Everything I Need to Forget I Learned in Kindergarten

Mrs. Lefty and I saw our therapist this week, and I told one of my most embarrassing stories. It reinforces the idea that my insecurity and jealousy are issues that I have carried with me for a long time. It doesn’t, however, explain why I sometimes feel these emotions so strongly.

When I was in kindergarten, I became enamored with one of the girls in my class. I don’t recall how this little relationship began. She probably offered me a beer at snack time.

I remember very clearly sitting at one of those tiny kindergarten tables next to this young lady. The teacher asked for a volunteer to pass out papers, and her hand shot up immediately. My little brain was confused. Why would my new friend want to get up and pass out papers when she could be sitting with me?

I was hurt. I was afraid she didn’t really like me. If she really liked me, she would want to spend every moment with me, right? I am sure that I acted in a needy, clingy way that only an annoying 5-year-old can pull off with panache. Predictably, our friendship didn’t even make it to nap time.

Why did I experience those intense feelings of insecurity at such a young age? I wish I could blame my parents, but I had a great childhood. They loved me and supported me in everything I did. Maybe there was not enough fluoride in the water. Or maybe too much.

Today, I still sometimes feel insecure about myself and my talents, even in areas where I have a proven track record. I sometimes feel pangs of jealousy that cause me to be stupid and overbearing. These days, it is harder to pass off my actions as 5-year-old immaturity.

The good news is that I handle myself now better than I did ten years ago. I am better able to talk myself through the irrationality of it all. I think one reason is that I’m getting older and curmudgeonier. (I’m pretty sure that’s a word.)

One of these days I’ll be perfect. In fact, I’m pretty darn close right now.

An unrelated note: don’t you think everybody hates the Boston Red Sox right about now?

WWC: Disguise and Reflection

I've been wanting to get in on the Weekly Words Challenge (WWC) game, mainly for the cash and prizes. Anyone who enters gets free beer. At least that's what I've been told.

Tink runs this shell game over at her place, and you can get the complete rules there. The idea is simple--get two words, take two pictures. I've decided to take pictures that say something important about me, because if we've learned anything since 9/11, it's that everything is about Lefty.

DISGUISE
REFLECTION

See how it works? Simple, eh?

Give Time if Over Have Street

I have attempted, with only moderate success, to describe just how bloody frustrating my secretary is. I hope the following illustration of her incompetence will allow you to feel my angst (thanks for the great word, Sturdy Girl (formerly Love Monkey)).

I was out of the office most of the day yesterday, and I returned to find several telephone messages on my desk. On one of them, the secretary had written only the gentleman’s first name, no telephone number, and this delightful message: “call put you won’t here.” That is exactly what she wrote. I have no idea what it means, either. Even my secretary seemed to be confused at what she had written.

Sigh.

In other news, I have fixed Jen Mck’s and mel’s new blog addresses in my 40-Man Roster. I also added Guilty Secret and Have the T-Shirt. If you check them out, tell them Lefty sent you. They’ll send me a case of beer for any referrals.

Saving the World, One Killer Robot at a Time

Some reasons why killer robots are a bad idea.

Killer robots take jobs away from killer human beings.

Killer robots are a major source of greenhouse gases.

The planet already has Barbara Walters.
Killer robots would drive up the price of Hostess cupcakes, their major food resource.

Killer robots just don’t “get” Will Farrell.

Killer robots give love a bad name.

There is already a band called the Killer Robots, and it would be too confusing.

It is a proven fact that killer robots cannot distinguish friend from foe.
Killer robots are terrible drivers.

Killer robots have been known to leave abusive comments on my blog.

Did I miss any?

CSI: Cherry Log

I had never been anywhere near Atlanta before. As I mentioned previously, I had some assumptions and prejudices about what it would be like in the South (defined as anywhere outside the state where I live). In particular, I was terrified of being stopped by any law enforcement official. I figured that was a sure way to disappear forever.

Oddly enough, about ten minutes after we picked up the rental car, one of my colleagues was driving and slipped around a line of traffic to get to the turn lane. There was an officer at the side of the road and he waved for us to pull over. This is it, I thought. We're headed to a Georgia gulag for sure.

