02.20.25: This evening’s post was preempted by an urgent family crisis tech problems my mom wanted me to troubleshoot via text. How this turned into a 45-minute ordeal, I’m not quite sure, but I feel better about my absentmindedness now because at one point she sent me a Bitwarden screenshot of her login credentials for a site she couldn’t access and her password was rejected. “Let me see if I changed it!” she replied, and while awaiting her next message I idly attempted to pinpoint when she began punctuating everything with exclamation marks.*
She had, in fact, changed her password without updating her password management app, which reminded me of the dog-eared index card she’s kept in the interior pocket of her purse for the last 30-odd years, the one that lists the names and Social Security numbers of each of her children. As an adult I’ve asked her several times to please redact my information since purses are easily snatched, and she always says she will. But I’m sure if I called Felix right now and asked him to rifle through her newest bag, one she got just a couple years ago, he’d find it — probably next to a roll of Certs from the late 1990s and a plastic baggie full of Cheerios, her go-to purse snack when we were toddlers.
She kept that card in her purse in case we had medical emergencies and she had to rush to the hospital. It didn’t matter that we were all insured by the same plan and that our coverage cards were in her wallet, which was also in her purse, we were her responsibility and she had to be prepared. (Had her purse been any larger, she would’ve stored copies of our birth certificates, fingerprints, and possibly dental impressions as well.) Because she’s a consummate mom, I know she’ll still feel like that when she’s 90 — unless she forgets us first. If she ever changes her mind about being buried, the card should be kept with her.**
On that unintentionally morbid note, it’s time to transfer the relevant contents of my purse into a backpack ahead of an early appointment tomorrow. What it lacks in cereal and an entire family’s birthdates and Social Security numbers, it makes up for in mini Altoids, dollar store toiletries (don’t ever leave the house without Kleenex, floss, and hand sanitizer), and small flashlights.
* I believe it started in her late forties but only spiraled out of control with the birth of her first grandchild. She’s going to send a group text one day that reads “Your uncle’s in the hospital with liver failure! The doctor says it doesn’t look good! Not looking forward to the funeral!! Who’s coming to Thanksgiving? What sides does everyone want!”
** My father can’t be buried in our family’s Jewish cemetery because of its Orthodox origins (had it been established as Reform, exceptions could be made) and my mom doesn’t want to be buried at his family’s farm, so they’ve instructed us to have them cremated. Dad has further specified he wants my maternal grandparents’ rabbi to conduct his service and that we should tell his antisemitic older sister “to fuck off” if she has a problem with that. That special request of his would be easier to honor than our mom’s. She wants us to divide her cremains and for each of her kids to place a small urn on our bedroom dressers so she’s always watching us. “You can turn it toward the wall when you need privacy,” she suggests. I really wish she were joking, so I could turn it into a depraved version of the beloved children’s book Love You Forever, but she’s mostly serious.
02.19.25: Anyone interested in a slumber party? We can catch up on Rachel Maddow’s latest broadcasts if nothing good’s on TCM, listen to Muriel snore, maybe pass around a tin of Blue Diamond’s Sweet Thai Chili-flavored almonds. Crankenstein has taken ill with a sore throat, mild cough, and feverless chills, so I’ll bunk with Muriel or sleep in the Grandma Suite to spare her my nocturnal Rockettes act and avoid the germy Darth Vader breathing she directs at my face all night. It’s probably all for naught since my throat’s already a bit scratchy, in which case a slumber party’s a terrible idea — not to mention I have no idea whether any of you are sticky-fingered types who’d make off with my priceless collection of Golden Girls tchotchkes and tawdry tell-alls.
