Last night I went to the City to watch and hear my sister perform with the Indianapolis Symphony. As usual, she was awesome. And my perspective may be a tad bit askew, but I am convinced that without her singing up there, the entire performance would have been lessened. Cheapened, even. I watched her sing and I thought she was absolutely beautiful.

I’m sure that my seatmates would agree. Cole Porter would agree, too.

After the performance we crossed the street to P.F. Chang’s, where we once again had to be swept out so the staff could lock the doors and go home to their families.

Today I went with my two cousins to a town slightly south of here, the downtown of which is almost completely made up of antique shops. I am not ‘into’ antiques, especially, but it’s always fun to look around in the stores and see how many of my own things are worth anything and/or in any way sought after by others.

It also makes me feel old when I find them.

I’ve been out of high school so long that yearbooks published during those four years can be found in antique shops.

Dollies that Santa brought me can be found in antique shops. Some of them cost so much today, Santa wouldn’t be able to bring them to me now.

Dishes my mother had have been in antique shops for a while now. I’ve gotten over that shock. But. . . . . dishes I bought myself were in some of these shops. What’s up with that?

My Woolworth plates are worth money now. My Smurf glasses from McDonald’s. My B.C. glassware from the gas station.

My Tiny Terri Lee doll. My teddy bear.

When did this happen? Antique shops are supposed to sell old things! What were MY things doing in there?

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!