of potatoes. That’s male privilege.
* It’s not a matter of disdain; Madonna’s correct that “beauty’s where you find it, not just where you bump and grind it,” and I appreciate the male form even though I have no personal use for it. But male plumbing, for want of a better term, seems inelegantly engineered: vulnerable to wacky trauma — see the past 35 years of America’s Funniest Home Videos — and more prone to mechanical failure. I have enough problems in the middle of the night already without tossing a cantankerous prostate into the mix.
** Even men who were trained to be security-conscious have different concerns than we do. Selecting a diner seat that would theoretically make it easier to spot and disarm a threat, as some with law enforcement or military backgrounds do, is quaint compared to the constant situational awareness most women develop as girls, circa puberty, in response to creepy men.
12.08.24: There are three movies Crankenstein and I watch together every December and we’re crossing the first off our list tonight: Batman Returns. We appreciate its twisted take on the holidays and Selina Kyle’s transformation into Catwoman, but we’re also fond of it for our own reasons — in Crankenstein’s case, she loves the deployment of the Penguin’s army. It is, she maintains, one of the oddest scenes she’s ever seen, and I’d challenge her about whether a Tolkien obsessive can truly say that about penguin soldiers if I wasn’t afraid the ensuing debate would result in our umpteenth viewings of the extended editions of the Lord of the Rings trilogy.
My sentimental attachment to Batman Returns is rooted in pop psychology: in the summer of 1992, when it was theatrically released, my parents took us to see it at a drive-in movie theater and Catwoman ruined me for other women. It’s because of Michelle Pfeiffer’s portrayal of the sharp-tongued, whip-cracking villainess that I’m mostly attracted to women who might claw my face off at any moment — or so I tell myself. Maybe it would’ve happened regardless; it’s a common affliction among those of us who were the consummate goody-two-shoes types ourselves.
Before signing off, I should add that Crankenstein will read this in the morning and disingenuously ask “Do you really think I’d claw your face off?” Physically, no, she wouldn’t; she’d claw her own face off instead. But emotionally, sure, she’d do it in a nanosecond under the right conditions. She knows it, too, even though she’ll protest this tomorrow as an impish smile tugs at the corners of her lips.
12.06.24: Hallmark’s Countdown to Christmas begins in October, if you’re unaware of such things, but the Cranky Countdown to Christmas isn’t officially underway until a humorless stranger takes offense at a lighthearted review of their favorite holiday film. This year it was A Smoky Mountain Christmas that drew first blood, with Anonymous all but wailing “Won’t somebody think of the children?!”:
You seriously think this movie is a lesbian christmas story? Really? That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. It’s a simple, sweet christmas movie made for kids and families, why can’t you just let it be that. Why does everything innocent and pure have to be sexualized?
Resisting my impulse to delete it without comment, I replied “Why does everything innocent and pure have to be sexualized?” is a funny question coming from a fellow Dolly Parton fan, but if you understood the review it should be clear that I don’t actually view it as a lesbian Christmas story. They haven’t responded, but maybe our paths will cross again one day if they stumble upon my Unlikely Angel post and take umbrage at a gay joke about Roddy McDowall’s Saint Peter.
12.04.24: Midnight is fast approaching and the post about yesterday’s testing is still a few paragraphs short of completion. I’m disappointed, having worked on it for most of the evening, but there should be enough time to finish it tomorrow. Once that’s out of the way, I’ll introduce you to a purchase Crankenstein wanted to make ahead of possible tariffs: a portable power station that’s not quite a generator but functions similarly to one. We haven’t received it yet but I’m eager to test its capabilities and was pleased that it was Crankenstein’s idea, even if the impetus was a days-long power outage the summer before last that had ‘Niles’ on edge. I’ll illustrate that post with flashlight photos, which some of us find sexier than Playboy pictorials.
12.03.24: Forget about soggy oatmeal, my head’s felt more like scrambled eggs since about an hour into this afternoon’s neuropsychological evaluation. It took four hours to complete and if you’ve never taken (or proctored) one of these exams before you’d probably be surprised by how grueling it is, because the exercises sound so simple. I’ll explain more about that tomorrow, once my faculties have recovered enough to be accurately described as a crisper breakfast food — maybe Froot Loops or Honey Nut Cheerios.
Being tested like this was an unusual experience and it’s one I’ve kept to myself so far, other than discussing some of it with Crankenstein and mentioning it here. She told a couple of church friends and possibly her parents or her “work wife,” which is fine with me; my only request was to keep it off my parents’ radar for now so they can enjoy as much of the holidays as Tom’s toddler-ish behavior allows.* Even once we have a better idea of what’s going on with my cognition, I’m not sure how much my family needs to know about this fairly personal and sensitive subject.
On that unsatisfying note, it’s time to get ready for bed. I’ve been physically and mentally exhausted since getting home this evening and hope it will help me sleep like a baby tonight.
* Last I heard, she was still stringing the new girlfriend along while secretly trying to reunite with her ex. She’s also nonsensically angry that Youngest Sister doesn’t want her kids around New Girlfriend. None of this would be a problem if she hadn’t moved back in with our parents and wasn’t still trying to pit them against the rest of us.
12.02.24: “Curses! Foiled again!” is the theme of the day for sleeping and writing alike. Another esophageal logjam — pills were painfully stuck in my chest last night for what felt like an eternity — kept me unhappily awake past 3 am. Since sleep deprivation’s the gift that keeps on taking, the fun continued today with a splitting headache that didn’t respond to Tylenol. Decent writing requires a clarity of thought I’m regrettably incapable of tonight, so I’m off to try to get some sleep ahead of tomorrow’s appointment. With any luck, my brain will feel a little less like a bowl of soggy oatmeal by then.*
* Though my attempts at writing went nowhere, I was able to find some of the old flashlights mentioned yesterday. Tomorrow I’ll test them with new batteries and look into replacing a few lightbulbs.
12.01.24: I tried not to think too much today since I’m apprehensive about Tuesday’s testing. Domestic drudgery was my distraction of choice (as usual) and I folded an appalling number of fresh-from-the-dryer kitchen towels, cleaning rags, and linen napkins while watching YouTube videos about flashlights. Tomorrow I’ll dig around and see if I can’t find the small bin of old flashlights that contains some of my sentimental favorites dating back to the early ’90s; trying to bring them back to life might be a fun diversion.
Just as my parents once shook their heads at my holiday request for a five-shelf bookcase — I think that was the year Felix asked for a Sega Genesis — so, too, were they bewildered by my bottomless appetite for notebooks, pens, flashlights, and organizers of nearly any sort. Those fascinations continue today (though my pens don’t get nearly as much use now due to rigidity and cramping), and if you ever need help falling asleep I’d be happy to catalog the flashlights in my current rotation.
Swiss Army knives were another area of interest, particularly the keychain-sized ones with dull blades that my parents routinely pushed to the rear corners of the kitchen junk drawer in search of ballpoint pens with ink.* Those multitools were often inferior knockoffs handed out as promotions for local businesses and I had no real use for anything but the tweezers and scissors. But I liked the feeling of being prepared for whatever exotic emergencies might require files, corkscrews, or brittle plastic toothpicks.
As an adult I’ve continued to carry a keychain Swiss Army knife, though the one I loved most broke after being dropped one too many times and was replaced with a lavender Classic SD Alox. More recently, the tiny flashlight on my keychain gave up the ghost and I learned its model, my go-to for many years, is no longer produced. Finding a suitable replacement will be difficult — I want something compact and genuinely durable — because there’s so much junk at online stores and so many fraudulent reviews to sort through.
Maybe that will be the next “Geez, this is like watching paint dry!” feature I start here once I’m done with Eight is Enough: the search for the perfect keychain flashlight.
* They never seemed to throw out the dried-up pens, which is undoubtedly one of the reasons I defiantly vowed like a bookish Scarlett O’Hara to never go inkless again.
11.28.24: There’s a sizable list of non-Tubi things I’m thankful for — potatoes, central air conditioning, and biologics, to name a few — and this morning I was reminded of another when I logged into Cranky: the people who read my goofy posts. A new reader left a nice comment in response to this summer’s Parkinson’s post, and though I’ve not yet replied there, I wanted to take the time on this particular day to thank those of you who follow along here.
In a world as fast-paced as this one, with an internet so incomprehensibly vast, it’s a rare privilege to connect with strangers who find your thoughts and interests worthy of their attention. It’s been a rough ride here these last few months, particularly for anyone who’s been waiting patiently for my next Auntie V. post, so thanks again for your support — and again, Happy Thanksgiving.
11.27.24: A day of running around like a chicken with its head cut off was rewarded with Eight is Enough. Unfortunately, it was a telethon special and the preview showed Grant Goodeve crooning again, which wouldn’t have been gratifying at all. In that moment, a controversial decision was made and I skipped ahead to the next episode.
In a year that’s seen more darkness than light, there are still many things I’m thankful for, including Tubi’s ‘skip intro’ and ‘play next episode’ options. If I’m unable to check in tomorrow, Happy Thanksgiving. Please drive — and carve — safely.
* Should I ever make good on threats to write about the entire series in earnest, I’ll gird my loins and subject both myself and masochistic readers to “The Best Little Telethon in Sacramento.”
11.25.24: It was a beautiful dream that I’d get through the day with enough time to ramble here before heading off to sleep, but I will foolishly try again tomorrow. Besides a push to complete work ahead of the holidays (and colder temperatures), there was an impromptu morning nap that was a little startling. One minute I was on the couch with Muriel, computer on my lap, talking to Crankenstein as she prepared to leave for work, and the next I was out like a light.
By the time I snapped to, Crankenstein and her backpack and jacket were gone. It felt like only 30 seconds had passed but a groggy glance at my watch showed she’d left at least a half-hour earlier.* I’ll be very happy if I can sleep like that tonight instead of waking up every time the wind blows or a neighbor’s dog barks. My big goal for the rest of this week is to reestablish a sleep schedule — everything fell off the rails once the Botox wore off — but I’ll set a second one for myself right now: a longer post tomorrow.
* What must she think when this happens? She’s seen me nap more in the last six months than I had in the past decade. Though she’s a prolific napper herself, she has to get cozy in bed, surrounded by her creature comforts. I fall asleep while sitting on the couch and almost nod off now in waiting rooms and exam rooms, or while standing in front of the bathroom sink. The coffee experiment hasn’t helped much so far but I’ve been less than consistent with it, something that will be easier to change if I can reset my sleep schedule itself.
11.24.24: My hands worked today and my neck’s back in action, so I made the most of the occasion by throwing myself into housework.* It’ll take another few days to catch up on everything I still need to do (including assembling the mystery project in the basement), but I’ve managed to stay on top of the daily Hallmark viewing — maybe that’s why my sanity’s been on the fritz. This week we’re doubling my dose of Zoloft, which was miniscule to begin with and will remain on the low end of the spectrum, and I’m curious about whether it’ll make me less glum. More on that tomorrow, hopefully, if I can get through the first part of the day with minimal interruptions.
* “Back in action” might make it sound more transformative than it is, but beggars can’t be choosers — any improvement is welcome.
11.23.24: I’ve made a Black Friday purchase to go with our new TV: WKRP in Cincinnati.* The complete series is currently on sale at Amazon for $19.49, which makes this a great opportunity to revisit a show I haven’t seen since yawning my way through reruns my mom caught in the ’90s. If it arrives before Thanksgiving I’ll play the turkey drop episode for Crankenstein, but mostly this is necessary for the comprehensive Loni Anderson coverage I’ve been slowly chipping away at for several years.**
This leads us to a complaint about another 1970s series, The Rookies, which I must watch due to my scholarly interest in Kate Jackson, an actress I laud nearly as much as I crack jokes at Anderson’s expense. It shows up on free streaming sites occasionally, but Joe was halfway through it once when it disappeared. When I looked it up today to see whether there’s a DVD collection, I found that only two of its four seasons have made it to DVD. The second is currently on sale for 50% off but the first was unavailable, so I’ll continue waiting.^
I’ve been asked before why I don’t just grab whatever I want from torrents and the answer is “Force of habit.” Peer-to-peer file sharing sites like Napster and LimeWire first appeared when Felix and I were teenagers and he repeatedly infected our shared family desktop with viruses while downloading pirated music. Though I’ll happily watch unauthorized uploads of TV movies on YouTube if they aren’t on proper streaming sites and haven’t been released on DVD, the fact remains that I was one of the very few students at my high school who was sympathetic to Metallica’s campaign against Napster — illicit downloads seem like theft.
It was funny, then, and obviously hypocritical, that love turned me into a pirate years later, when a woman I had a crush on coveted a Dusty Springfield anthology that I owned. There were strict limitations on the size of file transfers via email back then, so I sent her the MP3s two or three at a time until she had all 60 or 70 songs from the set. In retrospect, she could’ve obtained the same content much faster by using peer-to-peer repositories. But it was an overture that in some small way changed the rest of my life, so I look back fondly on the night I was briefly a pirate.^^
* It’s doubtful that WKRP will be much to look at, so I also got a 4K UHD copy of Blade Runner for $12.
** KL Classics released Rent-a-Cop, a calamitous Burt Reynolds/Liza Minnelli collaboration that I’ve written about as if it were Citizen Kane, on Blu-ray this year and I have reason to believe they were aware of my review. Maybe I should launch an internet campaign to get them to honor Loni Anderson’s Sizzle, a 1981 telefilm I’ve been trying to track down for several years. Shout! Factory would probably be more likely to entertain the idea, depending on who owns the rights, but I have a sentimental fondness for Kino Lorber that dates back to a misspent youth in film criticism.
^ The deluxe edition of the complete Dark Shadows, which also featured Jackson, has such a high list price that I didn’t bother looking it up — why pay an arm and a leg when it’s currently free on Tubi and Freevee?
^^ Though it would be more flattering to (laughably) picture myself on that occasion as Keira Knightley in the Pirates of the Caribbean movies, it’s funnier to go with the Fabio-like pirate on the cover of Jude Deveraux’s Lost Lady, a smutty romance novel of my mom’s that I secretly read as a child. I recall many mentions of calluses and manhood and few descriptions of the sea. Anyone who remembers Deveraux and wants to get lost in a wilder story than the taming of a tempestuous lass should look up psychic scammer Rose Marks, who swindled her out of millions.
11.22.24: From the utility trucks that kept disrupting my sleep last night to the half-hour I just wasted clumsily trying to close a tiny utility knife I’ve owned for several years, this was a day that seemed designed for maximum frustration. Once the knife was at long last closed — not because it needed to be, but to prove to myself that I could do it — I walked away from my computer not intending to write anything here at all. A bizarre sense of obligation drew me back a few minutes later, but I’m not sure what to write; the uselessness of my hands seemed to tie my brain in knots.
A partial list of things that troubled me today includes rigidity and dystonia; sadness about Joe; an unwanted reminder of how nuts my ex was last time we spoke; something my rheumatologist said earlier that I’ll wedge into the post about the Botox appointment; and a conversation with Youngest Sister about Tom’s continued selfishness and manipulation of our parents. Other than missing Joe and wishing he’d gotten the help he needed, none of it’s worthy of my time or yours at this late hour, not when there are three seasons of Match Game on Freevee.
11.21.24: It’s unclear whether we’re going to lose power tonight, and I have to conserve my phone battery ahead of an early morning appointment tomorrow, so I’m checking in now to say the MDS recap will be slightly delayed.* There was intrigue near the shul closest to us that had some of our Orthodox neighbors on edge, though it turned out the commotion had a non-sinister explanation: the explosion we heard (and that some of us saw) was a transformer, not an act of terror.
All of this poked at ‘Niles,’ which in turn nagged at me. My role’s always been to calm Crankenstein down and for the most part, I’m still capable of doing that. But there’s a saturation point now and once it’s reached I’m done and have to disengage for a spell. There are too many genuine problems in the world, and in our lives, to spend disproportionate amounts of time fixating on figments of Niles’ exceptionally vivid imagination.
Even though I know it’s healthier to excuse myself for 15 or 20 minutes than to stick around until my resentment or impatience boils over, it’s hard to do sometimes because I want to be there for Crankenstein and don’t want her to feel like she’s being punished for her anxiety’s actions. But if I don’t look out for myself, no one else will — ‘Niles’ sees to that. That’s how I found myself pointlessly rearranging things in the basement while listening to Cher’s new memoir on audiobook. Disappointingly, she doesn’t read the whole thing solo, which I should’ve expected based on her semi-literate tweets.
* By now it’s all monotonous anyway. If you’ve read one post about an MDS visit you’ve read them all — my doctor’s Wile E. Coyote and YOPD’s the Roadrunner.