Rather than turn this into a footnote, I’ll digress here and mention that Crankenstein and I sometimes joke about how disappointed the average burglar would be as he ransacked our house. We have little in the way of jewelry (and her earrings tend to be odd, depicting, say, squirrels… or Judith Slaying Holofernes) and most of our electronics are cheap or outdated. There aren’t any guns, recreational drugs or thick wads of cash, and our medications are thoroughly unexotic; the only stuff potentially worth stealing has such a narrow market that an intrepid investigator could easily track it. Just follow the trail of Golden Girls figures; vintage Judy Garland, Barbara Stanwyck, and Pedro Almodóvar posters; lobby cards from long-forgotten Sandy Dennis films; framed Lucille Bluth art; and hardcover Liz Renay books back to the glittery den of turban-wearing thieves seeking retribution for something dismissive I once wrote about Joan Collins.*
Anyway, I’ve wandered far enough off-track that I forgot where I was going with this, a lapse that has less to do with cognitive strain than having worn myself out clearing snow again in frigid weather. I’ll go floss and brush my teeth and grab some pillows and blankets, and anyone who passes a background check can help themselves to popcorn or an assortment of Aldi cheese and crackers and stream some Falcon Crest on Plex.**
* One day I’ll write about the theft of Alvy, my first laptop, but the grief is still too raw 24 years later. (Windows needed names assigned to the computers and mine had a theme — Alvy, Isaac, Boris — in keeping with my early interest in Woody Allen films.)
** If you’d rather watch The Colbys, the complete set is in my DVD closet, assuming those vindictive gay thieves — I believe they have a Maltipoo named Farnsworth “Dex” Dexter — haven’t already absconded with it.
02.17.25: It was a rough day physically and mentally, enough so that anything I try to write about it right now would be an ill-considered and unsatisfying read. You’ve got to know when to hold ’em, know when to fold ’em, know when to walk away, and tonight I’m folding ’em and heading to bed. If tomorrow brings a reduction in stress, as it probably will, I’ll be able to joke about today’s challenges (complete with photos!), which have no real significance in the grand scheme of things but can wear you down sometimes anyway. Apologies for the lackluster non-post, which probably could’ve been avoided if only I’d sought inspiration from Tammy Faye.
02.16.25: We need to talk about Christian music again, which I’m mentioning now so you can prepare yourselves accordingly. In typical convoluted fashion, this started with the decidedly non-Christian grandfather who wanted me to have his record collection when he died. For reasons we’ll get to later, I never collected my inheritance, which in recent years has resided on a ping-pong table in my parents’ basement. Other relatives occasionally expressed mild interest in claiming it for themselves, and I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s been stripped of anything they mistakenly believed had monetary value, but nobody ever wanted the whole enchilada — until now. A crate of Papa’s records is headed my way and maybe it’ll inspire some future posts here.
Unfortunately, there’s going to be a slight listening delay. Each component of my high school stereo system had been carefully wrapped, boxed, and shelved in my parents’ basement in the early aughts, when I switched to a unit with a smaller footprint. Later, by 2009 or 2010, having acquired both an iPod and a girlfriend, I’d sold most of my CDs altogether and rarely used a stereo at all. Within a few years of that, Felix, who was always breaking his own audio equipment or selling it to finance his video game habit, asked if he could borrow my original stereo — which meant he’d already taken it, because he has no impulse control. Since I didn’t need it and none of it was high-end, anyway, I told him that was fine as long as he didn’t sell it, trade it or destroy it.
The exact fate of that setup — the five-disc changer and dual cassette deck, its five shelf speakers, and the entry-level Sony record player I later connected to it — has apparently been lost to time. My dad checked his basement yesterday and found no sign of it, and Felix was conspicuously silent when asked if he could recall its whereabouts. It’s not a big deal, we can easily replace it, but first I’ll need to read about newer technology and establish a preliminary budget if we go in that direction. Older gear is also fine, so we’ll put out feelers to Crankenstein’s parents, who are trying to downsize and regularly hound us about whether we’ll take this-or-that off their hands, and I’ll keep tabs on neighborhood buy/sell groups for castoffs.
This has all the makings of a fun side project, which brings us to Tammy Faye Messner and the albums she released as Tammy Faye Bakker on her own PTL Club Records & Tapes label. Certainly it’s nothing Papa ever owned, but I stumbled upon a few of these treasures today while searching for a secular LP I’d like to buy if it’s not included in his crate. The album covers are incredible, her song choices intriguing, and this is a spiritual journey we should probably take together if these shameless money-grabs are freely available on YouTube. More later, once we’ve had time to pray on it, preferably while dressed like a genteel churchgoing brothel owner.
