Bend with your knees, people. Right up there with "Sleep with a hat pin."
Yesterday morning I bent at the waist, spread my arms around a heavy footstool, and picked it up, or rather pulled my back and collapsed in pain. My only plans for yesterday were to snuggle in the guest bed and program, so I had no problem there.
I leaned heavily on my experience as a disabled woman's daughter. I wielded my grabby stick with confidence. I got a soda from the bottom of the fridge, cleaned up dog messes, and everything else I was supposed to bend over to do I just tossed on the floor. I chopped up the dog's canned food and rained it down on his plate from four feet up.
The evening was a problem because I was hungry. Gary's been working late on a huge project and I knew he wouldn't be home AND WOULDN'T FORCE HIS PIZZA PREFERENCES ON ME. I'm not talking pizza preferences that can be solved by saying "half pepperoni, half green pepper." No, I mean fundamental issues. Thin cracker pizza with pepperoni and Provel™ cheese (look it up; I can't talk about it), and hamburger pan pizza with normal god-given mozzarella cheese. Cecil B. Whitakers vs Pizza Hit. Snack pizza vs meal pizza. Pizza that sticks to your teeth vs pizza that sticks to your ribs.
So, pizza for dinner with Diet-Rite Tangerine Soda heavily dosed with Peachtree Schapps.
And now that it's after noon on the next day, I think I'll have the same thing for breakfast / lunch, plus anything else I can snag with the grabby stick.