I would like to tell you that it is one of those punishments of delayed childbearing, but the ugly truth is that I have had arthritis in my hands courtesy of Reiters Syndrome since I was 25 years old.

One would think that over 15 years would be plenty of time to adjust to my limitations.

I am, apparently, a slow learner.

So, my lovelies, you are here to advise me in the future of a few simple facts:

42-year-old arthritic women have no business crouching in a plastic playhouse for a half an hour in the humid Arkansas heat, tapping sixteen 2.5 inch screws with a manual screwdriver while holding their hands over their heads.  Even IF it is an awfully cute playhouse.  Even IF their gi-normous freakishly tall husband has no more hope of fitting in that playhouse than a camel does of passing through the proverbial needle-eye.

And if I should ever be tempted to go on another Lilliputian construction spree, I am to be reminded that:

Failure to heed these warnings may result in the most intense shooting pains imaginable from the fingertip to the wrist of every digit, which may make the average workday of a scientist-writer a complete living hell from which no bleeding-stomach-ulcer-inducing amount of Advil will offer escape.

The fact that this country does not allow the over-the-counter sale of morphine is criminal, I tell you, criminal.