Happy thing #6

You knew this was coming.

You had to.

How could you not.

 

Helen Irene

 

Happy things #5

Some of you are going to laugh at this one. I know it.

If you know me well at all, you know that rock is my usual music of choice. But I have pretty eclectic taste in music and have a little bit of folk, country, R&B, Sinatra, and even some rap in my collection. I've also been known to listen to Sunday Baroque on NPR. And I love hymns.

Then there are some old favorites. I don't know what the genre is. Seventies something-or-other. The stuff my mom listened to when I was a kid. Neil Diamond, Gordon Lightfoot, Olivia Newton-John, Jim Croce, and this one. My favorite:

I have loved the Carpenters since I was a little kid. But the reason that this CD is one of my happy things is because Karen Carpenter's voice is JUST PERFECT for me to sing along with. When I sing along with Karen, I feel like I can really sing.

And that makes me happy.

Happy things #4

For my fourth post on the things that make me happy, I vacillated.

There are two things that I really wanted to post today. But I ultimately decided to go with this one, because of the timing.

Seven years ago Tuesday, my Grandpa Beery died. He was 93 and had had a good life. He was happily married to my grandma for 70 years. He was loved and admired by his grandchildren and great-grandchildren. He was always one of my favorite people. He is now enjoying Heaven with my sweet grandma, waiting for the rest of us to join them.

This box is something that he made when he was young. I am not sure how old he was when he made it. My mom might know. It sits on my enclosed front porch in its well-made, but rustic, glory and holds our boots and serves as a seat, if need be.



By the way, this post isn't about them, but my paisley rain boots make me happy, too.

Happy thing #3

Today we go back again to the more trivial, from the lofty heights of yesterday.

Part of the reason is that I don't want these to be in anything that resembles an order, is so that when and if I post pictures of important people in my life I won't hear, "I always knew you loved him best."

These are my bedroom curtains on part of my bedroom windows. I love my bedroom with its four big sunny windows. I knew that they needed to be covered, for privacy, but I hated to lose the view of the trees and sky that I see when I'm in my bed.


I also don't love the orange trim, left from the previous occupant. But the many paint layers need to be stripped, not painted over, so it will be with me for a while.

My dear friend EC helped me figure out curtains that would let me have my view and my privacy at the same time. She helped me pick fabric that would works with the orange, while de-emphasizing it. They are airy. They blow in the breeze and don't block the light.

They make me happy. Thanks, EC!

Happy thing #2

This picture almost feels like cheating, because it has so many good things in it.

This is a picture of my sons, walking together to church for dinner on Christmas afternoon. For the purpose of this blog post, it is my church. At the end of my street. I can see it from the sidewalk in front of my house. I can walk there in minutes. I can hear the bells in my room.

I don't leave my house or come home without the reminder that God loves me and has given me a wonderful church home and church family.

Happy thing, indeed!

Happy things #1

My first happy thing is completely frivolous. I know it. But it makes me happy.

Among my many warring personality traits are the facts that I am a total disorganized messy, but I am also highly visual and clutter drives me crazy. So I am constantly looking for ways to tame visual noise, but also to have things organized in a way that works for me. Put away, out-of-sight, doesn't do it. For me, out of sight equals gone.

I also like to be able to see the things that I love.

I love my scarves.

I didn't love them in a drawer. Or falling off of a hanger in my closet.

I do love them on this nifty hanger thingy from IKEA.

 

They are unwrinkled. (Except for my pink pashmina, it was on the floor of the coat closet and needs ironing.) I can see them. They stay put. They hide some of the orange door. 

Being happy

The last few weeks have been challenging.

I woke up one morning a little over three weeks ago with some fogginess in my vision. I went to a local ophthalmologist and got a diagnosis and an appointment to return in five weeks. As the next several day passed, it continued to get worse, so, with some help from my mother, I found a specialist in Indianapolis who is in my insurance plan's network. They got me in the next day.

We discovered that the original diagnosis, while not incorrect, was incomplete, and that the problem is both potentially more serious, but also more treatable. The first line of treatment is a huge Prednisone blast, stepped down over six weeks.

My body didn't like that. I was jittery and agitated. Shaky. Couldn't sleep. Was having night sweats, achy muscles, limb numbness, and horrible mood swings. So we stepped down the amounts over the course of 10 days and now I am on half the original dose. We will continue the planned step down from here. I'm still having some side effects, but not so severe, and I can handle them if it saves the sight in my left eye.

