Kneester

I am finally back in the saddle more or less. Back at work, in any case. My leg is still in that crazy splint and I'm still on crutches (no driving!). I go back to the orthopedic surgeon tomorrow armed with my MRI films and that's when I'll find out just what exactly I tore and whether it needs surgery or just patience. It still is uncomfortable for me to sit in a chair for an extended period of time, but I'm managing. If the blogging is even more peevish than usual this week, you will know why.

D-day (moving) is still scheduled for the first. Thanks to my amazingly great friends I am not overly worried about how that's all going to be possible given the fact that I cannot carry a cup of coffee from the kitchen into the living room safely. Six or eight of said amazing circle are coming over Saturday for a packing party. I have sold my refrigerator (it leaves home Friday night) and found a home for my desk. If I can just find a buyer for the fabulous mid-century gold sectional sofa at least some of my movers' bill will be taken care of. [As an aside, those of you who live in more normal places might be thinking "sold your refrigerator"? Don't you live in an apartment?? Yes, I do. This is one of the most retarded things about LA apartment life. Rental units here tend to come fridge-free. I'm not sure what the logic is in that, but it's a fact. So I bought my first real appliance when I moved in and now I have no desire to shlep it across town and have sold it to the nice Persian grandmother who lives downstairs and happily didn't spy the Hannukah candles lurking in the back when she checked it out.]

Aside number two: K tells me I am not a "hipster" anymore, that I now have to think of myself as a kneester. (Good cooking and bad puns, it's no wonder I adore that boy.)