11.20.24: There’s no escaping David Bradford. Not only is his marriage to Janet circling the drain for the 900th time in the fifth season of Eight is Enough, Crankenstein and I started watching Northern Exposure on Amazon a few nights ago and Grant Goodeve plays Janine Turner’s first season boyfriend.* Mercifully, he’s not attempted to sing — maybe because hungry bears would’ve snatched that plate of homemade wishes right off the windowsill.
Today was my Botox appointment and there’s a lot to cover, which I don’t have much time to get into right now because there’s so much to do around the house and I’m already wiped out. (Within the next few days, as the injections settle in, I should get more comfortable and log more sleep.) I’ll fill in some blanks tomorrow and write about a silly conversation with a Lyft driver, but for now we’ll just cover the basics, starting with this: the MDS said the muscles in my shoulders and neck are so tight that she wants to increase the dosage again if my insurer will allow it.
We talked about the swallowing issues, the esophageal manometry test results, and I explained my PCP’s microaspiration theory. She agreed with my GI that PD is the likeliest cause of my dysphagia and tried to strategize about how to deal with it, but we don’t have many options. I’m also being sent for a neuropsychological evaluation, which will allow us to establish a baseline so we can track any cognitive declines or improvements over time.
This is common testing for Parkinson’s patients and isn’t a big deal, though I can’t say I’m looking forward to it. That is, unless there are questions and activities pertaining to the Bradfords, like “Draw a diagram of Mary’s hair circa 1979” or substitution of “Ernie, Marvin, Jeremy” for “apple, penny, table” in a memory exercise — those are tests I’d ace.
* My mom sometimes let me stay up past my bedtime to watch it during its original run, though much of it went over my head. Crankenstein remembers her parents watching it, too, which surprised me because it had a Jewish lead and a fairly Jewish sensibility. Their aversion to programming my father-in-law considered too Jewish (or too gay) meant they rarely watched sitcoms or anything offbeat. Now that they’re retired they watch a ton of TV and nothing’s off-limits, which brings us to Uncoupled. Her dad once called us to rave about that short-lived Netflix comedy, which found a Neil Patrick Harris character single for the first time in almost 20 years after his partner left him. I think it was during the episode about a date whose endowment was more than Harris could handle that Crankenstein said of her father, “I never saw this coming when he disowned me for being gay.”
11.19.24: My (second) crown is officially done and I’m sad to report that nary a cheap abandoned weave was spotted on the walk home this time. The conclusion of this work clears the way for some long-delayed orthodontic torture next year, when I’ll start wearing aligners for 22 hours per day. If you’re familiar with Invisalign, it’s the same concept except my dentist uses a different company, SureSmile.
When Crankenstein and I moved in together in 2015, we agreed to split our living expenses. The money I’d save as a result of this arrangement was earmarked for retirement investments and aligners, which I thought might help with jaw pain and stiffness. It quickly became apparent that Crankenstein’s student loans and exorbitant spending on therapy made those plans impractical; residents are paid much less than most people realize and her salary only went so far.*
I’ll get into this more in my final post about money, but I ended up covering our living expenses while we shored up her finances, which she’d ignored prior to our relationship. She said it was because she was overwhelmed by her student loans, but there was more to it than that — money’s truly of little interest to her, possibly because our currency doesn’t feature images of dragons or Freyja and her cats. Eventually orthodontia was added to our “Once the student loans are gone…” list of deferred expenses and the time is now upon us.
How will all of this work with my oromandibular dystonia? I’m a bit nervous to find out, but the dentist said it will help my jaw in the long run — and that the aligners (followed by retainers) will double as night guards and protect my molars from additional cracking due to overnight tooth-grinding. Every few weeks I’ll have to stop in to get new trays, so you’ll be the first to know if I encounter another weave or any other intriguing litter.
* I should clarify that therapy’s a perfectly reasonable expense. Our conflicts have to do with other factors that aren’t as reasonable, not therapy in general.
11.18.24: From the “oops” department, I updated this thread with a new entry last night and neglected to send it back to the top of the homepage. (Sorry about that, you can find it directly below this entry.) Today was nothing to write home about, which is just as well because I’m running on 3.5 hours of sleep and will scurry off to bed soon as a result. But first I’ll share some photographic proof that I’m not derelict in every area of my life — behold, the shop stool box that was taking up space in the laundry room.
With my tablet at the ready so I could consult an assembly video before returning to my library audiobook (Richard Behar’s Madoff: The Final Word, which is an interesting supplement to Diana B. Henriques’s definitive Wizard of Lies), and a leftover Halloween Reese’s peanut butter cup for sustenance, I set to work. Your eyes might be drawn to the toilet in the background and before you wonder whether the lifted seat means I’m hiding some sort of secret, I can assure you that isn’t the case.*
There’s a lot of nostalgia packed into that photo. My grandma kept those scissors in the drawer of a small cabinet that was in her basement for decades. When she lost her home to foreclosure, she insisted I take the cabinet set (it has a taller sibling) and a cute laundry sorter she’d used since the ’60s or ’70s; she was already sliding into dementia but remembered that we shared a fondness for organization. The folding knife and tape measure belonged to a handyman who accidentally left them at my house almost 13 years ago after working there for the better part of a week. When asked if we should leave it outside for him to collect at his convenience, he said to keep it because we’d need those things as new homeowners.**
Here are most of the shop stool’s parts. I’m going with a red motif in the reorganized utility room because these items are likely to end up in the garage of our next house and it’s a nod of sorts to my dad, who was inordinately proud of his red Craftsman tool chests when I was a kid. They’re still in his garage today.
Voila, the finished product, which is adjustable and can go higher than that. It will allow me to sit at the tall basement workbench and seemed comfortable enough, though I didn’t spend much time on it. I believe this retails for around $75 at Harbor Freight but it was heavily discounted when I got it. It’s considered a breeze to assemble but that wasn’t the case for me due to a design that calls for steady, nimble hands. Many curses were uttered and the black and orange handle on the floor is attached to a powerful magnet I used to look for a dropped nut.
The little bit of box corner peeking into the background of that last photo contains part of my next assembly project, which will take 17 years and cost whatever remains of my sanity. More on that later.
* I’m not sure it even has a seat; I suspect it’s only there for the convenience of men who might’ve otherwise relieved themselves in the laundry room sink. It’s not a proper bathroom, just a toilet in a cubby that leads to a storage nook.
** Ex wished he’d forgotten his travel mug, which touted some attraction or another in Branson, Missouri — a Silver Dollar City Christmas celebration, I believe.
11.17.24: If you ever want to feel a thousand years old, have an exchange like the one I had at the library today after approaching the circulation desk for help with a misplaced hold. It wasn’t shelved — I’d checked twice, weary of overlooking something or wasting anyone’s time — and a staffer disappeared into the recesses of the building to track it down.*
She returned with a collection of holiday movies and before she could pass too much judgment on its prominent Hallmark banner, I told her how happy I was that she found it. “Who knew there was an anthology of Hallmark Hanukkah films?” I asked.
“That’s amazing!” she laughed, giving the cover a closer look. “How’d you hear about it?”
“It came up in a search of the library’s catalog. I’ve challenged myself to watch a Hallmark movie a day through Christmas,” I explained as she scanned the rest of my stack. She grimaced in sympathy and asked why. “It seemed like a funny idea, an agnostic Jewish lesbian watching all of these and writing about it,” I replied.
Now she was more approving. It was obvious from her buzz cut and N95 that she identifies as ‘queer’ and ‘nonbinary,’ and if we weren’t in a heavily Jewish area she probably would’ve found a way to signal her solidarity with Queers for Palestine. As if to prove these points, she emphatically tapped the Hallmark case and said “The gender in these must be amazing!”
“Do you have any idea how ridiculous you sound?” I wanted to ask, not to shame her but out of genuine curiousity. “All this pretending it’s everyone else who’s obsessed with gender when you’re the one fixated on it?”
We made friendly small talk instead as she wrapped things up. “Enjoy these… I guess?” she joked as she handed over the movies, presumably oblivious to the fact that Hallmark heroines are sometimes more butch (or ‘male-coded,’ as kids would reductively call it these days) than their male love interests. Would she have believed it was a heterosexual male whose love of Hallmark movies sparked my interest in any of this? Does she know that gay men and lesbians are now featured in Hallmark holiday romances, both as supporting characters and leads? Or that one of the network’s most popular leading men is openly gay?
Admittedly, this is all extremely trivial, but that anyone could say “The gender in these must be amazing!” with a straight face is one more reason for me to shake a broom and yell “Get off my lawn!” at Zoomers and younger Millennials.
* There’s a difference between librarians and desk workers, lest anyone worry I’d forgotten the word. But I did forget something: my library card number. Those are normally digits I can recite in my sleep, but I froze when the staffer asked for them even though I’d successfully logged in from a keypad moments earlier. I knew all the numbers, it was the sequence of the first three that was the problem. The card’s no longer in my wallet because I was sick of fumbling around for it, which backfired today since I had to produce my license anyway so they could verify my identity. (All these criminals running around town fraudulently borrowing Christmas at Hoedown Holler and Haul Out the Holly VI: The Curse of Michael Myers in other people’s names really turns your stomach.)
** If you’re confused by the N95/’nonbinary queer’ connection, many young women who currently use those labels also identify as disabled (when they aren’t) and falsely insist they’re at high risk of lethal COVID-19 complications. It’s the domain of drama queens and control freaks, which is also what attracts them to gender silliness. Few are actually immunocompromised, while others mask in solidarity or as a means of virtue signaling. (To be clear, I’m criticizing healthy but attention-starved 25-year-olds, not people who are legitimately medically vulnerable.)
11.15.24: You never want to see the words “fatal error” in a message from your web host, but it happened to me here tonight thanks to a bad line of code in an update for one of the plugins that powers the site. If you have trouble accessing Existential Despair this weekend, that’s the reason, and I’m trying my luck with this update while my dashboard’s accessible because it wasn’t just an hour or two ago.
In other news, I’ve had a heckuva time staying awake today and my medication rarely clicked, resulting in maddeningly rigid hands. That meant no toiling in the basement or working on miniatures, and minimal tweaking of the new website (still under construction) I’ve been threatening to launch for months now.
Since I’m avoiding both tennis and cable news — the latter because hearing much more about Trump’s nominees for Secretary of Defense and Director of National Intelligence will give me a stroke — I spent my free time rereading Erik Larson’s Dead Wake: The Last Crossing of the Lusitania. Historical nonfiction is one of my favorite genres and this seems an appropriate time to ruminate on sunken ships.
11.14.24: Our new TV arrived this evening and if this is how great Eight is Enough looks on Tubi, I can’t wait to check out Charlie’s Angels and The Rockford Files on Blu-ray. We were practically living in the Stone Age with our old TV but I don’t think either of us knew that until tonight.
What you can’t see in this photo is an imperfection near the top of the screen. There’s a blemish or shadow about the size of a fist that’s more pronounced against different backdrops, so we’re exchanging it as soon as its replacement arrives. In the meantime, we’re making mental lists of movies and TV shows we want to rewatch.
Unsurprisingly, I’m prioritizing beautiful women and cinematography and gowns — Gilda, Trois couleurs: Bleu, In the Mood for Love, and so on — while Crankenstein’s focused on hobbits and wizards and dragons. If Muriel had a vote, she’d suggest watching the same hunting shows my dad loves on the Outdoor Channel. I’m squeamish enough to choose Tolkien over that, but just barely.
11.12.24: Am I fumbling ever closer to Kübler-Ross’s fifth (and final) stage of grief? Not as it concerns the recent loss of my friend, or the catastrophe of last week’s election, or even about YOPD in general. However, when it comes to some of the physical limitations imposed on me by Parkinson’s, acceptance might finally be within reach.
Deciding to tailor more of our garage and basement storage to these constraints (and the realities of my marriage) seemed like a small, insignificant step — at the end of the day, what difference does adding casters to the bottoms of shelving or a workbench make in anyone’s life? Utility carts and modular storage can’t fix what’s wrong with my neurons or replace what’s missing from my relationships.
But there’s something empowering about making adjustments to compensate for your deficits. When it feels almost impossible to assemble the simplest carts or wire shelving, or to rig a couple of garden fence stakes with zip-ties for solar floodlights — all things I’ve done recently — you want to curse or cry or scream in frustration. If you stick with the task and complete it anyway, even if it takes longer than it should have and doesn’t look as nice as it would’ve before your circumstances changed, you’re rewarded with a sense of accomplishment that’s not unlike a dopamine hit.
After putting together the one-drawer cart pictured in the 11/06 entry below, I took stock of the practical difficulties I’d encountered and compiled a list of tools that might make it easier to tackle my remaining projects. Most we already own and I need only retrieve them from the appropriate storage bins. Others, like a rubber mallet and a socket bit set for our cordless drill, I bought.
Tomorrow, if there’s time, I’ll get started on the shop stool and see if it goes any faster as a result. There’s also the possibility that my efforts to optimize efficiency will backfire and I’ll accidentally bolt myself to something.
11.10.24: It’s amazing how TV prices only seem to go down, even as the cost of everything else rises. Crankenstein and I decided to replace ours this year, lest 2025’s promised tariffs materialize, and wanted to do so prior to Black Friday, when throngs of shoppers who already have seven or more TVs back home inexplicably trample each other to purchase cartfuls of additional widescreen televisions.
“Doorbusters,” these increasingly preposterous sales are called ($4 toasters, $30 air fryers, BOGO blue-eyed Caucasian newborns at Target), although much of the action’s been moved online.* Billboard-sized TVs might be priced at $200 and under, but we hoped to avoid so-called “derivative models” — popular items manufactured differently, sometimes to lower specifications, to meet the price points demanded by retailers — by acting now, and didn’t need to score a killer deal. We bought from a store with a nearby location in case a return or exchange is needed, even though shopping elsewhere would’ve netted us more cash back.
After narrowing the search to three trusted brands, watching demonstrations, and reading professional and consumer reviews, we chose a 50″ 4K UHD Samsung for $330. That’s $220 less than I spent on our 32″ Sony Bravia without any bells or whistles 15 years ago, which is nuts. This splurge should arrive later in the week, but my wait to enjoy the splendor of 4K UHD DVDs will continue: our 25-year-old DVD player and 10-year-old refurbished Blu-ray player (a steal at $40) aren’t high tech enough for that. In the meantime, I’m already looking forward to next October’s viewing of Bram Stoker’s Dracula, which brings the grand total of things I’m looking forward to in 2025 to… 1.
* This allows us to shop from our couches in our natural states — bleary-eyed at 2 am, wearing nothing but ill-fitting underwear and Doritos crumbs — no camping out in parking lots or brandishing handguns at strangers over PlayStations required.
11.06.24: Since I’m not handy enough with a toolkit to repair our fractured country, I set my sights a hair lower today and finally assembled the single-drawer cart that’s been in pieces in our laundry room since last week. After watching a how-to video on YouTube to supplement the barebones instructions manual, I set up a folding table and got to work.*
This was heavier and more complicated than the previous cart I assembled but it went together smoothly — and slowly, due to my lack of coordination. I worked on it for a few hours while listening to a library audiobook about Bernie Madoff, taking breaks now and then so my hands (and brain) could rest. Stubbornness made me bristle at the PT’s advice, shared at our first appointment, to stop barreling through physically taxing work and break it into smaller pieces as necessary. But it paid off today and I avoided the stupid mistakes I’m now more prone to when distracted or aggravated.
This will be used in our reorganized utility room and I liked the final product: it’s sturdy and the bottom shelf has carriage bolts, unlike the top, so you don’t have to worry as much about scratches. It’s periodically on sale for $99 at Harbor Freight, which is fairer than its regular price of $130; if you only know the store by reputation, not everything sold there is cheap crap.** The shop stool in the background is the next thing I need to assemble. We’ll see if I can get it done during whatever godforsaken Hallmark movie I watch next.
* There’s a workbench in our basement that was left behind by a previous homeowner who made it himself. I’d like to be able to use it for tasks like this but the height’s a problem; it’s designed for someone much taller than me. Next time our neighborhood handyman’s out — he’s a scientist by day and moonlights as Mr. Fix-It — I’m going to ask if he could shorten the legs and add casters so I can move it around by myself.
** Some of it is, so you have to be careful. The other main criticism of Harbor Freight is that its products are made overseas, primarily in China. But that’s also true of equivalent (and sometimes identical) Husky and Kobalt products from Home Depot and Lowe’s.
11.05.24: I’m not going to try to be funny tonight or recap my physical therapy appointment or share the handwritten inspirational note that was attached to this week’s sandwich order. If you’re in a bad mood, I’d close this browser tab and seek lighter entertainment elsewhere. My glass-half-empty worldview extends to politics and by 8:23 EST tonight, with everything going exactly as expected and MSNBC’s anchors still jovial, I turned off the election returns and told Crankenstein, “I think he’s going to win.”
