Compost.
We have a compost bin, not that we babysit it with any regularity, or worry about the ratio of brown-to-green material. I simply take whatever kitchen scraps I have in a bucket down to the bin, hold my nose, and dump it in, trusting that nature will (someday), turn it into fertilizer for my garden.
So there I am, emptying the bucket into the bid, when I was attacked by a fly-by wasp. He or she didn't even bother to land on me, it just stung me on the wrist as it flew by. Within the hour, my hand was the size of a softball, and by evening, my arm had swelled up like a toad. I took the steroids, iced it down, and still this morning it's hot and red and swollen and itchy.
Try to do a good deed, and what does it get you? More stupid injury.
Harrumph.
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Happiest of birthdays to you, my darling Bill. You're 52, but forever young in my eyes!
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2 comments:
Good Grief - maybe Bill should ban you from going outside when he is gone....I'm just saying........put some baking powder paste on that, ok?
Hope you feel better - yesterday was fun, even though you were suffering at times!!!!!!! I do believe, however, you worked on eliminating the suffering - LOL!!
L, M ;-)
If it's any comfort to you one of my college students sat down on the couch in the Sunday School class room last week and a wasp stung her on the finger! Hope your boo-boo gets well soon!
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