02.15.25: Checking in with only minutes to spare to confirm that Crankenstein survived last night’s introduction to Bridget Jones and even occasionally paid attention. Granted, she understood Daniel Cleaver, Shazza, “giant mummy pants,” and the callbacks to Mark Darcy’s Christmas sweater and Bridget’s knack for public self-humiliation roughly as well as I did all the archery and fire and destruction of the Hobbit trilogy finale we saw on our first movie date. But it was comfort food viewing for me and I’ll admit without embarrassment that I teared up more than once. Zellweger was particularly great in her scenes with Jim Broadbent and Colin Firth; Bridget’s evening stroll with Mark is as good a representation of the Ivy Compton-Burnett grief I’ve previously written about as you’ll find anywhere. If you, too, are old and sad and sentimental, check it out.
02.14.25: Unless you’ve experienced Parkinson’s fatigue firsthand, it’s hard to understand just how crushing it is; as Johns Hopkins attempts to convey here, it goes beyond regular exhaustion. Other than griping about it on the pages of this site — and to Crankenstein and my MDS — it’s not something I’ve tried to explain in detail to friends or family because they have no frame of reference for it. What happened to me today might make it click for a nearly universal audience: I was so tired I fell asleep while getting a cavity filled, complete with drilling.
The dentist, who kept working, administered nothing more than a numbing shot, so I wasn’t under sedation; I’d gotten five or six hours of sleep the night before, so I wasn’t running on empty. Over the past year or two there’s been a growing list of odd places where I’ve almost fallen asleep, including in Lyft vehicles (which would be dangerous) and the bustling waiting rooms of various hospital buildings (where you risk becoming a Snapchat story or accidental TikTok sensation), in a very loud MRI tunnel, and even while standing in my own backyard.* Zonking out in the dentist’s chair was more embarrassing than those incidents; short of snoring in the middle of a Pap smear, I’m not sure anything could top it.
In other news, Crankenstein gallantly allows me to choose our February 14th viewing each year, a tradition she started on our first Valentine’s Day as a married couple. Since then she’s endured many films she never would’ve selected on her own, such as the 2018 remake of A Star is Born, 2019’s Judy, and Jennifer Lopez’s Marry Me. Tonight’s selection, a new addition to Peacock, won’t just make her groan and roll her eyes, but possibly feign convulsions and death as if she’d ingested strychnine. That’s right, we’re watching Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy, and I’m as excited as she’ll be downcast, so keep her in your thoughts.**
* While Muriel took her sweet time getting down to business.
** This one might hold her attention if she gives it a chance — Crankenstein always forgets she likes Renée Zellweger, a favorite of mine whose Judy performance impressed her and whose limited series, The Thing About the Pam, she ultimately enjoyed more than I did. And Zellweger’s not the only draw, who doesn’t love Chiwetel Ejiofor?
02.12.25: We’ve entered the David Chase era of Northern Exposure and the show is losing its magic; its unique rhythms and continuity have all but disappeared, replaced by irredeemably lazy subplots like Shelly’s secret fluency in Italian. (More absurdly, this talent is revealed when she finds endless spare time for reading Dante to Ruth-Anne despite having a newborn at home.) If there’s a silver lining to the senseless destruction of such a wonderful show, it’s that Chase’s disinterest in Cicely, Alaska, might be the push I’ve needed to rewatch The Sopranos for the first time since it ended in 2007.
This is something I’ve looked forward to for several years now and have continually postponed, because The Sopranos is an experience best shared with others and it also requires your full attention. Crankenstein’s never seen it but I know her usual antics — immersion in her phone, getting up a half-dozen times in the course of a half-hour (followed by angst when Muriel seizes those opportunities to steal her spot on the couch), asking me to hit “pause” with 60 seconds left in an episode — would drive me to despair. I guess if I do this, it’ll be solo, unless a friend who had a connected uncle or two wants in on the action. Afterward I’ll finally read The Sopranos Sessions, which includes extensive interviews with Chase.
