Thursday, January 10, 2013  About That Rental Car  I was in a
parking lot, waiting for a Cadillac to pull out of a spot so
that I could pull in.  All the handicapped spaces were taken,
including one filled with a painter's truck, facing in toward
the middle of the lot.  I turned off the radio, rolled up my
window, and watched the careful, white haired gentleman maneuver
his vehicle out of the space I had my eye on.  And then there
was a bump.  It wasn't a big bump.  It didn't make all that much
noise.  My car rocked, but just a little.  Something had
happened, but I didn't know what.  For a moment, my PTSD-self
was seething and tears sprang to my eyes.  I was stuck in the
seat, afraid to move, unable to move, not wanting to move.  The
moment passed, but it reminded me of how far I have to go to
really put this whole getting shot thing away in its proper
place.  I got out of the car, leaving the door wide open, when I
could move.  I walked to the back right quadrant and there it
was, a black mark marring my he