“It was brought to my attention that I might’ve had a bad attitude about trying a brace last time,” I told the physical therapist as we discussed my leg this afternoon. Laughing, she asked “In whose opinion?” The answer, as you may have guessed, was Crankenstein. “It’s often the spouse,” the PT cheerfully replied, before […]

So much for catching up on sleep — last night was the worst I’ve had in weeks, with the usual dystonia accompanied by the return of my cough, which had mostly disappeared not long after I last complained about it.* My tossing and turning and sitting up (in futile attempts to facilitate deeper breathing or

In the continued adventures of my newfound forgetfulness, I neglected to have my car inspected last month. Normally I take care of it as soon as the notice arrives, and several times I told myself “Oh yeah, I’ll do that tomorrow,” before it slipped my mind or was preempted by Covid-y disruptions and rescheduled appointments.

As I write this before bed on a Saturday night, Antenna TV is airing “Put It On,” an episode of The Jeffersons in which the gals visit Bumpers, a male strip club; hijinks naturally ensue when Tom and George take the stage. (Sadly, I couldn’t find their amateur night routine on YouTube.) Had I seen

I’ve never been one to think the universe sends me messages — among other reasons, I’ve moved a few times and never left it my forwarding address.* But late this afternoon, a message may have been received as Muriel and I headed outside at the usual time so she could do her business. It was

02.10.25: It’s just about time to retire this post and start another; it’s gotten so big that saving each new update has become a chore for either my web host or blogging software. This entry shouldn’t tax the system too much more since there’s only so much to say: my right hand’s been out of

One of the reasons I agreed to try trekking poles for better balance is my unsteadiness outdoors with Muriel. She has an indefatigable prey drive and troubling tendency to tune me out at the sight of anything she might kill (and eat) with impunity — if afforded the opportunity. This unruliness is especially problematic in

When I decided to stray from my comfort zone and filed an SSDI claim this spring, I knew it would be an uphill battle. Approval rates are low, particularly for those of us who are decades away from a traditional retirement age, and the application and appeals processes can be difficult and even dehumanizing. While

No, I’ve not actually gone fishing, but I’m taking the night off (or rather, I’d planned to; as you’ll see, that went by the wayside) and wanted to offer some sort of proof of life after yesterday’s coughfest. I’ll return tomorrow with the tale of my shiny new SSDI denial and why I’m still conflicted

While Crankenstein was at church this morning singing non-Terry-Meeuwsen songs about Jesus, I was annoying Muriel with the return of a hacking cough that’s worse now than it was when I had Covid earlier this month. Exasperated, I decided to distract myself not through writing, which requires greater concentration than coughing fits allow, but with