It’s early still and maybe this will be a stressful replay of 2020 and the blue wall won’t collapse, but I’m reminded more of 2016. Democracy and decency die each time Trump is on the ballot, and, like a horror movie franchise, they can only be revived so many times. What has changed since 2016, besides a deeper entrenchment of the conditions that allowed so repugnant a candidate anywhere near the White House?* My cynical response is “Nothing.”
I’m worried tonight about the future of the country and my place in it. Republicans frequently scoff at sentiments like that, but I didn’t have the right to marry until I was in my thirties — and have little faith that Obergefell won’t go the way of Roe at the earliest opportunity. The Republicans in my life also like to beat their chests and bellyache about how much they pay in taxes, as if that makes them worthier of rights or more deserving of representation than other people. During this election cycle they endlessly bemoaned the economy, offering few specific concerns besides the occasional mention of 401(k) balances they say dropped under Biden.
”What are you invested in that your returns are so terrible?” I wanted to ask, but there was no point. For most of them, ‘the economy’ was code for something else.
At the risk of sounding like an asshole and alienating readers, Crankenstein and I pay more in taxes each year than most of our right-wing relatives and acquaintances earn on their W-2s.** What’s that gotten us under Trump’s Supreme Court? Less bodily autonomy than ever before and enduring stress about the future legality of our marriage (and the 1,000+ legal protections and benefits it provides). I’m sick of it. I’m sick of everything. My life is bleak and stressful enough without the casual cruelty and the worries, big and small, the Republican Party adds to it.
* Ideological rot has also swept the radical left, which is striking in its own way since the inevitable conclusion of these moronic culture wars is for the far-left and far-right to realize how much they have in common — their fetishization of, and rigid adherence to gender stereotypes, for example, even if they approach it from opposite directions — and eventually coalesce in support of an anti-science lunatic conspiracy theorist like RFK, Jr.
** And our retirement investments have done well under Biden.
11.03.24: It isn’t often that I post something here and delete it, but I did so with last night’s entry when dissatisfaction compelled me to sleepily replace a few sentences about Muriel’s birthday (and a therapy joke) with a Hallmark Challenge update.* It was late and I was mentally sluggish enough that I probably shouldn’t have written anything at all. But I was again leery of inviting apathy or inertia to settle in and make themselves at home, like pesky neurocognitive Sheridan Whitesides.
The basis of a longer, better post lurked somewhere within that mediocre first attempt, but damned if I could find it. That’s still the case tonight but I copied and pasted the original text into a new draft and will try to work on it this week. One good night of sleep (and a few hours of cooperation from my arm and neck) would go a long way in helping me out of this rut.
In other news, I felt oddly defensive at the library earlier as I made my walk of shame from the media shelves to a self-checkout kiosk. “This isn’t what it looks like,” I wanted to tell anyone who might have noticed the wobbly tower of DVDs in my hands and registered a preponderance of Hallmark DVDs with interchangeable titles, covers and casts. “There’s a perfectly logical explanation.”
“I’m sure there is,” a bored librarian would reply, before muttering “That’s what they all say” under her breath.
If you’re keeping track at home, Day #2 of the Hallmark Challenge was completed: Crankenstein and I watched Falling for Vermont, in which a famous author of children’s or young adult fiction gets into an accident and wakes up with amnesia. She’s in a small town, of course, and its only doctor is the obligatory Hallmark widower with two strangely well-behaved young kids. Don’t be fooled by its title or cover art, Falling is only tangentially related to fall — and it was so boring that even an organic farmer would’ve spiced things up.
* A few times I’ve specified that a shared a link or video would be removed after a couple days, then marked it as such when the post was edited. The last time I did that was with a tremor video. My reasons are technical and uninteresting — with video clips, it’s because of the particulars of my web hosting plan.
11.02.24: I took the night off to hang out with Crankenstein and Muriel, whose seventh birthday we (belatedly) celebrated, but I’m logging in quickly to keep myself honest and report that Day #1 of the Hallmark Challenge has been completed. The movie was called The Heiress and the Handyman, except he wasn’t a handyman, he was an organic farmer. It’s going to be a long two months.
11.01.24: This will be brief because it’s long past my bedtime, but it’s the first day of the month and already I’ve fallen behind by neglecting to watch a Hallmark movie. My goal is to (try to) watch one a day from now through Hanukkah, which starts at sundown on December 25th and ends on January 2nd. Whether I’ll catalog the experiment, as I’d originally planned to do, is uncertain; time constraints might make it impractical even if the enthusiasm’s there.
If tomorrow’s less hectic than today, and it should be, I’ll look for a fall-centric title and get started. Hallmark movies are rigidly formulaic — that’s 99% of the appeal for most fans — and usually clock in at 84 minutes. You can easily watch them while exercising or doing housework, which is what I plan to do. It’s the writing that would be the most time-consuming part, as idiotic as that must sound when we’re talking about the likes of The Christmas Toupee, in which Joey Lawrence grudgingly travels home for the holidays and loses his hairpiece in a blizzard — leading to a chance encounter with folksy artisanal wig-crafter Tinsel Adams (Alicia Witt) that changes both their lives forever.
10.31.24: Will next year’s festive fall offering be a gallbladder? A spleen? A liver with a bottle of Chianti beside it to make observant parents laugh? Crankenstein, who’s developing a niche in anatomically-themed pumpkin carvings, selected her favorite organ, the brain, to greet our friendly neighborhood Ninja Turtles and Disney princesses tonight.
As usual, she first sketched her idea on paper, then drew it on the pumpkin and etched it using a Speedball linoleum cutting tool. Muriel supervised, periodically licking the rug beneath the table to make sure no errant slivers of pumpkin had somehow escaped her attention.
While Crankenstein gloried in her dexterity, I tried to ignore mounting frustration with my left arm, which has felt even slower and weaker than usual lately. My left hand lags as I write this, a taunting reminder that my typing speed exceeded 160 wpm when I was younger.* Then, as now, I often typed with my eyes closed, which sometimes made disbelieving teachers and classmates check the screen for gibberish that wasn’t there. QWERTY keyboards have always felt like extensions of my hands and that’s something I never want to lose.
The last week or two has been rough across the board, physically and mentally. Before my next Botox appointment later in November, I should probably set up a motion-activated camera overnight to see whether there’s anything new in my repertoire — I’m waking up with strange muscle fatigue that could point to an escalation of the usual antics. It might also be a byproduct of something else entirely, like a newfound passion for karate or interpretative dance.
Beyond the physical nonsense, I keep catching myself wanting to use incorrect words when speaking. It’s the maddening return of a neurological hiccup Crankenstein and I last discussed a few months ago: an aphasic error known as verbal paraphasia. This started for me three or four years ago, when I repeatedly said (or almost said) “meow” to Muriel when I meant to say “woof.” It seems to come and go and I assume it’s currently worse than usual due to significant sleep disruption.
The holidays also seem to be a trigger: I keep coming up with “Merry Christmas” when I want to say “Happy Halloween,” or “uniform” when I mean “Halloween costume.” Fortunately, I’ve caught these frequent errors and avoided embarrassment each time. It isn’t a problem that shows up much in my writing; it happens almost exclusively when speaking. Could it signal cognitive doom? Sure, maybe, but the same could be said of Crankenstein misplacing her phone and keys (and wallet and watch) several times a week.**
I know from Parkinson’s support groups that others experience the same thing and most don’t have any sort of dementia diagnosis, so it doesn’t seem worth worrying about until an MDS or neuropsychologist says otherwise. But it’s a nuisance at a time when offline communication is already hampered by other speech deficiencies and hypomimia. During peak hours for trick-or-treating, Crankenstein’s on the candy beat and I’m on Muriel duty. But I got to man the door for a few minutes this evening and didn’t accidentally say “Merry Christmas” to ruthless, sugar-crazed children, which was a trick and treat of its own.
* I’d rather not know how many words per minute I’m good for these days.
** She has AirTags for most of those things but if anyone could lose track of her AirTags, it would be Crankenstein.
10.30.24: I’m checking in before bedtime with great news: “Viv’s Dog” is on YouTube, though its uploaders are sketchy (it was posted simultaneously across several accounts) and how long it’ll stay up is anyone’s guess. It’s been there for almost two weeks, so I must’ve used the wrong search parameters yesterday.
Here we join the episode in progress, just prior to Teri Garr’s arrival as Mrs. Carlson, and the following exchange almost immediately cracked me up:
Maude: Uh, Mrs. Carlson, we would prefer to have the funeral just as soon as possible. Perhaps within the next 24 hours?
Mrs. Carlson: Oh! Was the deceased Jewish?
Maude: No, he was a fox terrier, which I guess would make him… Presbyterian? Why do you ask?
Unfortunately, that’s all I have for you tonight. This was a trying day but mostly in small, stupid ways that I should be able to explain tomorrow. If you end up binge-watching Maude, please look out for yourself and skip the talent show/telethon episodes unless you’re a Bea Arthur or Rue McClanahan obsessive; those are almost always a scourge on classic sitcoms.*
* There’s an exception to every rule, in this case an Adrienne Barbeau number or two you’ll want to see if you’re a fan of ‘70s cheesecake fare.
10.29.24: None of the candidates I voted for today have plans to address one of the most pressing cultural issues of our day: a paucity of Maude clips on YouTube. Sure, you’ll find some, many from the same handful of channels, but their scope is lacking. The one I wanted to share here tonight was from Teri Garr’s appearance in a 1975 episode called “Viv’s Dog,” but if it’s there I couldn’t find it. (If a kindly homosexual, or maybe Antenna TV, rectifies this terrible oversight in the coming days, I’ll link to it here.)
Joe loved Garr, as did all discerning viewers, and I alerted him to the episode after I first saw it. “The fourth season of Maude got off to an absolutely horrible start (and they really screwed up Rue McClanahan’s hair in an unforgivable way by making her blonde),” I groused. “But Teri Garr just turned up and I thought you should know. McClanahan’s dog dies in this episode and Garr, a saleswoman for an animal mortuary, tries to sell her a top-of-the-line funeral. By Maude standards, her wardrobe was incredible.”
“The latest on Teri Garr in the ’70s is about the only news I can handle,” he joked. The pandemic was in full swing and scientists were racing to create a vaccine. We were stuck at home fondly discussing Isild Le Besco and Benoît Jacquot as if it were 2004, unaware of what the future held for them or that our regard for À tout de suite would later plummet. When Crankenstein and I weren’t watching Maude or The Golden Girls that year, she favored brainless comedies; occasionally we encountered Garr.
“So far she seems to think Mr. Mom is a gritty documentary of what life would be like if we switched roles,” I informed Joe of my spouse during an intermission.
“To my delight, that means you’re Teri Garr,” he replied.
We both knew it wasn’t true, but it was a funny thought.
Garr, who died today at 79, belonged to a generation of so many hilarious, wonderfully offbeat comedic actresses who were permitted to do things Jean Arthur and Myrna Loy and Judy Holliday couldn’t have dreamed of. But between sexism and multiple sclerosis, she didn’t get to do enough.* Let’s guard Mary Kay Place (who used to pal around with Garr) with our lives from here on out — and if you were a fan of Garr’s many Letterman appearances, you’ll have an easier time finding them on YouTube than I did with Maude.*
* Don Giller curated a vast collection; hopefully Letterman doesn’t file copyright claims against him now that Garr’s in the news. Linking to vintage Letterman clips is one of the banes of my existence as someone who has referenced more than a few in reviews and blog posts over the years; so many great segments and interviews were forever being yanked and reposted and yanked again.
As for Garr and MS, I’ll eventually write more elsewhere about her advocacy work (and that of a few other notable figures). Her symptoms first surfaced in her late thirties but she wasn’t diagnosed until her fifties. She was one of the most recognizable faces of the disease and her humor and candor were educational, amusing, and never cloying — which is impressive because it’s a fine line to walk, especially for someone with mobility challenges.
10.28.24: The most uproarious new sitcom of the season isn’t on network television, it’s live-streamed from my basement. Having slowly and ungraciously accepted that I’m less capable than I used to be and Crankenstein will probably never help in the yard or basement, I’ve decided to rethink garage and basement organization with my needs and physical limitations in mind.
My tortured history with basements is a subject that demands a much longer post, but most of that angst was caused by past residences (or residents, in the case of our present abode). Our current basement was finished in the 1960s or ’70s and has been sparingly updated since then; we expect to eventually tear it up so improvements can be made to the house’s HVAC, plumbing and electrical systems.
Having gotten a taste of what that will be like with last year’s structural work, and perpetually wary of flooding hazards like burst pipes or sewer backups, I’ve identified elevation and portability as two of my biggest priorities. Keeping things both dry and easy to (singlehandedly) move will pay dividends in the future if an area must suddenly be cleared to accommodate work or cleanup.
I’ll share some of those tactics when time allows, but today I assembled a rolling cart, the first of two. Motor difficulties turned what should’ve been quick and simple work into either a Kafkaesque nightmare or slapstick epic, depending on your sensibilities.*
It took hours and might’ve taken days if not for magnets; the tray that held all the nuts and bolts and the telescoping pickup tool that found the many I dropped. I’m pleased with the finished product considering this was a cheap clearance buy, but I’m going to do what some reviewers suggested and try to fashion protective pads or a shelf liner to keep the exposed bolts from scratching things.
The next cart on my to-do list, pictured in pieces above, contains a drawer, so if I disappear until midway through 2025, that’s why.
* Speaking of Kafkaesque nightmares, I’m going to brave the lines and vote tomorrow. Despite this year’s massive turnout it’ll probably go faster than cart assembly.
10.27.24: Inuring the afflicted and our families to loss is the only thing YOPD does quickly. Its insidiousness — particularly during its earliest stages — is one of its eeriest features, and a familiar cycle might repeat itself each time you realize with sadness or surprise that you’ve lost (or are losing) another skill: you’ll get angry, you’ll feel indignant, and you may even try to convince yourself it isn’t happening.
With time and introspection, you’ll arrive at another startling conclusion — that for years there’d been warning signs these capabilities were eroding, some written in languages only movement disorder specialists can understand. My latest moment like that came this weekend, while eating fettuccine Alfredo in public. It’s a mistake I won’t make again.
If I had more time tonight, I’d turn this into a goofy, sauce-spattered post called “Scenes from an Italian Restaurant.” Instead, I’ll leave you to imagine my mounting horror as each successive attempt to wrap my dinner around the tines of my fork failed. I wanted to shriek like a terrified tween on a haunted hayride every time I noticed sauce on something new: my pants, my shirt, my arm, the face of my watch. Hell, I avoided looking up at the ceiling, fearful the forecast was cloudy with a chance of Alfredo.
From now on, your rangier noodles — the ones that could play in the NBA — will be enjoyed in the privacy of my own home, and only after I’ve donned a floor-length bib and judiciously covered nearby rugs and upholstered furniture with plastic tarps or canvas drop cloths.
10.26.24: It’s 11:39 pm as I sit down to write this because my mother-in-law and I were up yapping after Crankenstein went to bed. I have all the latest gossip on her arch-nemesis Linda, a fellow church lady, and some book club intrigue they’ve been mixed up in, if anyone’s interested.
There are a few posts I’ve written but not yet published here because they needed more pruning or the real-life stories they told still felt unfinished — “Same Trailer, Different Park” and part three of “Money Changes Everything” come to mind. Longer is the list of posts I intend to write but haven’t started. Here’s a partial accounting:
- Auntie V’s season four appearances on Eight is Enough: the fashions, the hairstyles, the husbands
- Analyses of what went wrong with the characterizations of Mary and Nancy Bradford
- Whether the male stripper episode and Tommy Bradford falling for an older woman influenced the legendary turkey A Night in Heaven
- The Lyft driver who can cure cancer
- The secret lives of church ladies
- Why I’m elevating everything I possibly can in a dry basement
- My questionable decision to purchase a small electric saw
- Cautiously unveiling a new website
- Women’s slippers — why are they designed more like whimsical fuzzy sandals than sensible shoes?
- The increasingly detailed handwritten inspirational notes a stranger tapes to our weekly sandwich order
- Readjusting biological clocks for daylight savings time
I have a nagging feeling that I’ve left off a few of my biggest (and dumbest) ideas, but even with those omissions this is an accurate representation of how boring my life is. More tomorrow, assuming Mother-in-Law has exhausted all of her Linda complaints.
