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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Our bathtub attacked me earlier,” I told Crankenstein this evening, after she’d recounted the highlights of her day. Before I could add “While I was naked and vulnerable,” which would’ve alerted her to my amusement, her brow shot toward the ceiling and her eyes widened in concern. Disconcerted by her reaction — it was as

Tonight I must go to bed early so Crankenstein, who is stressed and sad about various things, can use me as a human pillow. I’m not sure why she continues to find this relaxing, knowing as she does that my limbs (and sometimes entire body) will flail and jerk at unexpected noises, or if I

If you knew me offline, you’d know that I’m normally politically cantankerous enough to revive from my deathbed just long enough to say “And another thing about Karl Rove…” right as they’re about to pull a sheet over my head. Despite that, and despite knowing how devastated and frightened half the country’s been since Tuesday