"This is not a passing lane," said the officer, preparing to sick a pack of police dogs on us.

"I'm sorry, I didn't know that."

There was a long moment of silence.

"I'll let you off with a warning this time."

It's a damn good thing I had used the restroom at the rental car place.

Reality proved a little different from my fears. People were friendly and polite. No one shot at us.

I only have one complaint. Every time a Georgia native spoke to me, I kept thinking to myself, "You're in America now. Speak English!"

In the few days we were there, we slept very little, drank whenever we weren't sleeping, watched some baseball, and whined about the middle management in our company. The fact that we also qualify as middle management didn't seem to faze us.

At the "package store" (i.e. place to purchase our liquor), we loaded up. I saw some Landshark Lager and considered it, but eventually went with an extra pale ale from an Atlanta brewery, Sweet Water. It was a good, hoppy beer. If any of you have had the Wingwalker pale ale, it was a little like that. Most of the others bought wine. How crass.

Oh yes, one other complaint. The cabin we used was in Blue Ridge, just north of Cherry Log. We went out to eat at about 7 or 7:30 one night, and every damn place was closed. If any of you live in Georgia, could you write a note to your state legislator about that?

Plus, the five of us had two full days with a semi-legend in our field. Priceless. (Well, not exactly. I can tell you precisely how much I spent.)

Do You Think They Have Indoor Plumbing?

I’m leaving again. This time I will be jetting to lovely Cherry Log, Georgia, just north of Atlanta. I’ve never been, so I am assuming it is lovely because that’s what the Cherry Log Chamber of Commerce tells me.

I’ll be at a two-day seminar. Five of us will spend time with the top person in our field. He may be the top person in the last 100 years. Or ever. In other words, he’s good. The other four people are some of my closest colleagues, and we always have fun together.

There may be wine. Maybe even beer. Possibly, if we’re lucky, basketball. I’ll tell you all the great stories when I get back.

On the home front, things have been very stressful at the Lefty home. That’s mainly because I am the only one there who is perfect in every way. I’ll share about some of that when I return, too.

In other news, the Cubs take their ringless streak to 100 years. And the West proves best in the National League.

College football is generally annoying the hell out of me.

See y’all when I get back.

For Everything There Is a Season

The curtain closed on baseball’s regular season Sunday. If my team will not be continuing to the postseason, there is always a tinge of sadness as the final out is recorded. Pitchers and catchers won’t report to Spring Training until February, and Opening Day is in early April.

I will miss the thrill of the pennant races, the tension of a close game in the late innings, and the excitement of a big rally. More than those, however, I will miss the rhythm of the game. There is something comforting about listening to the middle innings of a game in June. Or watching on television the first pitch on a Sunday afternoon in mid summer. Falling asleep to the sounds of the announcers wrapping up the postgame show with the out-of-town scoreboard.

Baseball evokes memories of my childhood, and I had a very good childhood. From March to October, baseball dominated my days (and nights). Every evening after dinner, my father and I would play catch in the backyard. I would ride my bike to the park on the corner for my Little League games. Soothing voices from the radio--occasionally punctuated by the roar of the crowd--would lull me to sleep. I spent every dime on baseball cards.

Baseball echoes the rhythm of life. The innings pass with the regularity of sun and moon. The players come and go as friends appear in and disappear from our lives. Some things seem eternal, such as the announcer who has been with the club for more than 50 years, or the bright blue seats and green grass of the stadium. We hope those will never disappear, but, like a parent or spouse, they may someday pass into memory.

Other sports are a diversion, something to enjoy for a few hours at a time. Baseball has its own sense of time. It is a continuum. One game runs into the next, one season into another. Baseball isn’t like life, it is life.

For those of you who have teams in the playoffs, I say first, bite me. Second, enjoy. In a few days I’ll be able to join you and appreciate the climax of the baseball year. For now, I’m going to sulk a little bit more while my boys clean out their lockers and go home.