Bills and Pills; "Loud, fat fuckers"; Inversely Proportional; Depression

Saturday I did not feel good. Not all that unusual when I'm depressed or suffering from a sinus infection. I had to force myself to go to mother's to pick up some clothes to take to the nursing home.

I also spent about an hour going through papers and documents, and at least was able to get rid of such things as a large batch of old bank statements and tax returns.

Then I made an effort to collect medication. I found at least a dozen pill bottles, two bags of mutiple samples, five boxes of Catapres patches, and three pill organizers. This, of course, does not count the 15 or so blister packs left over from the first nursing home. My guess is that the retail cost of all this would be a $1,000 plus. But what can I do with it? You can't return it to the druggist. The nursing home will not accept it. What a terrible waste!

That evening and Sunday morning, I sorted through the material I'd gathered: filing, eliminating duplicates, dumping, etc. After that I balanced the bank accounts and wrote check after check.

The bar surface curves up on the outside for several inches then swoops inward. Sorta like a surfer's wave. The barkeep gave me a curious wooden device that fits over the wave and provides a flat tray surface on top. And oddity that I'd never encountered before. As I nibbled at my salad, it struck me that I needed to be careful. A couple of bumbps and bowl, salad, fork and tray would wind up in my lap.

I'd missed lunch to go to my mother's, so I was grumpy to begin with. And by the time I sat at the bar, I had a dull headache. The sloopy service did little to assuage my sense of irritation. And my chair was uncomfortable. And loud, fat fuckers kept coming to the bar to have a drink while they waited for their table. I vaguely remember that at the end I found myself carving pithy obscenities into the woodwork.

Turned around and stopped for petrol. Zipped into Walgreen's for lotion for momsy and a replacement tube of toothpaste. Stopped at "my" post office to check my box and to mail an Amazon purchase; however, there were at least 20 people in line, and each one was attempting to mail something to some small third-world country that the clerks had never heard of.

I gave up and bounced along to lunch. As I pulled into the parking lot, some demented guy in one of those hugh-ass SUVs darted across my path missing my delicate wee vehicle by a couple of nanometers. One of those hugh-ass SUVs that is inversely proportional in size to the driver's IQ. Or is it dick size; I never can remember.

After my mediocre BLT lunch, I headed across the street to deposit a check: the refund on the deposit from the professional sitter who stayed with mother. At the bank door, I consciensciously removed my baseball cap, sunglasses, wig and false beard, as per the instructions on the door in order to make it easier to id your run-of-the-mill bank robber. (Holy fuck! Can you see a robber doing all this!) Once inside, I discovered that all the folks from the post office had decided to do their banking business.

I hate this type of lunch hour. When all the surrounding sites furlough their village idiots and sent them out to cause mayhem.

PAX!