I love Nigerians

It wasn't a bad day. 

But tell my neurotransmitters. 

I hate even talking about depression: I think I sound like an ungrateful whiner. 

I have huge blessings in my life, a husband I love, a business I enjoy - we can make a living at our work, two great cats, good physical health for me - most importantly the physical strength I need to take care of Ron and "assistant manage" the business.  I have a great little house in a quiet neighborhood, good friends, and many other blessings.  I have a life I can work around my disabilities and an abundance of effective medication. 

But tell my neurotransmitters.  I did get up on time, did my God Time, took my shower.  I'd mowed the backyard yesterday so I needed to wash my hair again. 

We went to church.  Our driver was training a Yoruba man.  I've met a few lately. 

Ron and I, being curious folk, have done our best to learn how to say "please and thank you" in as many languages as possible, including Yoruba.  So, our Dr Pepper deliveryman, one of my vending customers, and today's trainee were all greeted in their native tongue. 

All of them were highly impressed.  They were all really nice guys.  I love Nigerians.  They're smart, they have great attitudes, and they're very professional. 

We had a wait, about an hour, at Starbucks, waiting on our ride.  I got out my tablet.  I can only take small bites because the android keyboard likes to input wierd characters I have never seen in my life.  It's not a C, it's a french c.  It's not a 2, it's a "to the second power" two.  Subscript 2.  I won't even get into the vowels. 

Maybe [shrug] I need to get one of those portable plug in keyboards.  Maybe that will solve my "inputting wierd characters" problem.  I have to repress very bad thoughts when working on my tablet. 

I finally put it away.  Our ride came, a different person than we expected, but we got the wheelchair stuffed into the car and on our way.  I smacked my upper arm on a wheelchair handle. 

Sometimes I watch Law & Order, and see the coroner talking about "bruising".  Boy, I pity Ron if I die first.  Between my natural "clumsy" - vastly enhanced by my psychiatric drugs, and my tendency to run into things, I'm generally wearing at least one bruise at any time. 

By the way, Ron was horrified he "lost it" last night.  I was very calm about it and made a practical suggestion to scale back the vodka when he's sitting outside in the heat.  He agreed. 

In fact, he just rolled out back a minute ago. 

So, we went to church.  Pastor talked about repentance.  I think I'm OK in that regard.  I want God to use me whatever it takes.  That's the kind of spirit God wants in a human. 

After church, we went back to Starbucks (paratransit does not go to church, we have to go to the edge of the service area instead).  I got a soda and our ride came pretty quick. 

This time, the driver spoke Urdu (and fluent English of course).  "Shoo-kree-ah" means thank you in Urdu.  {tips hat}  The driver was so tickled. 

It's really a fun game.  Guess the ethnicity, then thank them in their language.  Or greet them, depending on how much we know. 

We came home.  The neighbors were home so I decided not to take a nap.  It was kind of late anyway. 

Depression is HIDEOUS.  I can do so many things when I'm manic: finish cleaning up the backyard, organizing, work...

I wish I could take my brain out and put it in the fridge until I get manic again.