Go Vikings!

Today was a busy and productive day. I got to sleep late, yay! Went to my psychiatrist's office, had my "tune up". I reported a good side effect, the pills make my allergies a lot better than they were before. Ron was able to convince his boss NOT to take one of my snack machines away and give it to another vendor. Yay!

My doctor filled out the Metrolift paperwork, all I need now is the prescription for the service. He'll do it Monday, and it'll get mailed to me. I had a good lunch and didn't have to wait very long on our ride home. When we got home, I had a nap. I had a handsome black cat come and cuddle with me, even. Bubba. I sure love that beast. I really missed him.

By the time Ron got back from Starbucks, I had already changed into my yardwork clothes. We headed out to weed-whack. I got most of it done when I stepped into a fire ant mound. Pain. Burning, aching pain. Firey pain. Stabbing, jabbing pain. I look down and my right foot is literally encrusted in fireants. I had to hop over to the faucet and wash off. Even then, some of them hung on, little pincers firmly embedded in my tender foot flesh (I was wearing "slide" type sneakers).

Ron felt terrible. I was glad it was me, and not him. I also remembered I had some Campho-Phenique in the first aid kit. Once R0n got the fire ant poison (I'm sorry little lizards, snakes, and toads), I applied it. I found a couple more nests. At one point I had to tell him to back up because they were boiling out of the nest, furious I was applying poison. No sense in both of us getting mauled.

I came back in and took my shower, washing off the ant poison. Ate some dinner and logged online.

My high school is having a 15 year reunion. That brings up a lot of memories, most of them terrible. I was really sick even back then, and I didn't even know it. It was an incredibly unhappy time and only my faith in God kept me from killing myself.

And how'm I doing now? I'm married to an "old" guy who isn't rich. We make a living but that's about it. It was an affluent high school. I doubt many of my classmates are riding public transit and wearing clothing by Walmart. I have to take 5 psychiatric medications a day to be functional. I'm also at least 50 pounds fatter than I used to be.

By what I perceive to be "their" standards, I'm doing terribly. Who would voluntarily sign up to marry a blind, head-injured, somewhat deaf stroke victim? A poor one? And vending? Ew. I'm in "Trade". I'm also "crazy" and "fat". I don't even have any human children to brag about.

I do own a house. Yay. Albeit, an orange house. Personally, I'm going to skip the reunion. I think they won't miss me.

Go Vikings!