10.24.24: I neglected to mention in last night’s harried post that nothing was wrong with the boiler, it was just time for its annual maintenance. That entails not only cleaning and testing the boiler itself but bleeding the radiators — and there are a lot of ’em. The sounds of the technician clomping around the house for a few minutes naturally compounded Muriel’s angst.
It’s not often that I think “We should’ve bought as much house as lenders encouraged” — they try their darnedest to get early-career attendings on the hook for professional athlete-sized mortgages — but, oh, how I fantasize about having a guesthouse any time we summon a tradesman and there’s no good place to stash Muriel.* My longing for one (or for a spacious shed substitute with a couch and wi-fi connection) was stirred again today by a change in my in-laws’ plans that left me scrambling this evening to prepare for Mother-in-Law’s early arrival.
Sadly, she and Crankenstein’s dad won’t get to ghost hunt; he’s unexpectedly unable to travel. Now she’ll visit solo and stay with us for the length of her trip, which she’s excited about because it means a temporary reprieve from his chaos.** I’m glad when she and Crankenstein have time to themselves; they’ve overcome a lot of obstacles to maintain a relationship and it’s important for them not to rack up any new regrets as MIL ages. What I couldn’t have predicted a decade ago is that she also likes hanging out with me and tries to make sure we have one-on-one time, too.
Even when we were newlyweds and Mother-in-Law was still disappointed that I couldn’t teach her Mahjong, I suspected she wasn’t sure about me. Would I interfere in their fragile reconciliation or try to convert Crankenstein to Judaism? Subtly steer her away from Jesus by dragging her to clandestine bagel and global financial conspiracy breakfasts with George Soros on Sundays when she should be at church? Might our disagreements about housekeeping culminate in one of us bludgeoning the other with an upright vacuum?
It was undoubtedly a relief to her when nothing so unseemly happened during those early years, but now I think she’s a little bored with us. Maybe we can liven things up for her this weekend by spinning a yarn about the house being haunted. Then she gets a little excitement and we get a fun Ghostbusters story to share with friends and coworkers — everybody wins.
There probably won’t be time for me to post tomorrow, but Saturday should be doable. Please be sure to watch “Happy’s Place” on my behalf.
* That my office, the easiest place to contain her when work’s being done around the house, is directly above the utility room didn’t help. Our proximity to the tech’s clanging tools and frequent phone calls kept her a bit too alert.
** Originally they were going to stay elsewhere, which works best for everyone because of Father-in-Law’s quirks, and she was going to slip away to spend a night or two at our place while he caught up with someone.
10.23.24: The boiler that Crankenstein, like Kevin McAllister in Home Alone, considers one of our basement’s scariest features is believed to date back to the 1950s, if not earlier. An HVAC technician once looked at it admiringly and said it could outlive us if we chose to keep it, then chuckled that the utility bills might not be worth it. Indeed, we’d planned to shop around and make a decision once Crankenstein’s student loans were retired; our choices were either modernizing the boiler as much as possible or replacing it with a new model that’s almost twice as energy efficient.
Historically, I’ve relished the challenge of lowering utility bills as a homeowner; that our electricity bill at the old house was often less than $25 per month was one of my proudest achievements. My previously indefatigable — some would call it deranged — zeal for efficiency and optimization has waned over the last two or three years and stands out as one of those lamentable Parkinson’s changes that’s made me feel estranged from myself. Frugality and energy conservation remain causes dear to my heart, but I’m too tired and distracted to practice them with the usual vigor.
That’s something I’d like to change heading into 2025: I (mostly) liked the old me and would love to feel more like myself again. I thought of that earlier, as a less appreciative technician puzzled over the boiler; he nervously said “That’s an antique!” and kept calling a coworker for help on what to do next. The old me would’ve checked on him during the hour he spent in the basement, offering him a drink and asking a couple questions about modern boilers and how he’d proceed if he had one as ancient as ours.
It was all I could do today to keep Muriel relatively calm and quiet instead, but even if she’d behaved flawlessly I probably would’ve hung back. For one thing, strategizing about the future isn’t anywhere near as satisfying as it once was. (We’ve not made a boiler plan since we might move to a lower-maintenance house sooner than expected.) I’ve also lost some confidence when interacting with strangers due to PD issues, which is something else I need to change.
“If only we could switch places,” I told Muriel after showing the technician to the basement and returning upstairs. “You’d love to harass him and I wouldn’t mind taking one of your sedatives and rolling around on the office floor while licking frozen peanut butter.”
From the better-late-than-never department, here’s Monday’s most interesting litter. These weren’t found too close together but I like to think it tells a story. (I’m not sure if that’s an e-cigarette or Juul, it all looks the same to me.)
10.22.24: Once again I ran out of time while working on a post for another site, despite the mental note I’d made to share some photos of the most notable litter I passed on yesterday’s walk home from the dentist. The good news is that I remembered to collect these Lawrence O’Donnell video links to share with anyone else who’s been confused by recent reports of bizarre musical interludes and inappropriate tributes to Arnold Palmer at Trump rallies.
None of it made me laugh as much as pet-eating claims set to the Peanuts theme (what a musical masterpiece that was), but imagine Walter Cronkite opening a segment with this: “No one has ever explained why Donald Trump’s most consistent favorite song ever played at his political rallies is the gayest song that any presidential candidate has ever decided to lose himself in onstage.” That isn’t to say O’Donnell’s analogous to Cronkite; the point is the absurdity of the news itself.
In keeping with that theme, as soon as I heard this newer segment yesterday I jotted a reminder to play it for Crankenstein. It begins “Donald Trump has spent more time publicly discussing his penis and the penises of other men he admires than any other presidential candidate in history.” We’re then treated to a refresher of all the antagonistic flirting Trump and Marco Rubio engaged in about hand size circa 2016 before fast-forwarding eight years to the Palmer incident.
Since my grandfather died I’ve kept an informal running list of current events and other topics I wish we could’ve discussed. Now there’s also one for things I can’t believe Joe missed. He’s been gone for such a short time and already it’s long enough to make even Palmer, one of its most recent entries, jealous.
10.21.24: Today I was back in the dentist’s chair for part one of my second crown and something strange happened: my hands shook quite ridiculously, both of them. As usual, it was the index finger (left hand) or thumb (right) that were the most tremulous. It felt more like whole-hand shakes at rest than once they were lifted. I snapped a couple clips to show Crankenstein since she’s usually the only one of us who experiences dental anxiety, and will share one here for a night or two to give you an idea of what stress does to my tremor.
If you’re unfamiliar with PD tremors, they occur at rest — but it’s also more complicated than that, which is why Michael J. Fox sometimes grabbed pencils or other small distractions mid-scene on Spin City.* Mine will briefly slow or stop if I lift my hand from a resting position, only to regather its bearings and resume to some degree. I can also disrupt the shake by pressing my fingertips against a surface, but it’s like the energy’s still there, waiting to be uncoiled. According to my doctor, who has observed it, that’s normal.
My tremor is usually slower and milder — gentler-looking and less jerky — than this; it got kicked into overdrive because I was stressed by the nerve block injections and the process of prying my mouth open enough to (barely) accommodate a 3D imaging contraption. Fortunately, the numbing shots needed time to ‘soak,’ as the dentist called it, so I was left to my own devices for a few minutes while she and her tech did other things; this gave me a modicum of privacy and time to strategize on how to minimize the chances of them noticing the tremor since I was concerned it might be a distraction.
Here’s my ‘good’ hand, the one that rarely shakes:
[Video removed]
On the left side, my index finger had a mind of its own. At that point in the morning I wasn’t caffeinated or worked up about anything besides having to open my mouth, but I was sleep-deprived. I’d timed my levodopa for maximum effect but that doesn’t always work as planned.
Apologies if this reads as rushed or disjointed; I spent most of tonight’s free time working on a post that I’ll link to once it’s up elsewhere, but wanted to update here as well before going to bed.
* I utilize some of his tricks when I’m in settings where I don’t want people staring at my left hand, stuffing it in a pocket or tucking it under my thigh if I’m seated. During today’s dental work, I tried to keep my hands tightly interlocked on my stomach rather than letting them rest. Additionally, this is where I should mention that postural tremor is also common with PD. We can have action tremors and even intention tremors, too, but that gets into confusing territory for laypeople, especially since PD can co-occur with essential tremor. Resting tremor is the only one a neurologist really cares about, though, when it comes to Parkinson’s; around 70% of us have it. It’s not always a textbook pill-rolling tremor, either.
10.20.24: It was a Paul McCartney joke that nearly sent me over the edge. Grief kept punching me in the face today, as it’s wont to do, and each time I shook it off to the best of my ability and got back up. Then Crankenstein wanted to watch some first-season Roseanne before bed and one McCartney joke gave way to another and I was metaphorically down for the count. I didn’t cry or shake my fist toward the sky and rant, but I was done fighting, at least for the day; my opponent had won on points.
There are other musicians (Alex Chilton and Marc Bolan foremost among them) who remind me more of him, but Joe spoke of McCartney so often that a search for his name brought up dozens of 100-reply email threads. In February of 2021, to select an example at random, he wrote “Because I’m old, I just texted a grocery store my thoughts on McCartney III,” and I assured him there was nothing wrong with that as long as he didn’t attach unsolicited nudes. This summer he mused “I love non-Beatles Paul McCartney as much as anybody, but if going shopping meant hearing ‘Mull of Kintyre’ 5 times you would start shooting people.” Who can argue with that?
Moving on, I’ve been experimenting with bricks since I’d like something different than a traditional red or brown look this time. There’s still a lot of work to be done with acrylics, plus a wash or two for the mortar. You might not be able to tell from the photo, but the facade requires sanding and another coat of primer.
If that very tiny boarded-up house looks familiar, it’s from A Nightmare on Elm Street. It was a gift from a guy I bought a piece of 3D printing from a few months ago and this is a festive time of year to haul it out. My brush work is probably too sloppy for such fine details but it’s a neat model nonetheless.
10.19.24: The little things mean a lot, as the song goes, and the one I liked most today was catching the Happy’s Place pilot with Crankenstein on Peacock.* Yes, Reba McEntire and Melissa Peterman have flown too close to the (wax-melting) sun with whatever’s been done to their faces, and they need to stop the shenanigans now, before they’re irreparably Joan Van Ark-ed. But watching them share the screen again 17 years after Reba ended is like putting on your coziest pair of pajama pants, which is a feeling I could use right now. I’ll enjoy it while I can since their new sitcom will probably quickly go the way of Malibu Country.
With Sukkot underway, not much spray-painting was done earlier — I didn’t want the fumes to bother neighbors while they ate — but that work is nearly finished on the mystery building’s exterior walls and soon I’ll begin painting the finer details with a brush. Muriel and I assembled some garden poles topped with shepherd’s hooks instead, then looked for the sunniest spots to charge the flickering solar lanterns that should make our porch more atmospheric for trick-or-treaters.
Before it gets too cold this year, there are other outdoor chores I need to tackle: filling a few cracks in the driveway, sealing the patio, scouring wooden posts and trim for areas in need of puttying or caulking, replacing worn-out weatherstripping. These are simple things that Crankenstein should be able to help with if I have trouble, but my belief that ‘Niles’ will intervene is so strong that it almost makes me preemptively angry. It’s an uncharitable and unproductive perspective, but one forged by years of experience.
We also need to prepare for a houseguest later this month, which will make Crankenstein groan because she accuses me of turning into Chris Fleming’s ‘Gayle’ character from the “Company is Coming” video when we host friends or family. I refute this and will explain more in a future post, but it’s my mom who is the ultimate Gayle and it was always a small miracle when she made it through the holiday season without murdering us all.
* A few of the YouTube comments mention that Bettye Swann’s cover of the Kitty Kallen hit was recently in a car commercial, though I’m not sure whether that airs here or internationally. It seems like just yesterday I read a rave review of the Honest Jon’s Swann compilation and eagerly bought it on CD, the same way I’d purchased the label’s Candi Staton collection, but a cursory investigation finds that ‘yesterday’ was in 2004. Betty Wright, Bettye LaVette and Solomon Burke enjoyed resurgences around the same time and if I have to choose between remembering the magic of those discoveries or retaining the seven digits rattled off by a psychologist, the Betty(e)s are the clear winners.
10.18.24: “Winona Horowitz!” Papa would’ve bellowed of Winona Ryder, had he been more than passingly aware of her existence. (It’s doubtful he saw Heathers or Mermaids or Reality Bites, but maybe the Mel Gibson kerfuffle brought her ancestry to his attention.) Tonight I honored his ridiculous tradition by saying it myself when we rewatched Bram Stoker’s Dracula, one of last year’s Halloween picks, at Crankenstein’s behest.
I admire Francis Ford Coppola’s adaptation enough to own it on Blu-ray, a big commitment for someone who prefers lower cost (or library-borrowed) DVDs. But one of the things that always gets me about Gary Oldman’s much-quoted line, “I have crossed oceans of time to find you,” is that it’s said not about Monica Bellucci but Ryder. A love as operatic as Dracula’s for Elisabeta seems wasted on a waif, or for that matter anyone who dated the guy from Soul Asylum.
But the heart wants what it wants, as another director of Coppola’s generation once said — and so do the eyes, for Crankenstein, a serial dater and admirer of Jewish women, exclaimed “Really?!” in response to my Papa-esque outburst, before murmuring “Well, that explains it.”
“You had a crush on her?” I asked, amused. Ryder had been Felix’s perfect woman until Rachael Leigh Cook came along in the late ’90s.*
“Oh yeah!”
Had we been less immersed in the movie — had Keanu Reeves been yammering on — I might’ve joked “Are you sure? She’s only around 15 years older than you.” I’ll have to settle for teasing her here, instead.
* We were never on the same page about crushes: Felix liked fresh-faced Noxzema pitchwoman types and I preferred ’40s femme fatales and middle-aged French ice queens. His first girlfriend was an outwardly wholesome cheerleader who loved Dawson’s Creek; mine was weird and prone to biting and equally admired Jesco White and Jane Bowles. As for Ryder, she only gets better with age. Her brand of prettiness still goes over my head but, as the above-linked interview illustrates, she’s otherwise my kind of woman.
10.16.24: Poor time management this evening means I’ll have to double up on tomorrow’s post instead, which will include an expression of bafflement about something I spotted at the museum — or maybe I can do it really quickly right now. The exhibition featured works from the late 1930s and early ’40s and mentioned the backgrounds of several artists, reading something like “our collection includes works by Black, immigrant, and female-identifying artists.”
Female-identifying stuck out like a sore thumb, as phrases attempting to redefine gender often do, and when Crankenstein wandered over I pointed to it and shook my head. On the way home I said “Apparently you can’t ‘identify’ as Black, Asian, Jewish, or immigrant; you either are or you aren’t. But ‘female,’ that’s optional.”
She mentioned that she’d read each artist’s bio — as had I — and found no references or allusions to any being transgender. When we got home I looked them up to see if modern activists have speculated that any belonged to the club, and found nothing. Nor did it seem to be a clear-cut instance of a curator’s personal politics dictating their style; a quick Google search yielded many articles from 2019 onward, suggesting it’s common art world lingo.
Curiously, “male-identifying artists” brings up only a handful of results, none from museums or respected newspapers and periodicals.** The disproportionate influence that trans women wield politically, academically, and artistically in comparison to trans men never ceases to amaze me; all the linguistic and cosmetic sleight of hand in the world can’t erase sexism.
* See: NPR, the Art Newspaper, Women in Higher Education, the National Museum of Women in the Arts, Frieze, etc. The Baltimore decision from the NPR article is what kickstarted a lot of this; I included its Women in Higher Education shoutout but it was amplified in bigger outlets, including the New York Times.
** See: Reddit (a Taylor Swift thread is currently the top result), Instagram, and personal blogs.
10.14.24: The most pernicious effect of chronic sleep deprivation is feeling locked out of your own brain. I flirted with writing nothing tonight since I don’t currently have many thoughts worthy of anyone’s attention, but fear that skipping one night might lead to skipping two made me resume typing. Today was mostly spent going through the motions like that. Other than staggering downstairs to feed Muriel, so tired I was dangerously wobbly, my recollection of this morning is hazy.
Eventually I edited the clunky first paragraph of last night’s post and went for a walk with Crankenstein, who has the week off. Then things got hazy again: I completed various routine tasks but don’t recall being engaged with any of it. We reconvened this evening for Midsommar, which she’d selected as our Halloween viewing because she enjoys folk horror.
“What did you think?” she asked when it was over.