In the midst of feeling like a total wreck, I was in a total wreck. Literally.

A driving lesson gone bad.

 

The Volvo did what it was supposed to do. The frame buckled and we both walked away. My husband went and looked at the site of the wreck and said that he can't believe we made it mostly between the tree and the light pole, hitting one with a glancing blow and bouncing off of the other.

So my car is totaled. My body is shaken and sore. I will miss my stupid car.

But we are not seriously hurt. The insurance company is giving us a fair price for the car. Life will go on.

And my eye seems to have improved a little.

Over the past couple of weeks, the prayers of my friends and family have surrounded me as an almost palpable thing. I have returned over and over again to some Psalms and hymns that are particularly powerful on themes of trust and contentment and the pure unwavering message that I belong to Christ and nothing changes that.

I am basically a happy person. I am blessed not to be prone to depression. I bounce back quickly. It is one positive personality trait that offsets many that I don't like so well. But right now I feel a little bit of a need to focus, specifically, on all of the large and small things in my life that add to my happiness. So, each day for at least a month, I am going to post a picture and blog about one of these things. Some will be totally frivolous and some will be big and obvious. I'm doing this for me, but I hope that you will enjoy it too.

Why should cross and trial grieve me?
Christ is near
With His cheer;
Never will He leave me.
Who can rob me of the heaven
That God's Son
For me won
When His life was given?


 When life's troubles rise to meet me,
Though their weight
May be great,
They will not defeat me.
God, my loving Savior, sends them;
He who knows
All my woes
Knows how best to end them.


God gives me my days of gladness,
And I will
Trust Him still
When He send me sadness.
God is good;
His love attends me
Day by day,
Come what may,
Guides me and defends me.

Why Should Cross and Trial Grieve Me, vv. 1-3
Paul Gerhardt

Missing pieces

I've been gathering items for a garage sale. Well, technically, I guess it would be a yard sale since our garage is way back behind our house. I had decided that this Friday would be the perfect day. The weather should be beautiful, there is nothing else that I have to do, and I am SO ready to have this stuff out of here.

Then, out of the blue yesterday, I realized that I can't have it this Friday, or any other Friday in the foreseeable future because I would have to do it completely alone. No brief breaks to run in for a drink, the restroom, or lunch. No helpers available to fetch things or answer people. No company.

I keep forgetting that my kids aren't here anymore. I keep forgetting that although the guys--no longer boys--still live here, they are busy people. Patrick and Jonathan are gone all day every day during the week and Patrick is also gone most of the weekend. And Andrew, my nearly constant companion of the past 18 years, is now working about 40 hours a week between two jobs.

The change has happened gradually, and will continue. Two years ago Bethany got married and moved away. In the spring, Patrick will graduate and move out. In the fall Andrew will add college to his schedule and become even more of a phantom. I know that the changes are good and salutary, but that doesn't make them easy.

And, it doesn't make it any less difficult for me to figure out how I'm going to have a garage sale.

A little piece of my heart

I never gave much thought to what being a Grandmother would be like.

I just figured one day I would be, and that, of course, I would love whatever little people came along.

 

But, OH MY!

 

This little girl has a piece of my heart.

It goes with her when she goes back home with her mommy next week.

And I will be missing her like crazy, almost as much as I miss her mommy.

I hate it that she lives so far away, but even in that I am fortunate. 

I got to see her in August. I'm seeing her now. I will see her in October and November and December.

And I don't know exactly when or how, but I'm going to make sure that I see her in the winter, too.

And then I know that I will see her next spring when she welcomes her new brother or sister.

Well-rounded and hating it

When it was time for our oldest child to start high school, I played devil's advocate. I told her every wonderful thing about high school that I could think of. We discussed it a lot. She thought about it. And in the end she decided, to my great joy and immediate terror, that she wanted to continue homeschooling.

Her reason for that decision dovetails nicely with topic of my post. She knew that if she went to high school she would have lots of homework for classes that she wasn't even interested in and that this would cut into her time for the two things she really was interested in: playing the piano and reading.

She didn't want to be well-rounded. None of my children are particularly well-rounded. And I'm okay with that.

A friend recently linked to a blog post titled The argument against raising well-rounded kids. That piece is responsible for this post. Although that blogger is more career-focused and sees encouraging kids to focus on their strengths largely as a tool to build a more successful career, while I see it more as a means to live a satisfying and fulfilled life, I still found much in her piece that struck a chord.

