One of the many disadvantages of being knee-crippled is that I can't for the moment use a step-ladder or climb a tree. That means Rob has to help me put the lights on the maple tree out front, an essential operation because a) the lights keep me sane in the dark months, b) they light the path to the front door better than the front door light does, and c-z) they keep me sane in the dark months.
Rob isn't a big fan of Christmas, and thinks the lights drain our precious natural resources for no good reason. Usually, he has next to no hand in putting them up. This year, he will have his entire body in it. Disgruntlement is likely. That's all I'm saying.
In general, I am not adapting well to my newfound reliance on others, and the situation may not improve for some time. The arthroscopy nicely trimmed my torn meniscus, but revealed that the inside half of my knee is as arthritic as it can possibly be, with just about no cartilege left. The logical next step is a partial knee replacement, but I'm going to try injecting something called Synvisc, a goop made from rooster combs that is supposed to lubricate the joint and buy a few months. It only works half the time , though, so I'm going to start organizing a replacement sooner rather than later.
Rooster combs? Rooster combs? Whoever figured out that something wobbling on the head of a rooster would be a good thing to inject into yourself? Same person who figured out you could eat an artichoke, probably.
I have more good reviews to share, but it's time to grab Rob in one hand, lights in the other. Wish me luck.
P.S. My old friend Catherine Stornetta just called--first time I've heard her voice in 25 years at least. In an otherwise delightful conversation, she insisted that she was the one who started calling people freelance ne'er-do-wells, back when we were young and foolish and living in Providence. I vigorously protested and that's where it lies, for all eternity most likely.