“Why watch that when you can watch The Wicker Man?” I answered. Though I’d enjoyed writer-director Ari Aster’s Hereditary, Midsommar didn’t unduly impress as either a horror or breakup film. It wasn’t unlikable — the lead performances were good — but it was meandering and self-indulgent. “Look at me, I’ve seen all the major Bergman Criterion releases,” Aster seemed to boast, but haven’t all of us whose teenage pretensions coincided with the halcyon days of Netflix DVD rentals?*
Speaking of meandering and self-indulgent, I’ll try to write something better tomorrow. Crankenstein and I might also clear time for a museum date, assuming I get enough sleep tonight to not pose any danger to sculptures.
* Now our continued pretensions and larger budgets mean we own the Ingmar Bergman’s Cinema collection, purchased during one of Criterion’s 50% off sales. Crankenstein felt similarly about Midsommar, by the way. She liked it more than I did but thought it should’ve been shorter.
10.13.24: I’m not sure if “Unbreak My Heart” or “How Do I Live” is more appropriate for what I’m about to tell you, but Auntie V has made her final appearance on Eight is Enough.* Tragically, even the excitement of her softer, hipper hair couldn’t compensate for a lackluster plot; Viv deserved a better sendoff. (She’s one of several Bradford women whose ‘dos were modernized in the fourth season to greet the ‘80s in style, while Dick Van Patten’s toupee and Adam Rich’s signature helmet hair were preserved as timeless classics.)
There’s still the Hawaiian arc to cover before we get into the nitty-gritty of her finale, but I’ll cop to growing concerns about the fifth and final season, which features a young Ralph Macchio in his Danielle Brisebois/Quinn Cummings era.** This brings me to an idle question: has Taylor Swift ruined the word ‘era’ for the rest of us? It seems to have recently become popular for Swiftian reasons that presumably have some lyrical significance (since it’s also the name of her current tour), but I’m not curious enough to investigate.
It’s widely believed that most Caucasian women born during or after the 1980s own all of her albums in triplicate and can recite her boyfriends in order the way my White Diamonds-spritzing grandma could list Elizabeth Taylor’s ex-husbands; but the only songs of hers I’ve deliberately listened to in their entirety are “Love Story” and “You Belong to Me.” (This fact drove Ex, an avowed anti-Swifter, to the edge of despair, but I’m unapologetically pro-“Love Story” to this day.) Though my peers assume you’re joking, lying, or visiting from another planet if you’re unfamiliar with Swift’s oeuvre, it’s easy to fall out of the loop when you prefer older music and television.
Joe tried to get me to listen to Olivia Rodrigo’s new album last year, which I still need to do; more recently, Crankenstein had to explain Chappell Roan in much the same way I once explained to her that Julie London was more than just Dixie McCall, the nurse she had a crush on as a kid who watched Emergency! reruns all summer. Now I’m rambling from tiredness and will try to wrap this up. The weekend was uneventful; we went to the library and the art supply store, and yesterday we met people for lunch.
They’d requested patio seating and the back of my shirt was soaked with perspiration within five minutes of getting to the restaurant, but that could’ve just as easily happened indoors so I didn’t say anything about it. Our waitress and the young couple sitting behind us probably wondered why I was sweating like Nixon at the Chicago debate — we were sitting on benches, so there was no hiding it — and every time I felt them glance in my direction, I wanted to call out “Trust me, I’m as confused and unsettled by this as you are.”
* I suggest we split the difference and listen to the esteemed Diane Warren veterans Toni Braxton and Trisha Yearwood duet on both songs; here’s their “Unbreak My Heart” and “How Do I Live.”
** “You’ll have to be more specific,” some of you might be thinking, for Macchio looked 14 until he was in his forties. He only started to look 40-something within the last couple years, once he turned 60, and before you know it his children will be mistaken for his parents.
10.12.24: We’ve reached a point in my sleep saga where I’m wondering if Crankenstein should Velcro me to the bed overnight; manacles are out of the question because she’d immediately misplace the key. This morning she responded to another report of poor sleep with a revelation of her own: “You were doing weird things again last night.” New weird things — or rather, newly noticed things (for all we know, it’s happened for months or years) — beyond the usual leg movements
“With my right hand?” I guessed. For a couple weeks now I’ve suspected it’s up to something odd between 5 and 6 am on the days I manage to sleep, but she was referring to my toes.
“I woke up in the middle of the night and we were on our backs, cuddled up to each other,” she said, and either her lower leg was over mine or mine was over hers. That’s how she realized my regularly scheduled ankle flexion party had a guest. “It was similar to striatal toe,” she said, demonstrating what she’d felt through my sock: big toe extended, the rest where they should be. I wanted to groan — that’s a Parkinson’s issue that can cause hand or foot deformity. Some people even wrap or brace their feet in an attempt to contain their rogue toes.
“Do your legs hurt when you wake up?” Crankenstein probed.
“Everything hurts when I wake up.”
“Including your feet?”
“Yeah.”
Now she was in doctor mode, asking location questions I couldn’t answer off the top of my head. Even before ‘Niles’ arrived on the scene, Crankenstein was very attuned to her body and hyperalert to anything that feels slightly off. I’m the opposite of that, which exasperates her at times, but how much attention are you really going to pay mundane aches and pains when you’ve had arthritis for almost 30 years? Early morning and late at night are when you expect the most pain and stiffness, anyway.
At next week’s appointment I’ll ask the physical therapist if she has any suggestions, but until then this is one more overnight worry I’ll try to banish from my mind. Sure, I’m just a hand flourish or two away from performing the Macarena while I sleep, but that’s nothing compared to the bilingual conversations Crankenstein has between snores — or the medical orders she issues when she isn’t punching the air and breathing like a Lamaze coach.
10.10.24: “A Roomba isn’t a splurge,” Crankenstein protested yesterday evening, in response to Tuesday’s ode to our new robotic vacuum. “And if it makes your life that much easier, put one in every room.” She meant it as a figure of speech, obviously, and wasn’t only saying it because she’d endorse any measure that might spare her the agony of being asked to sweep. It was more about her post-YOPD diagnosis belief that I shouldn’t just live it up and travel to tennis tournaments while it’s still practical, I should also do more to embrace comfort and convenience.
Loosening up financially has been easier this year than it was last year, mostly because Crankenstein’s med school debt is gone and partly because I’ve started to unhappily accept some of my limitations. I’ve taken Lyfts to stressful appointments, replaced the iPad that Muriel and I accidentally broke, and will pay for a couple of fall leaf cleanups instead of doing it all myself.* My Parkinson’s purchases — the Roomba, a planner, the trekking poles and expiratory trainer recommended by physical and speech therapists — are boring, but making them at all was a sign of progress.
There’s been no tennis travel yet and it’s hard to imagine a Slam experience without Joe, so I might plan other trips instead. For now I’d rather prioritize retirement savings and home improvements while enjoying my new money pit hobbies: I’m currently working on a half-scale brownstone and need to put together a post with photos of other recent builds. The scenes in the brownstone, as with most of my models, will be set in the past, but I plan to make a 1:12 Roomba for Crankenstein’s cabin — maybe one for each level, instead of one in every room.
I’d hoped to write something longer today but this has been a bad week for sleep. Fingers crossed I’ll be less groggy tomorrow.
* I’m aware of the ‘leave the leaves’ campaigns, and we enjoy our leaves, but you also have to consider your surroundings. The restaurants down the street attract pests and it’s best to keep your yard unattractive to them.
10.09.24: It doesn’t feel right to crack a bunch of stupid jokes as Hurricane Milton pummels an already battered Florida tonight, so I’ll delay discussion of Crankenstein’s reaction to last night’s ode to our new robotic vacuum. The other subject I was going to mention was the death of Nicholas Pryor, a wonderful character actor who showed up almost everywhere in a career dating back to the 1950s.* He appears, in fact, in the fourth season of Eight is Enough as Joanie’s boss at a local news station, and I’ll be disappointed if they don’t end up together.
Anyway, my thoughts are with Floridians. Though I have no firsthand experience with hurricanes, I’m very familiar with catastrophic flooding (if the photos don’t load, here’s a video retrospective) and flash floods, and am unnerved by the increased frequency and severity of these events.
* Pryor was married to Christina Belford (also known as Christine), a Cranky favorite who, like her husband, always brightened the screen. She’s still with us but retired years ago.
10.08.24: Last week I did something enormously self-indulgent and purchased a second robotic vacuum cleaner. We already had one on the main floor of the house, a basic budget model that darts around without any rhyme or reason and has to be manually emptied and charged.* It’s a workhorse that’s held up well over the years, and I regularly lugged it upstairs and down to the basement to cover those territories, too.
That’s been trickier lately for PD reasons (especially shepherding the vacuum from room to room upstairs to make sure none are skipped), which has been driving me nuts because old houses are dust havens.** It’s not as much of a problem in the basement, but keeping up with it has become a losing battle upstairs. Realistically, Crankenstein is never going to help sweep the floors or dust the millwork, blinds, and furniture; that’s my responsibility. Outsourcing the floors to a smarter gadget was an appealing alternative but the price was never right.
A self-emptying Roomba was recently on sale for $250 at Amazon, which was more than we’d spent on the downstairs vacuum but not unreasonable for a machine that I’d program to run daily. It arrived this past weekend and connecting it to our network was the first minor hassle; then it returned to the dock but didn’t charge. There was an emptying error I figured out with help from Google (the dock thought the bag was fuller than it was), but other than that I’ve been dazzled. It mapped the second-floor’s layout and lets us customize routines.
You can schedule cleanings from the app or initiate them on the fly; you can send it back to the base to clear its bin and recharge. Owning a robot that vacuums while I tend to other matters already made me feel like Jane Jetson, but having one this capable is a different, more obscene level of luxury. This wasn’t an acquisition I would’ve made prior to Parkinson’s or the repayment of Crankenstein’s student loans. But it’s worth it every time I go upstairs and the floors are clean. It’s made me less disappointed in myself and less irritated with Crankenstein. Now, if only there was a robot that cleans sinks and bathtubs…
* I sweep several times a week and do a deeper vacuuming once every 7 to 10 days since Muriel is a moderate shedder.
** Our older vacuum has become more of a pain because my hands aren’t nimble and I have to frequently detach and clean its brushes. The newer model has brushes that supposedly won’t require as much attention. Housework is harder in general with Parkinson’s, between the clumsiness and lightheadedness and overheating. Floor-cleaning tasks are among the worst for lightheadedness because of all the stooping and squatting and getting back up, same as bathroom-cleaning and laundry. It’s easier to clean the kitchen since most of the areas that attract messes — the sink, counters, stovetop, etc. — are right in front of you.
10.07.24: Nothing’s ever quite as simple as it’s supposed to be with old houses, which turned what was scheduled as a half-hour appointment this morning into one lasting two hours. Muriel, despite having been given Trazadone leading up to what the prescription bottle calls ‘the stressful event,’ registered her displeasure throughout. When her saddest cries and most resentful barks weren’t enough to spring her from the joint (i.e., my office), she even tried her hand paw at howling.
Muriel’s wild insecurity and frantic desperation when I engage with anyone who isn’t her is exhausting, and not only because it reminds me of my last relationship. Multitasking is more onerous now than it was in the past, which means it’s difficult to tune her out and focus on the conversation I’m trying to have. This kookiness of hers wasn’t a problem prior to the pandemic; we’d worked extensively on her separation anxiety and she made amazing progress that regressed during lockdown.
It’s hard to teach an old dog new tricks (that’s why I’m still confused by my phone four years later), so I don’t know how much of that magic we can recapture. Muriel’s anxiety, like Crankenstein’s, wears me out now in ways it didn’t before. I was able to avoid the domino effect of her distress intensifying my tremor, but the physical tension she carries on days like this feels inherently dangerous. She has so much energy, so much strength, so many friggin’ legs, and it doesn’t take much to knock me off-balance.
“If you don’t clean up your act, I’ll have no choice but to adopt a sickeningly obedient, well-behaved breed one day when you’re gone,” I warned her afterward, assuming she’d be disgusted if only she understood. She bolted from the office like a bat out of hell when I finally let her loose and dutifully performed a perimeter check while releasing the occasional warning back. Once she was satisfied we were alone, she snuggled up to me on the couch and permitted herself to sleep. She’s still snoring hours later.
10.06.24: “I’m a great wife,” Crankenstein modestly boasted of herself this morning after learning she’d gallantly — and groggily — offered to share her blanket with me if I had the chills overnight. She almost never remembers our late-night exchanges due to how sleepy she gets, so I filled her in as we set off to procure her weekly supply of Coke Zero.
“Are you sure?” I’d challenged her, knowing she’s almost Fatal Attraction-ish in her possessiveness toward blankets. “You won’t yank it away if I grab some of it?” We’re often locked in that most common of domestic power struggles: Crankenstein is almost always cold and I’m usually burning up. To keep the peace overnight, we share a flat sheet and quilt and top them with separate fleece throws. She requires hers year-round, even when our bed is hotter than Hades, and I use mine so rarely it’s kept in another room.
She swore that she wouldn’t abscond with her blanket and not only was she true to her word, she reined in her calisthenics and strange burrowing routines to keep it easily accessible — even as I flopped around all night, broiling one moment and freezing the next. Altogether, I got off easy this time; last year, my temperature stopped just shy of 104 degrees while Crankenstein threw Tylenol at me like a kid tossing peanuts at the circus.
We also trudged to the library today and I picked up a Hallmark movie or two, along with a Claude Chabrol Criterion and I Escaped from the Gestapo, which looked intriguingly bad — but as long as no one yells “Outlander!” 876 times, I probably won’t complain. That’s right, we watched the original Children of the Corn last night, and holy mackerel did it fall apart at the end. I was half-tempted to immediately rewatch it as a comedy but Crankenstein had suffered enough.
10.03.24: If I ever write a memoir, there’s going to be a chapter called “The Uncrustables Incident.” You’d assume that if anyone were to squabble over those odd little frozen peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, it would be the children to whom it’s marketed. But earlier this week Crankenstein and I, childless women closer to menopause than not, bickered about an Uncrustable, something we find more amusing with each passing day.
It was a kerfuffle rooted in ignorance (mine) and irritability (hers). To start with, I’m not too familiar with Uncrustables other than knowing the name; my mom, a supermarket skinflint in the ’80s and ’90s, never brought them home. Meanwhile, Crankenstein’s love affair with these ‘grab and thaw’ sandwiches goes back quite some time, so it was all she could do not to huff “Cranky, you ignorant slut!” like Dan Akyroyd when asked if I should throw out her still-wrapped sandwich, which had been on the kitchen counter for a long time.*
She has previously thrown out groceries after ‘Niles’ raised food safety concerns, so it seemed an innocuous question until she snapped something heated in response; then it was off to the races. In retrospect, I should’ve known she might detect anger in my voice even if none was intended; she probably felt defensive since I’ve previously complained about ‘Niles’ and waste.** But there was more to it than that, as she later admitted with a laugh: Crankenstein was stressed about something unrelated to sandwiches and simply wanted to argue.
It was an impulse I could appreciate, even if she didn’t. The nature of Crankenstein’s work means she sometimes wants to shout things she can’t, much as her strict religious upbringing often silenced her when she was younger. If there’s one place she should always feel free to speak her mind, even if that means impassioned quarreling about Uncrustables, it’s at home.
Though our frivolous fracas was over almost as quickly as it began — we soon felt utterly stupid and decided to move on — it might flare up again later this week if we disagree about a question I’ll pose to everyone here right now: is the hazelnut spread variety of Uncrustables technically a dessert?
* The ‘grab and thaw’ part was what I was missing; I foolishly assumed you were supposed to cook it somehow.
** It doesn’t have to be food waste, it can be almost anything. OCD has a limitless imagination.
10.02.24: For tonight’s spooky viewing, Crankenstein and I turned to Tubi and looked for something in the 75-minute range because we were tired and short on time. Having been enticed by its star, Barbara Stanwyck, we went with The House That Would Not Die, a 1970 TV movie directed by the prolific John Llewellyn Moxey.
Pay no mind to the old house that might be haunted or the young woman who might be possessed; the screenwriter certainly didn’t.* This is strictly worth seeing for Stanwyck, who was incapable of giving a lazy performance and plays every scene with all the dignity she can muster, whether attending a séance or making out with Richard Egan.
Speaking of old houses, my free time today was spent tending to ours. Later this week, possibly as soon as tomorrow, I’ll have a shameful confession to make regarding our abode. It’s not a home that’s ostentatious in size or design, though we think it’s rather handsome. The excessive upkeep it requires is due solely to its age, which is relatable to anyone old enough to have caught Cheers during its original run.
There are other trivial things I could report if I wasn’t overdue for my 10 pm levodopa, like Markie Post’s appearance on Eight is Enough and my maddening indecisiveness about whether to plan a special farmhouse project in half or quarter-scale. Alas, my thought process is becoming as slow and stiff as one of the hands that’s typing this and I still need to get ready for bed. Sorry this was so boring, but tomorrow promises to be more exciting since I have to wrap a few gifts.**
* I apologize in advance for recycling some of this post if I end up covering the film at Cranky.