I grew up well-rounded. I went to school and did well in all subjects. I played sports, and was mediocre or worse in all of them that I tried. I took piano for years, having neither the talent or passion to be good. I also took lessons in other instruments, voice, dance and gymnastics--for which my body could not have been less suited--even roller skating. Bless my mother's sweet heart, she was trying to find something that I was good at, something that would make my slightly chubby, bookish self happy. And I was, too.

Even though I already knew what made me happy. Reading. Writing . Playing with my friends. Reading some more. And more. And more. Writing letters to my friends and pen pals. And reading some more.

But what made me happy wasn't really an acceptable pursuit. Being smart, loving words, and loving to play with words wasn't enough. It wasn't a talent. So we searched. And when I hit high school I did what I was told to be the well rounded college prep student. I took math, even doubling up my sophomore year on Algebra 2 and Geometry to leave room for Calculus my senior year. I took Biology, Chemistry, Advanced Chemistry, and Physics. Because I was jumping through the college prep hoops, I couldn't fit in world history, which I would have loved, although I did get to take a one-semester philosophy class that is still one of my most memorable classes ever. Fortunately for me, English was required, and we had an excellent English department. I got to read real literature and quite a bit of it. I got up very early my freshman year to go to swim practice, because well-rounded people did sports. After three years of high school, I still had people pressuring me to go into engineering because that's what smart people should do. Why would I want to be a writer?

My senior year I finally rebelled. I had had good grades and was near the top of my class. I had the highest PSAT scores in the history of my school; getting into college and even getting money wasn't going to be a problem. I took English and government. I was editor of the yearbook. I dropped physics after one semester and I decided not to take calculus. I was a class officer. I read books, wrote, and spent a lot of time hanging out with my friends and my then-boyfriend, now-husband.

In college, I crashed and burned rather spectacularly. Nothing I wanted to do was practical. What was the point? I was lonely. I was removed from any support for my faith. I changed majors so many times that even I have lost count. I changed schools several times.

But what if from the age of 14 on I had been able to focus on what I was good at and what I was interested in? Would I be this person who still, at almost 50, doesn't know what she wants to be when she grows up? Would I be this person who can do lots of things, but as I seem to have been reminded frequently in recent weeks, none very well? And once a person, especially someone as ADD as I am gets in the habit of dabbling, can they get out?

My kids aren't well-rounded. I am glad. Bethany immersed herself in her books and music. She went to college to major in history and minor in music. She dropped the music minor after a while because it was too time-intensive, and she really doesn't enjoy performing, but she still gets a great deal of joy from her piano. She got perfect grades, aside from one B+, and could have gone on to grad school almost anywhere, but knew herself well enough to know that that wasn't really what she wanted. Now she's busy being a fabulous, happy, wife and mother.

Patrick is a reader and wordsmith. He is majoring in history and German with stellar grades. (One B+ there, too.) His depth and breadth of historical knowledge astounds me. His writing reflects the fact that growing up he immersed himself in good books. Whatever he decides to do he will do well, because he knows his own mind and is comfortable with who he is.

Jonathan is a singer. His teen years had the minimum of academic work necessary for college admission, but he sang with multiple choirs, took voice, and was in several productions with various groups, including two at the same time. He never could have done this if he were in school. He is not well-rounded. He is focused.

Andrew is the most like me in personality. Gregarious and out-going, he needs his social time, but he has also found his strength. He is skilled at, and enjoys, languages. He has learned Koine Greek well enough to help teach it. He has learned some Latin and German and intends to learn more. He is also very industrious and has had his first job for over a year and has now added a second. Both of his jobs are in the service industry, allowing him to use and hone his people skills and to socialize while at work.

Of course all kids need to be taught to read and write at a functional level. All kids need survival math. (If we taught math as a life skill it would go better, but that's another post.) But we do young people--and our society--a disservice by emphasizing well-roundedness, standards, college preparation, etc. We would all be much better off if from, about the time they hit double digits, we let our kids follow their passions and quit trying to shove them all into a few neatly labelled boxes.

Getting healthy

I'm sure I'm not the only one who cares about exercise, good nutrition, etc., in spurts. I'll do really well for a while. Then I'll fall back into bad habits. Or create new ones.

