I open the cupboard last night and the little plastic do hickey holding up the shelf collapses and a barrage of hard, ceramic bowls come crashing on my head. Oh, hurt, hurt, hurt. I now have a giant goose egg on my forehead to match the ones on all four limbs from my shots. And tomorrow I get another one. I look like someone threw me down a stairwell. Dave worries people may think he beats me. I cry and whoop like - well, a motherless child and I realize this cry has been a long time coming. The next morning I accidentally flush a dish towel down the toilet. Don't ask. I forget that I did that and I use the commode again only to cause a flash flood coursing through my house. I do the only thing a person can do at this point. I jump in the car and head for East Dubuque and check into Mulgrew's for a foot long chili dog, no onions, please. I realize that I am emotionally and physically spent, a train wreck in human's clothing. I miss my mother so much I can't stand it. I am leaving for Minneapolis tomorrow to visit my good friend Jane and I am glad. She is a soft place to land and a source of maternal comfort for this poor old soul. We will see a Garrison Keillor show in St. Paul and taste the marvelous meat loaf and listen to the loon-calling contest during the street dance afterwards. It has become a custom for us. In Garrison's honor, I buy red tennis shoes. What do they say? Only prostitutes and children should wear red shoes. Well, there you go . . .