** That’s not a tremor joke, I’ve been a lifelong danger to myself and others when wielding tape.
09.30.24: Before I forget again, let’s kick this off with a correction I should’ve made last night: “Don’t Let the Old Man In” was not Oscar-nominated. I meant to double-check that before bed and it slipped my mind. The annoying thing was, I had plenty of time to fix it; I was awake more often than not overnight, listening to the familiar whir of ceiling fan blades.
Lately the problem hasn’t been nocturnal hacking — the antibiotic cleared up whatever was intermittently crackling in my chest and we’re left with a more benign choking cough that doesn’t visibly fill Crankenstein with dread — it’s just the usual PD antics. There’s no universal description of what Parkinson’s sleep disruption is like because it’s different for everyone, but for me it can turn any night into a dark night of the soul.*
Once you’re in that zone where your sleep is horribly fragmented, your brain starts to feel under siege. Sometimes I picture it as a rabid doberman desperately lunging and growling and rattling a chain link fence. PD’s the dog from hell, with apologies to Charles Bukowski, and my sanity’s the fence. Noises that don’t bug me in the daytime are torturous at 3 am, and my outlook in general grows very dark and bleak.
It’s not as bad now as it was pre-levodopa, when things got so miserable that I recognized almost none of myself in whoever I became overnight. (On the rare occasions Crankenstein was privy to that agitation, she agreed.) But I still frequently remind myself “This too shall pass. A couple hours from now, the sun will be up and everything will be fine and this will seem absurd.”** Maybe next time I’m up, I can interrupt the pep talks long enough to proofread or fact-check myself instead.
To end this on a lighter note before heading off to bed, one of my nieces told her bus driver today that “Aunt Cranky and Aunt Crankenstein are going to have an anversary,” her mispronunciation of anniversary. She’s never given any indication that she understands we’re gay and I’m not sure she fully grasps what it means, anyway.^ But the story made me laugh because it reminded me of one I’ve shared here before about Youngest Sister telling people I was an alien back when she was a kindergartener who had ‘alien’ and ‘lesbian’ confused.
* Some are plagued by bladder issues overnight. Fortunately, I’ve not dealt with that so far, but PLMS and waking up startled and confused because of noises in dreams is common for me instead, along with dystonia that gets weirder and more severe when I’m asleep or half-asleep and my medication wears off.
** That’s usually true but lately it’s not, because grief feels the same regardless of the hour.
^ She’s only aware of it because she watched her dad write it on their kitchen calendar this weekend, along with other October occasions.
09.28.24: Maybe the mothball post will come sooner than expected. It has to do with the contentious topic of ghosts — of Casper and Topper and “I ain’t afraid of no” fame — and whether or not my great-grandmother, Grams, paid my mother a visit in my bedroom circa 1990 or thereabouts. I said no, as you may have guessed, and Mom said yes.
It wasn’t the last ghost debate to erupt on that side of the family, followed as it was by an incident involving a photo taken in my grandparents’ dining room that showed… what, exactly? Half of my relatives were convinced it was a ghost and the rest of us thought they’d lost the plot. Besmocked teenagers developed rolls of film in drugstores, supermarkets and parking lot kiosks back then, and odd artifacts often appeared due to light exposure and improper techniques.
For 15 or 20 years, my family argued about that photo, and by the time they were done I’d taken up with Ex, whose grandmother went way back with a ghost on a bicycle. My life was ghost-free after that relationship ended — in the traditional sense, anyway — and for a long time afterward.* The streak ended when my in-laws took up ghost hunting, an odd pursuit I’ve mentioned a few times without exploring, an oversight I might soon have reason to correct.
This afternoon they called to ask if they could visit us on X dates next month. It seemed normal enough, until they explained that they were going to be in town for some paranormal tours and ghost hunting and would carve out an extra couple days for us once those activities were done. They said this as casually as you might tell an old friend “Hey, I’ll be in town for business next month if you’re free for dinner.” After all, who doesn’t ghost hunt?
Crankenstein looked at me with raised eyebrows and replied “Uh… sure! That’ll work,” then hung up and shook her head. “What the hell?” she asked, ostensibly speaking to me and Muriel, though I sensed the question was intended for the universe. Naturally, I had no answer, but I might as well start organizing my own ghost stories now since they’ll undoubtedly have some to share by the time we break bread together.
* In a metaphorical sense, sure, I’m haunted. But not by Patrick Swayze or the Ghost of Christmas Past. It’s mistakes and missed opportunities, my own and those of others — did The Conners really have to be so bad? — that gnaw at me no matter my attempts at enlightenment. Yes, I’m a bit more forgetful about appointments and deadlines these days, but there are a million things I’ve imbecilically said or done over the years that I still remember in excruciating detail. The earliest of these memories begin at five or six and new ones are created each year. [Note to Crankenstein/Niles: ‘Imbecilically’ is in the OED. I’m not inventing words.]
09.25.24: The dreaded McCheese is back after a one-day absence, which is sooner than I would’ve liked but there’s hope on the horizon: I’ll finish LSVT tomorrow morning. Should I celebrate my freedom in the coming days by writing reviews? Completing my promised Eight is Enough posts? Throwing myself headlong into It’s a Living, a Witt/Thomas sitcom featuring Susan Sullivan in spandex?*
As a Golden Girls scholar and former devotee of Mama’s Family (in my defense, I was very young), I’ve been on a collision course with It’s a Living since at least the early ’90s. It’s currently streaming at Amazon and this seems like an opportunity worth seizing since it’s not available on DVD. Other than Eight is Enough, which is running out of steam early in its fourth season, there’s no series I’m watching solo right now and a sitcom might buoy my spirits.
Not too long ago, Best Friend suggested I pick out an old show for us to watch together. He was too straight for It’s a Living and had been working his way through ’80s crime and action series, so I was leaning toward Wiseguy or Scarecrow and Mrs. King. It feels too soon to embark on Scarecrow now, though I need to tackle it eventually as part of my Kate Jackson coverage.
In search of a distraction this weekend, I gave Netflix’s The Perfect Couple a try. Susanne Bier was once an interesting director and the cast — Nicole Kidman, Isabelle Adjani, Liev Schreiber — was intriguing. Schreiber’s turning into Sydney Pollack, which I love, but the first couple episodes were terrible. It’s a hybrid watered-down White Lotus/stale cozy mystery and its opening credits are insufferable.
More and more, new streaming content feels AI-generated to me. The Perfect Couple’s title is particularly unfortunate because it evokes Robert Altman’s A Perfect Couple, a forgotten film that’s as effortlessly offbeat (hell, it’s a romantic comedy starring Paul Dooley and Marta Heflin) as Bier’s series painfully aspires to be.
* Alas, she’s only around for a season or two, but she’s joined by a host of others, including future TV movie queen Ann Jillian.
09.23.24: All right, five days in a row it is, but this will be the last: I should have enough free time tomorrow to write a proper post, one that might begin “It’s never a good sign when the psychologist conducting your mental health status exam has a copy of the DSM-5 on his desk.” Immediately I suspected I was dealing with a doofus, particularly because it wasn’t even his permanent office, just a space he was using for the day.
The whole look of the desk, like that of his person, was carefully curated in a way that reeked of intellectual insecurity, and it reminded me of that Anchorman quote: “I have many leather-bound books and my apartment smells of rich mahogany.” But he looked young, if still too old for that nonsense, so maybe there’s hope for him yet.
Prior to his exam, I was evaluated by an internist who inspired more confidence. That said, my expectation of another denial wasn’t swayed by any of it. What normally happens is the government maintains you can do some sort of work, even if it’s no longer the skilled work you previously performed, and then it’s up to your lawyer to explain to a judge why you can’t retrain for another career and aren’t fit to run a fast food cash register or stock grocery store shelves or greet customers at Walmart or Costco.
In any event, I’m glad this is out of the way and will catalog more of the experience later in case anyone’s curious about it. This morning’s appointments consumed more than two hours, much of it spent waiting, and then there was LSVT. Now I’m tired and Crankenstein and I have plans to watch the pilot episode of the new Kathy Bates version of Matlock like the old fogeys we are. It might make us revisit the Matlock of our childhoods, which aired incessantly in syndication and bored us when our grandmothers tuned in, but that’s a slippery slope — if we aren’t careful, In the Heat of the Night and Diagnosis: Murder might be next.*
* Diagnosis: Murder is also on Pluto, but not in its entirety.
09.22.24: Four days in a row of McCheese dispatches is two or three too many, and I’ll do my best tomorrow to keep it from reaching five, but today was mostly about keeping my head above water. My philosophy is usually more aligned with ‘letting the water hold me down,’ a la Talking Heads, but this is a Virginia Woolf situation that calls for hastily emptying the rocks from one’s pockets and reaching for a life preserver — or a glass of chocolate milk.* (Technically, I had a chocolate nutrition shake. But I imagined it was milk.)
To that end, I consumed too much sugar this weekend — you have to get your kicks somewhere when you’re practically Mormon in your approach to drugs and alcohol — and watched a few episodes of The Golden Girls. Crankenstein and I made our usual treks to Aldi and the library, requesting some movies she wants to watch between now and Halloween, and I vacuumed the barren corners of unused upstairs closets and performed other unnecessary chores while listening to a bit of an audiobook, Tyler Mahan Coe’s Cocaine and Rhinestones: A History of George Jones and Tammy Wynette, followed by a little Laura Branigan on iTunes.
Tomorrow I’ll have no choice but to be more productive, which isn’t a bad thing. Once LSVT’s over at the end of this week, I’m going to pick a new (ongoing) distraction to take its place. Maybe I’ll take up twirling, inspired by that Lisa Whelchel telefilm, or become a mafia wife, as Nancy McKeon did in a TV movie that’s long been on my to-review list.
* The funny thing is, no one knows what to say to me right now. Best Friend would’ve known, and would’ve probably already found a way to provoke inappropriate laughter about it, but my family hasn’t gone beyond “I’m sorry.” Tom’s the only one who hasn’t said anything at all, which spurred Youngest Sister to rip into her about what a jerk she’s been lately — or so Crankenstein reports, since Youngest Sister spoke to her and left me alone. I’m not ready to discuss it with any of them, anyway, so it’s just as well.
09.21.24: “You might be young but you already look plenty busted to me,” Crankenstein said this evening, trying to sound both loving and reassuring. We were debating whether I should withhold levodopa prior to Monday’s physical exam for the SSDI reconsideration. It has a very short half-life, exiting our systems so quickly that in theory I’d be ‘off’ just by skipping my 6 am dose the morning of the appointment. But if I also skipped later doses on Sunday, the examiner would glimpse even more of the cumulative toll of YOPD.*
We’ll see how adventurous I feel tomorrow, but I’m leaning toward maintaining the usual schedule and only going ‘off’ on Monday morning. Reconsideration ends in denial 85% to 90% of the time, so why feel worse than necessary while waiting to get kicked (metaphorically) in the teeth? It’s not like there’s anything exotic in my medical history; the examiner will already know what Parkinson’s is and why it’s disruptive.
Whatever they ultimately write in their report, it’s nice to know my wife affectionately views me as a car — or maybe a kitchen appliance — that broke just after its warranty expired and is too expensive to replace.
* Neurologists sometimes ask to evaluate patients in ‘off’ states, but this exam is unlikely to be performed by one. You’re seen by whoever is working that day and their specialty background is mostly irrelevant since they aren’t there to diagnose or treat you. All they’re doing is gathering a few more pieces of information for the decision-makers.
09.20.24: Everyone has their own way of dealing with grief and mine is apparently to dust the remote interiors of cabinets we rarely use and take the Roomba apart, clean it, and replace its brushes, filter and roller. Muriel watched my Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman reenactment with waning enthusiasm, ever the faithful companion, and lowered herself to the floor with a sigh once she’d ascertained that nothing I’d scrubbed or discarded was edible.
Today was my weekly reprieve from LSVT sessions (the exercises continue, you just do them on your own), so I had an extra hour of free time. I used it to grab the zany Bradford screen caps and quotes I needed and arranged it all in order. The resulting post, which was meant to be published tonight, didn’t feel airy enough, so I’ll try to spruce it up this weekend.
It’s important, online and off, to find humor wherever you can during challenging times. Best Friend understood that and so does Crankenstein. Like many who work in medicine, she can crack a joke — or laugh at one — in almost any situation. (Without the relief valve of dark humor, the pressures of their jobs might make them explode.) That’s usually how I operate, too, and I don’t want current events to interfere with that.
When I look back on what I thought and wrote during this period, I want to know it’s something that would make my friend proud. He loved a good Sirkian melodrama as much as the next guy, but we fancied ourselves a Z-grade William Powell and Myrna Loy (or Carole Lombard) and occasionally quibbled about who was whom. Even in better times, I couldn’t give him The Thin Man — neither of us were suave — but we don’t need too many tear-stained hankies, either.
09.19.24: This is just a note to clarify that today’s post, “Do You Realize??” is about the death I mentioned yesterday. While there’s nothing graphic in it, some people dislike heavier subject matters. If you’re one of them, I wanted to give you the option of seeing this first and avoiding it. Tomorrow I’ll return with either “The Night They Raided Bradfords” or something similarly trivial.
09.17.24: The clock read 7:58 am when I logged into the patient portal to initiate today’s LSVT session, which was fine; two minutes was ample time to answer the usual check-in questions since I hadn’t developed new drug allergies or changed insurance providers overnight. But something went awry at the end of that familiar sequence and I wasn’t asked to authorize webcam access or join a call. Instead, there was an automated prompt saying to call if I was in the parking lot and needed assistance.
With a groan, I realized I was expected at the SLP’s office, not in the Grandma Suite. This wasn’t a one-sided snafu — the SLP sheepishly admitted she’d also forgotten or she would’ve issued her usual reminder at the end of yesterday’s appointment. But I wanted to say “No, this is entirely on me. It’s just the latest in a long string of recent screwups I wouldn’t have made in the past.” That would’ve been too personal, though, and I kept having to mute my microphone, anyway, because I couldn’t stop coughing.
It was the usual routine, right on cue after last night’s post about the manometry results: chest weirdness first nudged me awake at 3:30 am or 4:00 am. My sleep was then fitful until 6:25, when Muriel’s breakfast pleas lured me downstairs, so there’d been plenty of time to check the planner I hadn’t opened. Instead, I coughed and shook. The hacking had worsened once I was upright and took my first pills of the day, and I apologized to the speech therapist in advance for any inconvenience, feeling like a bumbling jackass.
After the sixth or so time I’d cut my microphone to cough, she paused to interrogate me and type some notes.
“If it’s still going on tomorrow, I can teach you a cough suppression technique,” she offered.
“Are you trying to kill me?” I wondered, a question left unasked because I lacked the air to expel it.
Mid-morning, I managed a deep enough cough to vanquish the rogue chest gremlin responsible for this campaign of harassment. The rest of the day sailed by after that, including a trip to the dentist to get my permanent crown (and another walk home with Bryan Ferry). I’m optimistic that tomorrow will bring a welcome opportunity to move past the gloom and grievances of the last couple days and write something fun. If I can’t hack it on my own, pun intended, maybe I’ll try the SLP’s cough suppression technique.
09.14.24: Today was mostly a blur of nothingness since this week’s sleep deprivation was worse than usual. Other than running some errands and searching in vain for a couple 1:48 scale accessories to complete my convenience store, I was either nodding off or trying not to. The coffee experiment starts tomorrow and maybe that will help.* If there’s adequate pep in my step, I’ll watch the first installment of “Fathers and Other Strangers,” also known as the vaunted return of Aunt Vivian.
I’m sure everyone’s waiting impatiently for both that and the ridiculous screen caps from “The Night They Raided Bradfords,” but it might help to think of the Auntie V chronicles as the Eight is Enough equivalent of Robert Caro’s The Years of Lyndon Johnson. Do we want it done quickly or do we want it done right? When it comes to Janis Paige’s wigs, I’d argue it’s imperative the historical record be as accurate and comprehensive as possible.
* I’m a bit skeptical it’s a viable long-term solution, mostly because of the j-pouch, but some people are able to build a tolerance.
09.12.24: Apologies if anyone was confused by last night’s screwup — I published a new post but forgot to un-sticky this one, which meant the new one was lower down on the page than it should’ve been. Tonight’s check-in will be on the flimsier side because I have to wake up around 4:45 am to get ready for the esophageal testing my doctor ordered after the scopes, but a couple things happened today that are worth mentioning.
