Today was a very good day. About 180º different than yesterday, which was so bad I considered skipping my favorite part post altogether.
I went to the doctor today and hopefully started on some new meeds which will help me overall, and which seem like my last real chance of getting my thesis done in time for this year. (Major)
Aside: Twice now I've had to carry my prescription from the doctor to CVS. When I asked him why, he said that for some "restricted" drugs they aren't allowed to send the prescription electronically or via fax. Can someone please explain that logic to me? Rather than the prescription being transferred directly from the doctor to the pharmacy with no chance of me intercepting it, manipulating it, duplicating it, or selling/giving it to someone else -- the doctor is required to give me a physical prescription slip. Is that absolutely ridiculous to everyone, or just me?
I did not let the secretary rope me into her drama. I addressed the situation with her, I sent an email to the one other person who need to know about it, and then I let it go. (Minor, but still important). Getting into it with her wouldn't have accomplished anything. I said what I had to say, and most importantly moved the whole thing along.
At lunch today, I finished my burger and was still a little hungry. This particular waitress never asks me if I was dessert, but today she did. (A SIGN! IT'S CLEARLY A SIGN!) I asked what they had, and she said, "We have chocolate cake, something else, and some other thing." Well, actually, all she said was "We have chocolate ca—" and I said "YES" with a speed, vigor, and enthusiasm usually reserved for answering a girl who asks a teenage boy if he would like to lose his virginity with her right now. But for some reason she still told me the other 2 or 3 things they had for dessert, none of which was chocolate. That's like first offering sex and then asking if I would like to watch a movie or go to the mall. Those might be fine options and I might enjoy them on some other occasion, but really why aren't you getting me cake? Was I not emphatic enough for you? BRING ME CAKE, WOMAN! (I am happy to report the cake was quite excellent in every way. I was even able to go slowly and really savor it, unlike well really I don't think that's important let's just move along shall we.)
The exterminator was able to come today (MAJOR!). Yesterday the house seemed to be on the verge of being overrun by ants, or as I like to call them: Satan's Mini Minions. I hate ants like Indiana Jones hates snakes. I hate ants the way the Tea Party hates taxes and logic. I hate ants like a fat guy loves chocolate cake. Hmmm… cake. Sorry, what was I saying? On, right. Ants. Fucking little bastards. The exterminator guy explained that with all the rain, the ant colonies have been "forced" inside. Well now they will be "forced" back to hell, where they belong. Enjoy the poison, you of malevolent grains of evil incarnate!
One of the realities of living in a small town with an unusual last name is that people tend to notice it. Turns out the exterminator "knew" me. As he was going around spreading ant poison, he was talking to me about his church, including their prison ministry (impressive) and their "read the Bible over a loudspeaker in the city square" project last week (not my cup of tea, to be sure, but apparently they reached a lot of people… so that's good).
As we were standing in the kitchen and he was talking about the prison ministry, Sophie (our female beagle) was rolling around on the kitchen floor on her back ("LOOK AT ME! RUB MY BELLY! LOOK AT ME!") At some point Lucky (the dog, not The Shirt) walked in and walked over her (still on her back), two legs on either side, so that his "privates" (as The Boy would call it) were in Sophie's face. And she proceeded to merrily lick away for several minutes (I hope she bartered first!) while the exterminator, oblivious, continued to tell me about his church's prison ministry, and while I tried to ignore them and pay attention to him. Mostly that involved me nodding a lot, with my head slightly tilted, eyes slightly narrowed to convey a look of intense concentration. I hope he interpreted my posture and demeanor as "active listening" with a keen interest in his story, as opposed to a concerted effort not to say, "WOW ARE YOU REALLY NOT NOTICING WHAT IS GOING ON RIGHT OVER THERE? REALLY? I HOPE YOU NEVER CHAPERONED A HIGH SCHOOL DANCE."
When I was getting ready to leave to pick up The Boy from school, the exterminator was still spraying around the outside of the house (for all the good that did before it rained again later). I asked what I owed him. He said $75, and asked if I wanted to be billed. I said no, I'd pay him now, and pulled out some cash from my pocket. "Can't beat that," he said with a smile. I only had $20s. I handed him $80. "Do you have a $5?" He pulled out some cash from his pocket. He only had $10s. He handed me one. "Let's make it $70," he said. "Can't beat that," I thought to myself.
On the way home from his Tae Kwon Do class, The Boy reminded me that we have an indoor "bug zapper" (it's actually uses a vacuum, not a "zap" but it's the same idea: attracts flying bugs to it). We've had some flying bugs in the house at night too. I asked him if he knew where it was, and he said he thought it was in the living room. I told him I'd look for it when we got home. To which he replied, very earnestly, "No Dad, I'll look. You work." (He told me he hopes i graduate this year so I can spend more time with him staying up late and watching movies this summer. I told him that sounded good to me.) I didn't mention that I have to walk right past where he thought it was in order to get to my room. There didn't really seem to be any need. He found it, brought it to me, and set it up.
