Ok, so my knee hurts like a son of a gun. It’s bad. It’s real bad.
Yeah, yeah, I’m a hypochondriac. But just because I am always looking for something to be wrong doesn’t mean that there really isn’t something wrong. Is that so wrong?
I’m at the beach right now. Bethany Beach, Delaware. We are at my father’s house here. He’s dead now, but I always feel him here. Especially when I walk the coastline.
Oh wait. I can’t walk the coastline right now because my knee hurts like a son of a gun. All I can do is limp myself down to my chair under the umbrella and hope I don’t have to pee soon.
It’s such a pain in the …… I mean, I’m an active woman. I like to be doing. But this #$&*%#!! knee is stopping me from doing just about anything.
It hurts so much I can’t even cook. ME! It hurts to stand long enough to even just make a homemade casserole. I’ve had to resort to (big breath) serving pre-made frozen dinners to my family. That wouldn’t be SO bad if I didn’t continually burn them.
You see, the oven of my Dad’s old house is circa 1950. It cooks like it, too.
The Stouffer’s Macaroni and Cheese that burnt to a carbon base on the bottom but remained frozen on the top….Yeah, that was pretty bad.
And the Frozen lasagna that only cooked around the edges before it started burning. That was pretty bad too.
I suppose a good thing to come out of this is that my family really really really appreciates the efforts I usually make to serve home-made meals. I don’t know when they’ll be eating them again, at this rate.
What I’m trying to say is you all need to pity me. Feel deeply for my plight. Send me letters of encouragement.
And a casserole or two.