For starters, I finally saw the PCP about my overnight coughing and wheezing. She ordered a chest x-ray to rule out pneumonia and we (correctly) expected it to come back negative since I’ve had no other symptoms. Taking everything into account — my description of these episodes, that I’ve searched for triggers and found nothing, and her reading of the endoscopy and swallow study reports — she felt Parkinson’s was involved.
Her theory is that I’m sometimes experiencing “silent aspiration” overnight, resulting in an infection I’m struggling to clear, possibly due to immunosuppression. If I understood her correctly, our July run-in with Covid could’ve precipitated this by making me aspirate more than usual. She prescribed liquid antibiotics, said to continue sleeping with my head elevated, and outlined a ‘kitchen sink’ approach to fixing this since I need to stop choking and start sleeping.
She also prescribed a cough medication to use during future episodes, an inhaler to try if the wheezing gets out of control (or persists post-antibiotics), and reflux pills to take as a last resort. I was grateful she understood, just by scrolling past a list of my recent and upcoming appointments, how burdensome my healthcare is right now. It’s a small gesture in the scheme of things, detailing a simple plan and sending in all the prescriptions at once. But it’ll have an outsize impact by giving me a bit of breathing room, no pun intended, if these problems continue.
The big news of the day is that a Lyft driver told me the power to cure ourselves of any ailment is within us right now, waiting to be tapped. If she’s correct, I’ll never have to see the PCP again. I’ll pass along the unusual details of this revolutionary scheme as soon as time permits. It involves a guru who is big on YouTube on TikTok and possesses none of the credentials she believes he has, but at least I wasn’t asked to purchase supplements or healing crystals.
09.10.24: “Are you excited about the debate?” That was the question du jour offline over the past couple weeks and the answer was no, I wasn’t. What I’ll (briefly) explain here, but seldom articulated in-person, is that I was incapable of viewing it as mindless popcorn entertainment. Elections this important shouldn’t be hyped like summer blockbusters, and anything that legitimizes Trump’s candidacy — like putting him on the debate stage — troubles me so deeply that I lack the words to convey it.
In 2016, Crankenstein wanted to watch the presidential debates. I tapped out 10 or 15 minutes into the second or third, exasperated by his unseriousness, his mendacity, his bullying posture. Retreating to the bedroom, I put on headphones and listened to Prince. “Abuse” isn’t a word I use lightly, but he radiated abusiveness and it felt beneath our national dignity — or at least the dignity of the office he sought. My disgust was unchanged in 2020 and again this year.
I understood the excitement, at least in liberal and anti-Trump Republican circles, to watch a seasoned prosecutor like Kamala Harris wipe the floor with a convicted felon who doesn’t value the lives of the Capitol Police officers who protected our lawmakers from his rioters. But he shouldn’t be on the ballot at all, not after fomenting an insurrection, and his smirk still fills me with bottomless rage, so I followed live reactions instead and read the occasional update to Crankenstein.
“Excuse me?!” she asked when the eating-cats-and-dogs claims began, her confusion only growing as I filled her in. Windmills, shower heads, bleach injections, throwing paper towels at Puerto Ricans, the endless verbal diarrhea a million Imodium capsules couldn’t stop — it isn’t funny; it never was. It’s exhausting. Then again, maybe I’ll find more humor in it once I’m properly caffeinated later this week.
09.07.24: The mini-post I intended to put here tonight about a very silly episode of Eight is Enough now requires screenshots, which I won’t be able to grab until tomorrow. Due to poor time management, I’m left stranded without much to post — not even a photo of the miniature can of Eva Gabor’s Synthetic Wig Spray that arrived this evening, and it’s getting awfully late.
This is my second grievous oversight in as many days (the other was mistakenly telling Crankenstein we had a bottle of her allergy pills in reserve) and I promise to make it up to you in zany Bradford content. As for tennis, briefly — there will be more to say later — the odds are in favor of Taylor Fritz losing to Jannik Sinner on Sunday, much as Jessica Pegula lost to Aryna Sabalenka in today’s final. But I have a soft spot for his work ethic and self-flagellation.
“Nobody in the whole world is underachieving harder than you,” he wrote to himself after losing to Alexander Zverev in the third round of Wimbledon in 2021. “You are so f*cking good but 40 in the world. Get your f*cking shit together.” Those who suggested his influencer girlfriend made the whole thing up are either blinded by misogyny (she’s widely loathed by incels and other trolls) or know nothing of the unreasonable demands Fritz places on himself.
By anyone else’s standards, he’s already overachieved in becoming a Slam finalist. By his own, he probably still won’t have his shit together until he lifts that trophy.
09.06.24: “I don’t really know anything about you other than you like tennis,” the speech therapist said in the final moments of today’s appointment, when we broke from repetition exercises to make a bit of small talk. “What else do you enjoy? What did you like to do before?”
“Before what?” I wanted to ask. “Before talkies were invented? Before women could vote? Before Moonlighting was added to Hulu?”*
What she meant was “What did you do pre-Parkinson’s?”, but my ambivalence about the question made me avoid it.
“I like old movies,” I said. “From the ’30s and ’40s.”
She seemed surprised and perhaps underwhelmed, but the biggest shocker was still to come. First she asked why, nodding as I cited the genres and their stories, the actors, the lack of explosions. Then she pressed “Who got you into old movies? What actors did you like?”
The answers weren’t of any consequence; she needed me to jabber so she could evaluate the volume and clarity of my casual speaking voice.
“Cary Grant was my favorite when I was a kid,” I replied. “He was great in comedies and no one’s ever looked better in a suit.”
She obviously hadn’t expected that last part and tried, unsuccessfully, not to show it. (My suspicion was that she briefly wondered whether I’m bisexual, since she’s aware of Crankenstein.) Then she said “Wait, what’s his name? How do you spell it?”
That you don’t know who Cary Grant is makes me feel much older than Parkinson’s does, I thought as she looked him up for inclusion in future prompts. But referencing her age, even jokingly — she’s a recent graduate — might’ve altered something in our dynamic. She’s been nice to work with and I wouldn’t want her to think I’m dismissive of her professional authority on account of her youth.
We found common ground a moment or two later, agreeing there are too many superhero movies to sustain our interest, and moved on to other topics. Before we clicked ‘end call,’ she said to shout as loud as possible during tonight’s tennis matches. As I write this, Taylor Fritz and Frances Tiafoe are heading into a fifth set in Flushing Meadows, with the winner to face Jannik Sinner in Sunday’s US Open final.
The crowd has a vocal preference for Tiafoe, an endearing showman who would be easily dispatched by Sinner in straight sets. Fritz is our only hope if we want to end the American men’s drought at our home Slam. We could do much worse, as I’ll explain later this weekend.
* It showed up on Hulu first but has since been added to Tubi. I’ll write more about Cybill Shepherd when I review her Martha Stewart telefilms; there’s a lot to discuss.
09.04.24: Have you ever tried something new and immediately thought “That seemed a little too easy?” As a lifelong klutz, I’m usually skeptical when an unfamiliar task is a breeze, a superstition that’s grown in recent years as my arm slowed and stiffened. But this morning I was either distracted or simply fell down on the job; I’m not sure how else to explain such an unusual lapse as this: I actually allowed myself to feel pride at unexpectedly doing well during the respiratory training part of today’s speech therapy session.
It was our first online appointment and I’d set up my computer in the Grandma Suite so Muriel wouldn’t disrupt things if the UPS guy darkened our neighbors’ doors during the hour-long session. (A delivery doesn’t have to be ours to set her off, anything within earshot will do.) My homework was next to me — phrases and noises to practice and a sheet for recording decibel levels measured with a smartphone app — along with the EMST150 device that I’d forgotten to bring along yesterday.
It had been a maddening oversight — it was in a tote bag on the counter right next to the door, along with the big honkin’ leg brace I intended to return to the physical therapist while I was there — but the speech-language pathologist said she could walk me through the setup remotely. That’s how we spent the first 10 minutes of today’s appointment and we were both surprised by how well I did. During tomorrow’s Zoom appointment, I’ll have to sheepishly admit I’m a fraud.
While demonstrating the exercise for Crankenstein this evening, I realized it wasn’t set to the proper resistance. I’d misunderstood the SLP’s directions and she hadn’t caught the error because it was too hard to see such small details over webcam. After readjusting it, I tried again — it was noticeably more difficult. As stupid an error as that was, I appreciated having had the chance to believe, if only for one delusional moment, “Yeah, that’s right, I’m a master of breathing. A regular savant at exhaling, like a Terry McMillan heroine.”
08.31.24: If you find yourselves with any downtime this Labor Day weekend, consider watching Barbara Kopple’s Harlan County, USA (1976) or American Dream (1990), two of the finest documentaries ever made, each focusing on labor strikes.* They’re currently free on YouTube, though I’m not sure how long that’ll last. However you spend the holiday, please enjoy yourselves and stay safe. I’ll try to check in on Monday but can’t guarantee I’ll have time tomorrow.
* For those who’ve had their fill of economic despair and would prefer something lighter, try this Slate interview from early August with a gay couple who appeared on Supermarket Sweep as “business partners” in 1991. Their story is truly delightful and they mention that Sherwood Schwartz’s son wanted to turn it into a TV movie but was unable to bring the project to fruition. “I guess now it would be a Hallmark movie,” one of them quipped, and I hope Jonathan Bennett’s taking notes.
08.30.24: There’s a new dreamboat in Sacramento and his name is Merle the Pearl. Few of the Bradford girls’ many boyfriends have made an impression so far on Eight is Enough, but a shamelessly cloying Nicholas subplot in the season four opener just introduced Susan (Susan Richardson) to Merle ‘The Pearl’ Stockwell (Brian Patrick Clarke), a minor league baseball pitcher, and already I’m smitten.
From his orange pickup truck and cartoonish Southern accent to the courtly way he removes his cap when calling on Susan at home, he’s the gentleman we’ve waited for through all the drips and jerks and yuk-yuk disasters of dates past. He’s also a strapping all-American hunk, sweet but moderately stupid, whose hat struggles to make contact with his head through a spectacularly fluffy crown of shag carpeting hair.
As was the case with poor Janet, who had to soften her stance toward the endless distractions and impositions of David’s family to prove she was worthy of his love, the strength of Merle’s character is tested by an encounter that leaves Nicholas, previously reverent, crestfallen. If this curious insistence of Eight is Enough’s writers that you can’t fall in love with just one Bradford, you must commit to them all, continues apace as the rest of the older spawn pair off, I’ll deeply regret not selecting a series about an only child.
But for now, in Aunt Viv’s woeful absence, Merle — a farcically folksy fox who likens Susan to an Arkansas mule and probably needs help reading the back of a cereal box — is a gem whose beauty I’ll admire.
08.29.24: Carlos Alcaraz is down 1-6 in his second-round US Open match against Botic van de Zandschulp as I write this on Thursday night, which isn’t the scoreline I was hoping to see as an early bedtime looms. Van de Zandschulp is Dutch, of course, with a name that sounds like an Austin Powers villain or male model from a Zoolander film, and this reminds me that over the last couple weeks a reader from the Netherlands has been working their way through the Cranky archives.
It’s always nice when someone likes a review enough to click through to others or search for their favorite actors or films. Occasionally they read much more, even early reviews I’ve never been satisfied with and would like to rewrite, which is quite a compliment. A decade ago, my sister and her then-girlfriend asked if they could read some of my writing. They weren’t sure where to find it since I work pseudonymously, so I shared a few pieces from a now-defunct site in an attempt to be polite and waited for them to awkwardly feign enthusiasm in return.
“You’ll find it about as funny as you’d find George Jessel,” I wanted to warn them. Then they could have furrowed their brows in confusion and I might’ve explained “See, that’s the point. It’ll be a waste of time.”
A few days later, Tom reported that her girlfriend had selected an article that was a silly take on a serious subject. After reading it she said “I don’t get it. Who’s the audience? It’s like she’s writing for herself.”
She wasn’t wrong. To me, the point of writing is to explain (or educate, depending on the subject) and entertain.* If I don’t find my work funny or informative, why would anyone else? At Cranky, I cover niche topics that will only appeal so broadly. Those posts would bewilder Tom and her ex even more than what they read 10 years ago, which is fine — they’re not the target audience. Readers like the new one from the Netherlands are, people who come for a Melissa Gilbert movie and stay for Joan Rivers and Cloris Leachman and Bruce Springsteen jabber.
“Ah, it’s Botic van de Zandschulp again,” I’ll think next time this new Dutch follower shows up and spends an hour digging through old posts. “Never would’ve taken him for a Patty Duke fan.”
* That’s why I sought refuge in reading and writing as a kid, it was how I made sense of the world.
08.28.24: Muriel and I have spent a quiet evening downstairs trying not to disturb Crankenstein, who came home from work with a migraine and retired to bed after dinner. We tinkered on a review that’s not quite ready for primetime (Muriel’s editing skills are unorthodox since she only knows a handful of words), watched a bit of the US Open, and I read an interesting article about a rodeo doctor.*
This has been a disappointingly unproductive week so far and the biggest impediment has been disjointed sleep. Last night I woke up at least once per hour, breathless and rigid and wishing I could roll to the side. But I remained on my back, head uncomfortably elevated, concerned that side-sleeping might worsen the jaw-clenching that menaces my temporary crown.
To wrap up stupid health things for now, we got the pathology results back from the scopes yesterday and the only esophageal finding was minor, with a name I already forgot.** It’s commonly associated with esophageal motility disorders, which was already the prevailing theory about what’s causing my swallowing difficulties. Following that and an early morning appointment today, I’m caught up on checkups for the next three months and can focus on PT and speech therapy.
What should I do with this freedom, other than chronicle Auntie V’s next Eight is Enough appearance? Season four is finally upon us, and not a moment too soon following an awful David-centric two-parter about hang gliding (!) that even Noah Beery Jr. couldn’t salvage. I’m not sure how long we’ll have to wait for Janis Paige’s grand reentrance, but one of her plots involves a Hawaiian vacation and the wardrobe possibilities are endless.
* The riskiest stunts in the article have nothing to do with bulls; it’s entrusting all of your medical needs to an orthopedic surgeon. You can’t fix diabetes or heart disease by smacking it with a mallet or sawing it in half. (That’s an affectionate joke. No one makes more cavemen jokes about orthopods than they make about themselves.)
** The pouchoscopy was mostly good, which is all we can ask for. As long as there’s no dysplasia and we don’t have to change treatments, I don’t really care what they find. Had my doctor said “You’re not going to believe this, but there was a copy of The Day the Clown Died and pieces of what appears to be the wreckage of Amelia Earhart’s plane in your duodenum,” I wouldn’t have been too surprised.
08.25.24: Not only did I make it through the night with minimal choking, I was able to sleep in this morning thanks to Crankenstein. The only problem was that I never quite woke up — or maybe I did and River of Rage had a sedating effect. I’ll have to finish it tomorrow, preferably before the US Open starts mid-morning, and it will be a welcome distraction from Eight is Enough, which has become agonizingly boring when it focuses on David’s romance with Janet.
So few of the show’s pairings produced any sparks, including Tom and Abby, which makes it all the weirder when Abby and Joanie, or Abby and Mary, occasionally do — although their chemistry is more generically dramatic than romantic. How lucky we are that family-focused TV dramedies of the late ‘70s mostly flew under the slash-fiction radar; the perversity of anything Eight is Enough could’ve inspired (outside of a Tom/Dr. Maxwell affair) would’ve put Brady Bunch fanfic to shame.
08.24.24: Again I woke up choking, struggling to cough and swallow and take deep breaths.
“Are you OK?” Crankenstein groggily asked, probably wanting to smother me with a pillow.
“Yes,” I said, so she could return unbothered to sleep — Crankenstein’s very serious about her sleep; her depression and anxiety worsen when she isn’t well rested. In the morning I confessed that I’d been disturbed by how heavy and clumsy and useless my tongue had felt on its left side as I tried to wash down a levodopa pill with a few sips of water at 4 am.
“When do you start LSVT?” she replied. “Speech therapy can help with that.”
It starts right after Labor Day, but I’ll admit to feeling increasingly bothered by these unwanted wakeup calls and doubtful the ESMT150 (or other exercises) will make an appreciable difference. I’ve evaluated my routines to see if such overnight episodes are less random than they feel but found nothing of interest: my diet, habits and environs are unchanged. The GI found no evidence of GERD, which would’ve been the easiest, most fixable explanation.
