The most exasperating part of every scope is the urine sample. Male readers, cherish your freedom from this legal formality, for it is not easy to comply with these mercenary urinary demands when you’ve been starved of fluids for a half-day or longer. “I’m a monogamous lesbian,” I once told a nurse at a Catholic […]

As a homemaker in the ’80s and ’90s, my mom watched a lot of daytime television while tethered to the house. Most mornings started with The Today Show, which wasn’t yet the bloated monstrosity it became, and when that was over it was time for Donahue.* “Caller, are you there?” Phil Donahue asked viewers who

It’s been three weeks since I last mentioned Eight is Enough, but I haven’t abandoned the Bradfords: no, I’m still trapped in its Auntie V-less third season, which never seems to end. This evening I finished episode 19, with nine more still to go. Twenty-eight 50-minute episodes in a single season is impressive by any

Crankenstein and I were on opposite ends of the sofa at 6:45 this evening, Muriel between us, when we heard the mailman push something through the slot near the door. Once Muriel had completed her customary growling and stern warning barks, I got up to grab it — our daily USPS Informed Delivery email had

“I’m in your Social Security file right now and I’m not seeing any record of your submissions,” Jennifer, the disability lawyer’s case administrator, confirmed this afternoon. Once I’d signed a stack of releases, her office could access my file and perform tasks I couldn’t — like easily upload records — using its government portal.* She

It wasn’t long after the Parkinson’s diagnosis last summer that I was outside one morning, watering the grass I was trying to regrow after replacing an underground downspout extension, when a neighbor stopped to chat. We’d waved to each other on previous occasions but she always looked preoccupied on her daily walks and I probably

“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