First, though, I must wrap up my Auntie V coverage and finish some reviews. There wasn’t any time for that today since I was chasing my tail after yesterday’s disruptions, but we’re due for more winter weather soon and if we’re left snowbound I’ll work on it. Or maybe I’ll get distracted by memories of my favorite Baby-sitter’s Club Super Special, which was titled Snowbound, and rant for five paragraphs about how stupid it was to pair Kristy with Bart when she was obviously gay. Of course, that was later surpassed by pairing Stacey with Robert, a dashing young man in preppy attire she met on Fire Island.*
* I still have the form letter and thick packet of resources a mailroom intern pretending to be Ann M. Martin sent me in the very early ’90s in response to a fan letter that mentioned my interest in writing. It also included a glossy headshot of the author, whose bio I checked with every new BSC release to make sure it didn’t suddenly mention a husband. I’m not sure I had a crush on her, it was more like I recognized something about Martin that I couldn’t quite put a name to; I knew it would be wrong — as in unsuitable or incongruous — for her to have a husband, just as it would’ve been wrong for Harvey Fierstein to have a wife. When she officially came out in 2016, I wanted to rant about Bart and Robert and send her a packet of silly lesbian resources, but resisted the urge since she’d been gaying it up longer than I’d been alive.
02.11.25: It’s a new day and a clean slate for these updates, but you can still access the old ones here, not that they’re worth rereading. This morning was a strange one: I didn’t fall asleep until sometime after 3 am and at 6:45-ish I heard Crankenstein get up, at which time I took my first dose of levodopa and dozed off again. An hour later (or so I thought), she appeared at my bedside looking extra put-together and said “You have to get up.”
“No, I don’t,” I mumbled, my voice barely audible. Her makeup reminded me she had lectures to give, which I assumed she was about to deliver over Zoom; she’s normally dressed more casually on Tuesday mornings, when she has administrative time. She leaned forward to better hear me and I added, “If you’re worried about [Muriel], there are KONGs in the freezer.”*
Whether she replied to that is a mystery, because I was almost immediately asleep again. Annoyingly, it wasn’t a deep, restorative sleep, but I wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. A half-hour or so later, I was up for good and checked my watch — it was almost noon. How was that possible? Slowly and rigidly, I got up and took my overdue second dose of levodopa, aware that something more was ‘off’ than just my perception of time.
My swollen knuckle still hurt but that wasn’t it. The problem was clear once I’d shuffled to the dresser to get my slippers and a change of clothes: my thin pajama shirt was sweat-soaked despite the coolness of the room and bed.** Alas, it isn’t menopause, and I don’t think I’m fighting off a bug; it’s either PD or my old pal, arthritis, rearing its ugly head.^ The latter would also explain why I was extra tired, so I again wanted to kick myself for messing with my medication.
Crankenstein later explained that she’d already gone to campus and given her talks by the time I mumbled at her earlier; she’d just gotten home and wanted us to have lunch together. She’s usually the one who can’t wake up (unless she has to answer work calls), so this continues to strike her as bizarre and unsettling and I’m not a fan of it, either; I felt groggy the rest of the day. Now it’s only 9:59 pm but I’m heading back to bed since she requested we spend time together before she falls asleep. Fingers crossed this semi-lost day helps get my schedule back on track.
This is unforgivably boring, I know, but the good news is it can’t possibly get any duller tomorrow unless I’m comatose or decide to solicit opinions on what to do with some unsightly old tile in the basement.
* Muriel has been known to bark at neighbors’ UPS deliveries while Crankenstein’s giving presentations or answering journalists’ questions.
** The flannel sheets were put away once the temperature climbed above freezing but will return soon enough.
^ What an abundance of alluring diseases genetics has given me — Crohn’s could’ve also been the culprit, but there’d be more signs something was amiss — that it took a little time to narrow things down.