I was doing really well for a couple of years. I was eating a low-carb, low sugar diet that really made me feel great. As a bonus, I lost 27 pounds. Then my daughter got engaged. There were cakes to taste and food to plan. There were showers.

At the same time, we bought and started refurbishing a money pit.

And my husband started spending five days a week in another state.

And, then, there was leftover wedding cake.

I just never went back. Oh, for the most part I still ate better than I did before my low-carb, almost-no-sweets days, but I was giving in too often to weaknesses like crusty baguettes with homemade pesto, the Ragin Cajun's white chocolate bread pudding, and my various pasta creations. At the same time, I was drinking wine and beer more often.

So over the last two years the pounds have crept back on. I'm perilously close to where I started. And I have been feeling worse and worse. Stomach problems. Achy joints. General blergh.

Unfortunately, it has also become clear to me that my beloved coffee is a problem. My stomach just can't handle it. So I'm in the cutting-back-to-quit process. I'm also limiting alcohol to dinners out or get-togethers with friends. I've just finished my third day successfully low-carb. I have a kombucha starter from a friend. Each of these things is likely to help.


Why does it take so long to do the right things when we know that they will make us feel better?

I've got the bug

I've got it bad.

 First, there was the thick fall fashions edition of InStyle magazine.

Then there were three days walking around the mall while I watched my friend's one-year-old son. I'm having shoulder troubles, so pushing a happy baby in a stroller and sipping a cappuccino seemed like a good solution.

There are the crisp nights and sunny-but-not-hot days.

Then there are the several hours that I have spent sorting through clothes. I'm swapping out the white crops and sundresses for jeans and. . . ummmm. . . Where are my fall clothes?!

The realization that has hit me is that my fall wardrobe is pathetic. I have been paying tuition for kids in college for five years. Two years ago I had just spent my summer spending money in a manner that  felt, to me, reminiscent of the proverbial drunken sailor. Between our money pit of a house and having a wedding with 300 guests, there was nothing left. And then last fall I felt rotten and didn't feel like shopping, or going much of anywhere.

Add to that a 27-pound weight loss and a 15-pound regain in that time, and you see my problem.

I need to go shopping. I need to buy sweaters and white blouses and cute shoes. I need some jeans. I'd love a leather jacket; they are EVERYWHERE this year. Riding boots. Scarves. Something suede. Burgundy.

Oh, yeah. The bug has bitten hard.

Patchyisms

You probably have met Patrick, or at least know of him.

Patrick, trying to bring back dressing well, at a TinCaps game.

If you know me well, you've heard stories of Patrick's exploits in his younger years. But what you may not have heard about was what an adorably funny little kid he was.

My mother-in-law would sometimes write down things he said, because he cracked her up. Tonight, she emailed them to me. What a treasure! So for your enjoyment, I give you Patchyisms.

(This is copied exactly as I received it. For reference, Patrick was born late in the summer of 1990.)

Preschool: Patrick told the teacher, “Leave me alone. I’m doing my business.”

Age 3: None of that mushy stuff.”

December, 1994:

Carrying a pair of knitting needles, Patrick said, “Grandma, these are very dangerous chopsticks.”

Mar. 1995: Patrick told Ruth Ann, “Your daughter is a very bad mother. She told me I have to clean my room before I do anything else.”

Patrick was discussing his Dad’s golf game:  I said that his dad probably couldn’t beat Scott [the golf pro] but that his dad could do lots of things that Scott couldn’t do. Patrick thought a minute and said, “Yes, he’s a very good mower.”

Riding with us to Lafayette: “I have the hiccups. Grandpa’s driving too fast.”

To Pete [his grandma's dog who wouldn't do what he wanted]: Patchy’s counting to 3—1 ,2,3

November, ’93: Shannan [Patrick's aunt] told Patrick that he could stay with her when he was bigger, so the rest of the day, he kept asking Jane if he looked bigger.

“Bethany [his sister] is a bad boy.”

No place like home

I once gave my mom a gift that said, "Home is where your mom is." It was partially to reassure her that it didn't matter that she had moved from any place that we had ever lived together; her house would always be home to me. But I also gave it to her because it struck a cord in me. I think that maybe, just maybe, I've finally figured out why.

Throughout the '80s we were reminded weekly that, "Sometimes you want to go where everybody knows your name," and that may be true. But even more so, sometimes you want to go to a place where someone knows you. Not just your name. Not who they've decided that you are. You.