What I’d like more than anything else right now is a day (and night) without any of these distractions — a vacation from myself. Maybe I’ll get one tomorrow and can work on my writeup of a Victoria Principal movie selected for its dramatic title and lack of IMDb reviews: River of Rage: The Taking of Maggie Keene.*
* I’m not sure whether I’ll put this in the review, but Principal is active on Instagram and her social media presence is about as inoffensive as it gets, consisting mostly of horse photos and remembrances of late friends and costars. However, she recently ruffled some MAGA feathers by posting a cheeky Catwoman photoshop of herself that reads “childless cat lady.” Imagine if she were as outspoken as Abby Bradford herself, Betty Buckley.
08.21.24: That deep dish pizza’s so close I can taste it. The Botox is out of the way and none of its annoying (but short-lived) side effects have arrived yet. My neck, shoulder, and back-of-the-head muscles were so rigid that the doctor added a few more injection sites, and we laughed together as she hunted for the right spots because she kept encouraging me to shrug my shoulders and that’s easier said than done when they’re more or less frozen.
The MDS is one of my favorite doctors because she’s down-to-earth and has a nerdy sense of humor, which reminds me of Crankenstein. And so, as we discussed the cost of Botox — it’s the toxin itself that’s expensive, not the injection process — I felt comfortable joking around with her. “My deductible’s been met, so you and the rest of my doctors can do whatever you want for the rest of the year,” I said. “Order any test, perform any procedure. I’d agree to a prostate exam just to get the most for my money.”
She played along, making outlandish suggestions, and it lessened the sting of the notes from last week’s checkup that finally posted yesterday. In it, she cataloged some of the things I hadn’t wanted to discuss with her, even though Crankenstein and I did so anyway, and for the first time she assigned a ‘stage’ to my Parkinson’s. Reading it made me a bit uncomfortable, but it’s fairly meaningless overall (some patients live with Parkinson’s for decades without progressing to stages four or five) and nothing we couldn’t have figured out ourselves.
Tomorrow I’ll be up early again for scope day and at this point in my IBD career I’m inured to the inconvenience of scopes and try to embrace the positive instead — like the enjoyable propofol nap.
08.20.24: As classics by the O’Jays, Tom Petty, Fleetwood Mac, Dolly Parton, and so many others played during a rollicking DNC roll call tonight, I kept imagining the RNC grimly blasting the same “My name is Kid… Kid Rock!” snippet on a loop, unable to obtain the rights to anything else. Our delegates were overwhelmingly ecstatic to be there and their joy was contagious. It was a block party attended by a bunch of civic-minded dorks, and its emcee, DNC secretary Jason Rae, contributed to the fun by sounding like Rod Roddy by way of Paul Lynde as he called upon each US state and territory to cast its votes.
“This is like The Price is Right or Press Your Luck,” I told Best Friend, but the best was still to come in spectacular speeches by the Obamas, who finally went for the jugular (and, in Barack’s case, the crotch) with Trump. Michelle’s speech was quite possibly the best I’ve ever heard at a convention, but I’ve written enough about the Obamas in the past, online and in print, and won’t do more of it here. There’s an electricity to the Harris-Walz campaign so far that stirs a great nostalgia for 2008, which was the first time in my young political life that I felt unguarded optimism about the future.* It’s something I want to savor because hope can be extinguished just as quickly as it ignites in an election year.
Though I’d like to stay up late reading about the convention and watching talking heads babble on MSNBC, I have to be up early tomorrow for Botox, and again on Thursday for the GI. The plan for Friday, assuming they’re able to dilate what I would guess is an esophageal stricture, is to satisfy a craving for a slice of deep dish pizza. Attempting such a feat now would result in ignoble defeat, and feelings of suffocation, when it got stuck in my upper chest. But if I had to die while eating, pizza would be a great way to go.
* I think I supported Clinton in the primary, but Obama won my ardent support when he earned the nomination. In 2016, I wanted Warren to run but again voted for Clinton in the primary (even though I didn’t like her chances in the electoral college, a stance that irritated Crankenstein slightly less than it had offended Ex years earlier). In 2020, I donated $10 to Harris after she drew first blood against Biden in the Democratic debate; I liked him but wanted to see him fend off challengers. As mentioned in a prior post, Warren had my loyalty, and my recurring donations, in that cycle, but I was happy to vote for Biden in the general election. Despite the assumptions of Crankenstein’s church friends, I knew very few Jews who supported Sanders. Jewish voters, like gay voters, tend to be pragmatists and party loyalists; he’s an independent ideologue. Nor was he a novelty to us like he was to younger Gentiles.
08.18.24: It happened against last night: I woke up coughing and choking and gasping, startling myself and Crankenstein. Our recent conversation with the neurologist still fresh in my mind, I tried paying close attention to my chest and throat to better understand the sequence of events. “Listen to your body,” people like to say, as if the husks we inhabit are radio stations. My own reception’s spotty, especially at 4 am.
“Are you awake?” I eventually whispered to Crankenstein.
“Yes,” she replied, sounding trepidatious.
“Part of what’s wrong is that I can’t get a decent cough” — which she observed after a previous hacking incident — “and part of it’s that I can’t swallow.”
There wasn’t any point in talking too much about it then, since she was unlikely to remember our conversation in the morning. We tried getting back to sleep as I again cycled through positions and pillow elevations, seeking to balance neck stability with breathing comfort. Unable to get enough air on my left side or back, I turned to the right in desperation.
Right-sided sleeping is murder on my neck, even with a fancy contoured memory foam pillow, and facing Crankenstein’s elbow as she sleeps is dangerous itself. But the weird sounds and sensations coming from my chest stopped and I was able to take a few nice deep breaths, which allowed me to achieve the best cough I’d had in weeks. “What the hell?!” I wanted to ask Crankenstein afterward — why is the left side of my body so underpowered compared to the right?
Maybe relief’s in sight by the end of the week, depending on what the GI’s able to figure out. In the meantime, I’m wondering how to best protect my face from Cassius Crankenstein if I have to turn to face her again overnight. A hockey goalie’s mask would work better than a welder’s mask or motorcycle helmet. A fencing mask, while impressively breathable, might not absorb her strength; I’d have to ask a nerdy cousin for his thoughts.
Of course, there are worse problems one could have overnight, like witnessing a murder. This weekend we watched Ted Tetzlaff’s The Window, a 1949 B-movie thriller that bears some similarities to Rear Window: both were adapted from Cornell Woolrich stories and feature protagonists who get an eyeful of their neighbors’ criminal misdeeds. The Window’s twist is that it has a child protagonist (played by Bobby Driscoll, whose life hadn’t yet gone off the rails) so prone to lying that neither his parents nor the police believe his accusations. It’s a grim, genre-blending cinematic portrait of childhood that’s worth 70 minutes of your time.
08.17.24: If you haven’t kept up with these McCheese bulletins, it was only the day before yesterday — see the August 15th entry directly below this one — that I spoke with the DDS adjudicator who was assigned to my SSDI reconsideration. Today Crankenstein received another piece of mail from her, this one dated the same day as our call. It said something like “We haven’t received your response and it might impact our decision.”
Unlike the previous envelope, this one was scanned by the USPS and appeared in this morning’s Informed Delivery preview. We assume it was sent by automated process, but Crankenstein can also leave the agent a message to say “Hey, you should have recently received a PDF with my answers. If you didn’t, or if you have any additional questions, please call me back.” I’ve caused all kinds of headaches for Crankenstein lately, but none have anything to do with the usual off-key crooning, curmudgeonliness, or nagging her to use coasters: it’s all because of the DDS paperwork and medical appointments.*
There was Thursday’s MDS checkup, which she wanted to attend, and coming up in a few days she’ll be my scope chaperone. International IBD patients are sometimes surprised by the way scopes are handled in the US — sedation is the norm here, which isn’t the case everywhere, and because we’re a litigious society American hospital systems normally insist you bring a driver or chaperone. At every hospital where I’ve been scoped as an adult, they’ve asked for my driver’s name during registration, along with their phone number and relationship to me. Sometimes you’re even asked to point them out in the waiting room.
This rule tends to annoy people who live alone, especially prideful, stubborn older men who don’t want to ask anything of anyone else. Some patients find sneaky ways around it. Personally, I’m glad it exists, because it isn’t safe to drive when you’re coming out of anesthesia, even if it’s only twilight anesthesia. Just as importantly, it isn’t safe to send half-sedated (i.e., vulnerable) patients home with Uber drivers. But I always feel bad anyway about the demands my scopes place on other people’s time, and next week’s appointment is no different.
There are much better things Crankenstein could do than sit around for an hour or two while my doctor conducts an Eyes of Laura Mars photo shoot in my intestines. But she’ll be there with bells on, wondering as usual whether they found anything interesting — and the big reveal will again be just as anticlimactic as Geraldo Rivera opening Al Capone’s vault.
* I keep coasters on every surface where she’s known to place drinks and it doesn’t matter, her body rejects the mere idea of tidiness and she places her beverages right next to the coasters instead.
08.15.24: “Another Mayor McCheese?” Crankenstein asked as she glanced from her computer screen to mine. She didn’t add “You lazy bastard,” but that’s how I felt about dusting this off again so soon. From a hungry dog and a morning call with the DDS adjudicator to a marathon dental appointment and a torrent of texts from a friend whose marriage is on the rocks, the day started too early and passed in a blur. Now it’s almost 8 pm and already I can’t stop yawning.
The adjudicator was friendly and helpful, answering a couple questions about what was missing from my file. She laughingly said it was safe to disregard the due dates on any requests she might send us for additional information: “My way of doing it is to give you 30 days because the postal service is a mess.” I knew better than to joke “Can I get that in writing?” or to say, truthfully, that I’ve heard of agents saying that and then closing cases much sooner. Though surprised by how pleasant and accessible she was, I didn’t read anything into it and still expect the reconsideration to be denied.
It wasn’t the cleaning or the crown consultation that detained me at the dentist, it was the full series of x-rays. My mouth is absurdly difficult to pry open and the left-sided x-rays were torturous for both me and the poor technician charged with taking them. The hygienist noticed right away that I grind my teeth, something that started in 2013 and intensified over the last five years or so. She and the dentist identified another molar that will meet the same fate as the one that I cracked and enlarged a photo so I could see why they were concerned.
Two crowns it is, then, though we’re prioritizing the broken tooth, which will be fixed by this time next month. Once we know how things shake out with the dental insurance reimbursement, I’ll decide whether to address the other molar this calendar year or try to wait until next year to maximize benefits; they think it’ll hold up until then. Then there’s the issue of how to prevent further damage from grinding, but this was more than enough boring chatter for one night. I really oughta add some spice to my life, maybe do something wild like attend a polka concert, visit a museum of miniatures, or learn how to darn socks.
08.12.24: Tonight I’m working on a — gasp — TV movie review. It won’t be ready for publication on Cranky until tomorrow or Wednesday, assuming it’s posted at all, but I’ll be back with something new here tomorrow regardless of its completion.
08.11.24: A quiet weekend of chores, errands, and old movies was drawing to a close this evening when I received a text that gave me a moment’s pause. Attached was an Amazon screenshot a relative had snapped and a note reading “I don’t know if you have trouble with this yet, but I saw it earlier and thought it might be helpful.”
Promotional photos show a white-haired man using an assistive handle for leverage — it’s mounted to the door frame’s latch — as he enters or exits his car. An accompanying blurb reads “This car handle can be very helpful to the elderly and handicapped.” Youngest Sister saw this device and thought of me; she’s nearly 12 years my junior but jokingly tells her kids I’m anywhere from 50 to 70 years old.
I’m not in the market for something like this yet, and even if I was our cars are so old that I’d have to verify the latches are compatible. But I bookmarked it anyway, for future reference and because it was kind of her to suggest it, even if it was sobering at first to realize it wasn’t sent as a gag: she now sees me as someone who requires (or will soon require) assistance with basic physical tasks. Though understandable, it still felt strange.
In other news, Crankenstein and I watched Fritz Lang’s While the City Sleeps last night, a nifty noir with Dana Andrews, Ida Lupino, George Sanders, Vincent Price and Howard Duff. If you have access to on-demand content from Turner Classic Movies and haven’t seen it before, it’s worth checking out. We don’t have cable but I use Sling during the tennis season and sometimes toss in TCM as an add-on. It’s good for mainstream classics and a few curiosities that either don’t stream elsewhere — or cost enough to digitally rent from Amazon that I can save a little money by paying $6 (or thereabouts) for a month of TCM instead.
08.10.24: I’m not sure where today went — it’s not like I accomplished anything — or why I’ve wanted nothing more than to indefinitely retreat to a cabin in the middle of nowhere with Muriel. It’s probably mild dread about the checkup Crankenstein and I have with the MDS next week, when we plan to put a few cognitive concerns on her radar. But my sense of foreboding is likely compounded by something weird that’s gone on for a few months now and happened again just yesterday: when I step off an elevator, I feel like I’m about to fall forward or even faint.
In and of itself, it’s not unusual in the slightest: tons of people feel ‘off’ after elevator rides. But I wasn’t one of them until recently and I’m concerned, perhaps needlessly, that it might be related to the lightheadedness my doctor and I discussed at the last Botox appointment. So far I’ve managed to remain upright, a streak I’d like to continue. Passing out in my kitchen a few years ago was humiliating enough; it’s not an experience I’d like to recreate at a department store, hospital or municipal building — to say nothing of my fear that if such an incident were to occur, ‘Niles’ and Crankenstein would insist that I wear a football helmet next time she wants a pretzel from the mall.
08.06.24: As much as I’d love to spend the remainder of the evening writing a post — preferably titled “Take This Walz” — about my enthusiasm for our new Democratic VP candidate, today wiped me out and I’m about to go to bed early. I’ve been waking up throughout the night lately with my left hand, foot, and jaw tightly clenched, my neck twisted at an even more severe angle than usual. It’s physically and sometimes mentally exhausting, so I was happy to have a (positive) political distraction.
If you aren’t familiar with Tim Walz and didn’t catch his fantastic debut at tonight’s rally in Philadelphia, here are two clips I made Crankenstein watch last week: a recent interview with Jen Psaki and remarks he made on gun control last year. For the record, Crankenstein and I don’t own guns — that would be an egregiously terrible idea with her depression — but my dad is a hunter. He has rifles and bows, a basement freezer full of venison his wife and daughters won’t eat, taxidermied buck heads mounted above the fireplace and in his office, the whole kit and caboodle.
A black NRA hat hung from one of his bedposts when I was a kid, and he taught us about gun safety early and often, always keeping his ammo hidden from us. Like Walz, he’s now staunchly opposed to the organization. There’s a lot about Walz that reminds me of my dad, a quintessential Midwesterner with the earnestness of a Capra character, and I hope his selection marks the start of a new, more optimistic chapter in Democratic politics. You’ll find plenty of smart, eager, politically engaged people living in red states, and the right candidates can turn some of those areas purple, and even blue, if we stop writing them off and give them a chance.
08.04.24: What a victory from Novak Djokovic in today’s gold medal match in Paris. Others can debate whether he — for strategic purposes — embellished the extent of last week’s knee reinjury, but I’d argue it’s irrelevant. Nole’s fiercest opponent this year hasn’t been Carlos Alcaraz or Jannik Sinner: he’s been running, hobbled, from Father Time, who eventually kicks everyone’s ass.
In the final chapter of his competitive career, Olympic gold was all that eluded him. To claim it at 37 and in his fifth Games, only two months removed from an arthroscopic meniscus repair and against no less an opponent than Alcaraz, is truly the stuff of legend. It was an agonizingly close match and after Djokovic, who had fallen short in big moments all year, sealed it in a second set tiebreak, he sank to his injured knee and sobbed. It was a closeup of his hand, trembling on the clay, that started my own waterworks.
Even if he plays another couple years — even if he wins more majors — this was very much an ending. We’ve had so many of those lately, in tennis and in life. Few are ever as perfect as this.
08.01.24: When I want to pin a bulletin atop the Cranky homepage without creating a new article, I revive a 2008 post about whether Mayor McCheese was gay. There’s no special meaning to any of it — it was only selected because it cracks me up and pinning an old post to the homepage allows me to say ‘new content coming soon’ without clogging followers’ inboxes and RSS readers — and it hasn’t been used in months since I still need to finish my Stamp of a Killer review.*
Tonight, while watching the Olympics with Crankenstein — she wanted to see Simone Biles and Suni Lee in action, so we streamed a replay on Peacock — I glanced at the clock and realized I wouldn’t have time to post anything worthwhile here. “If only there was a McCheese thread…” I thought, so here it is, a place for trivial updates that I can pin to this site’s homepage in the future. My goal is to use it infrequently since I’d rather write at greater length, but it’ll come in handy occasionally.
* Reviews of Zuma Beach, Friday the Rabbi Slept Late and a couple others I’m forgetting are also in various states of completion on my laptop.
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