Mommie Dearest

I thought I would take a moment and tell anyone who happens to be reading this that I have a good mother. She's concerned that my blog entries could be construed as a daily treatise on her failings. Nothing could be further from the truth. If I am philosophical or self-critical or overly analytical, it's because that's part of what this whole year is about.

I'm taking a good look at my life and trying to decide what to do next, and that includes examining where I've been and the mistakes I've made along the way. This is a rare opportunity to stop, take a breath, get out the microscope and really look at things and figure out what I need to learn and do to be happy and fulfilled in the next chapter of my life.

So please keep in mind that if I start droning on about areas I'd like to improve in my head or body or life, it's NOT my mother's fault. More likely it's all my father's fault.

Speaking of my father, he'll be happy to know that I went to a sporting event last night. I believe they call it "the base ball game." The Asheville Tourists were playing the Hickory Crawdads. I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried. I'm told that people enjoy the base ball game along with their moms and apple pie. Though I didn't see any apple pie last night. Luckily, the Asheville Tourists won, 5-4! Funny story, during the game, I had a long conversation with another attendee, and had to fairly shout to be heard. After our conversation, she turned to me and said, "You're so quiet." So I'm learning that volume isn't really a piece of that puzzle. The enigma continues.

Incidentally, I do know what baseball is. I was kidding about that. In fact, just to bring this thing full circle, when I was a kid, my mother made me sign up for little league in a last-ditch attempt to impress my father. I threw away the practice and game schedule and made up alternative times, so that when she took me to practice or a game, no one else would be there. She finally figured out that ruse and I was forced to play in an actual game. Where I promptly broke my little finger, disfiguring it for life and ending my dreams of being a hand model.

So, I guess in this case, I do blame my mother (and by extension my father) for this particular shortcoming. I can't wear a ring on my ring finger next to my broken pinkie, and I can't do any sign language with my right hand that involves that finger. In fact, now that I think about it, my deformed pinkie could be the root of all my problems. Hmmm.

You can see photos from the game here.