Completely Bottled

I hauled my ass out of bed to do a funeral today on my day off, which I was already cranky about ... but such is my luck I stepped in a fire ant hill at the service and got swarmed. I remained as poker faced and professional as possible as I shuffled off behind the hearse where no one could see me and proceeded to scrape the ants off my legs, socks, and shoes, with my wallet until my limbs were sufficiently bitten up and red, then dumped water all down my legs. I slid back into the service, sockless (the ants had Overtaken them and I had to abandon them into a bag in the car), and finished it off. Family didn't seem to notice. Grief blinds you in many ways; sometimes, it's convenient for the funeral professional who is getting attacked by insects.

I am apparently having a Very Good reaction, so says my medical professional boyfriend. He's fussed over me the minute he heard I got swarmed, producing hydrocortisone, benadryl, and reese's cups as soon as he picked me up from work. He's a water sign and a natural worrywart so he's been taking this a lot more seriously than I have. Instead of having dozens of pus-filled blisters, I just have slight redness and bumps.

Texas is full of surprises.

I came home and iced my legs while playing Animal Crossing, then switched over to sadly pawing through my 1930s cocktail book and imagining my prohibition party when Covid has been quelled. Under the cut are some ads that tickled me:

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I have to drag myself out of my comfy bed tomorrow at 6-ish so I can transport a body to the local airport to be shipped off, then Tuesday I have another funeral to work on. I love my job, don't get me wrong, but business is booming for all the wrong reasons and it's getting to be overwhelming.