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

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