My mama knows me.

There is a peace and relaxation in being with someone who knows you. A feeling of home. (This is why a visit to my daughter in New Hampshire--where I had never been before--felt like a sort of homecoming.) I spend a lot of time with people who think they know me, but who I suspect completely misunderstand me at a fundamental level. It's stressful in a way that is hard for me to describe.

When I pull up outside my mom's condo I feel the same way I do when I pull up in the driveway of my crazy house and am greeted by my sons. I feel the way I do when my husband's car pulls into the driveway on Friday night. I feel like I do when my daughter greets me wherever she is living now.

I feel like I'm home.

My mama.

Summer supper

Summer food is my favorite. There is just no substitute for fresh veggies. Tonight we took advantage of several of my favorites in one meal.

We started off with sweet corn. Now, that is an appetizer.

The main course came about from the necessity of making a dent in the pile of cherry tomatoes that I picked today, coupled with the fact that I had some beautiful eggplant from the farmers' market.

I sliced the eggplant, salted it, and let it weep for a while to get rid of the bitterness. Then I tossed it with olive oil, (1 cup), wine vinegar (1T.), and salt and pepper. I topped it with a bunch of cherry tomatoes and then drizzled about 1/4 c. of olive oil with three cloves of garlic crushed into it over the top. I topped it with some fresh thyme, oregano, and basil. Into to the oven at 400 degrees for about 45 minutes. When it came out I topped it with some more fresh oregano and feta cheese.

We had fresh sliced cukes on the side. It would have been excellent with some crusty bread, but I was out. It would also be incredible on pasta. Maybe with some toasted pine nuts. And some kalamata olives.

Or maybe throw it on chicken. With some of the aforementioned olives and some capers.

I think I need another eggplant.

The bright side

I've been lamenting the cool summer and the fact that fall is coming. My fall wardrobe is lacking. I want to swim in my pool. My older sons will go back to their busy, busy college lives.

But today I had a happy thought.

At least, cooler weather--fall--means I can wear my boots again.

Happy thought, indeed.

Back to school?

Lots of my friends are posting first-day-of-school pictures, or, among the homeschoolers, not-back-to-school plans.

I feel so left out. Okay, maybe not left out. But certainly sad that that time is past.

I am guessing that my 20 year old and 23 year old sons might let me snap a photo before they head off for their first day of the fall semester in a week and a half. And I guess I do still have one student in my homeschool, but he is a senior this year and is completely self-sufficient.

I miss self-consciously sleeping in on the first day of school, then spending the day at the suddenly-empty parks. I miss planning a trip to the Childrens' Museum and Zoo for those first back-to-school weeks before school field trips started. I miss making big breakfasts, following the Oregon Trail, rescuing Zoombinis, maneuvering around tents made of quilts and chairs, and reading aloud.

This is my last year as a homeschooling mom, but it really feels like it's over already, the final gasp of something that has been winding down for several years. And I'd be lying if I didn't admit to being in the midst of something of an identity crisis.

What next? I don't know, but I don't think that my 12-hour-a-week job and trying to keep up with my house will keep me happy for long.

Margin, take two, or maybe three

About exactly six months ago I began thinking and writing about the concept of margin. For a while I seemed to be getting a handle on my schedule. Then just a couple of things outside of my direct control turned my life into something resembling a game of pick-up sticks.

The kind of chaos that needs to end.

Fresh off a few really busy weeks, followed by a short vacation, I'm ready to get back to work on creating some margin in my life. I'm ready to spend some time on the things that I really want to spend time on. I'm ready to try to get rid of more of my physical and mental clutter.

This week, with the help and support of my boss, I've instituted a firm limit on the amount of time I will spend at work in a week. This is going to be a huge help. Now I just need to stick to it.

I've gotten my calendar out and scheduled some time for my genealogy, both my personal research and the work I need to do toward becoming accredited.

I'm trying to figure out what needs to happen with my house to make things as functional as possible.

I've set a date for a yard sale. And for a visit with the husband at his apartment. And a trip to the art museum. Because if these things don't get scheduled, they don't happen.

There are some variables that may make adjustments necessary. I will be a child-care backup for a friend's one-year-old this school year, and will have him most of the week from time to time. I may have family things that come up. Who knows what may happen. But, for now, it feels good to have something of a plan.

Anniversary musings

Weddings are a big deal. In our modern culture, couples will put off the ceremony for years to save more money for the perfect dress or for all the bells and whistles. There is an effort to impress, to wow. Brides turn into bridezillas, insisting that the day is all about them.

I think that much of the reason for this is that as marriage has lost significance in our three-year-engagement, shacking-up, our-kids-can-be-flower-girls culture, the ceremony, for many, has become the marriage. Then on Monday it's back to life as they lived it before. (Well, the Monday after the Caribbean vacation dressed up as a honeymoon for the couple who has been playing at marriage for years.)

But not all weddings are like that. Some couples still fall in love, get engaged, and wait until they are joined before God and man to act like they are married. And those weddings seem to me to be especially joy-filled.

We were privileged two years ago today to have one of those weddings. Our daughter met the brother of one of my friends very briefly when he was in town before he deployed to Iraq. They communicated via computer and letter during his deployment. He came and stayed with our family a few times while on leave and after he got back. They went out on a couple of dates in November and December, and he spent Christmas with our family, then she went to Wisconsin to spend Christmas with his.

When he came for a visit for Valentine's Day, he brought a ring, and asked her father's blessing before he proposed. She said yes. And gave me six months to plan a wedding for almost 300 people.

Perhaps because everyone involved--the bride, the groom, her family, his family, the pastor--had the same understanding about what this day was about, there was no drama. This was a day about joining a man and a woman in the union that reflects the union of Christ and his bride the Church. This was a day that was about creating a new family.

And, once the ceremony was over, this was about throwing a party at which our family and friends could have an awesome time without driving her father into penury. And the bride was okay with that. She was looking forward to being married!

So we used a simple rubric to determine where we should spend money and where we should cut corners: Will this expenditure add to the enjoyment of our guests? If the answer was yes, we did it. If the answer was no, with very few exceptions, we didn't. And it was a great party. Certainly not the fanciest: paper plates and plastic cups are far cheaper than renting china and glass. The table decor was containers from thrift stores that were filled with flowers from Sam's Club by the bride and her friends. And lots of friends helped with preparations, allowing us to keep costs under control.

Am I saying that there is anything wrong with china, gorgeous flowers, etc.? Absolutely not! If we could have afforded it, I would have loved to have done things in a more elegant way. But it becomes a problem when couples put off marriage to save up for the show, or when families go into debt for a bash that they can't afford. We've been to lots of weddings over the years of all different levels of simplicity. We've been to receptions that were formal sit-down dinners at a country club and those that were snacks, cake, and punch in a church hall. They've all been lovely, but some stand out in my mind as having been permeated with a joy that comes from the fact that the vast majority of those present understand that something more significant than a legal check mark was happening there.

And today I am happy to celebrate the second anniversary of one of those. Happy anniversary, Bethany and Evan, and wishes for many many more.

Bonus: The other benefit that comes after an awesome wedding. . .

Strange goings on

This is a very strange restaurant in the smallest town in Connecticut. I know about it because this is where my friend Lori and I waited for a ride and a tow truck when my car misbehaved on the way home from visiting my daughter in New Hampshire. There was an old car full of young hippies/woodsmen, too. With dogs. And a guitar.

The whole thing was very surreal.

The $250 tow was pretty solid, however.

But we made it home, back to normal life, and all is well. Except at the grocery store.

First, I only ever go to this particular store because they carry the yogurt that I prefer and generally have better produce than the closest one does. Today they were out of the yogurt. The lettuce was six days past the sell-by date. They were out of the fresh green beans that were on special. They were out of salted butter. They no longer carry good parmigiano. So I was already feeling like I would have been better off at the store closer to home.

In the check-out line I was disappointed because the rather surly cashier didn't ask if I had found everything, like they usually do. I was ready to give her the list. After I paid and as I prepared to take my cart and leave, I felt something slam into my back and knock me into my cart.

It was a motorized shopping cart. One of the people of Walmart--we saw a few today, or maybe it was pajama day at the grocery--appeared to have escaped and was at Kroger, allowing a two year old boy to help her pilot the cart.

Yes. I was hit by a motorized shopping cart. I have a bruised back and a sore neck, knee, and ankle, too. I feel like I did when I was rear-ended at low speed. I'm probably going to have to make some visits to the chiropractor.

One of my friends said that the weirdest things happen to me. Yes. Yes they do.