Tuesday was Mom's birthday. We had a lovely celebration with Fred Flintstone ribeye steaks that hung off the sides of the plates, along with asparagus and wild rice and sauteed mushrooms and salad and gorgonzola, and an ice cream cake (natch) and candles and presents and lots of bottles of wine and laughs and dripping emotions and no Dad.
We all did okay, though; we all persevered. Especially Mom. She's a rock. And a rock star. And so what if the later the night got, the more the tears flowed? That's why they call it late night. Plus, Mom got right up the next morning, to see us off at 5:30 a.m.
Yes. 5:30 a.m.
Did you know that the sun doesn't come up until 7? And if it's raining, it never comes up? It's true. I've woken up at 5 or earlier twice this week now, and I'm a dependable eyewitness.
Anyway. I don't have photos of Mom's birthday. But just imagine Mom and me and Mistah and MB and The Dowd eating beef and drinking wine and yakking 'til the cows come home and you get the idea.
Speaking of mothers . . .
We went to visit Musmie yesterday, as we often do. Okay, as Mistah does every day. He's a good son.
Anyway, we turned on the baseball game -- Game 1 of the Phillies/Red NL Division Series, which we'd started watching at the Tavern. The sound was off (Mumsie's roommate was asleep) but in the 4th or 5th inning I said, "Hey, this is a no-hitter!" I texted Dave back at the Tavern to ask if it was a perfect game too (nope, one base-on-balls) and the three of us -- then Mumsie's roommate when she woke up, and her daughter -- watched the rest of the game together.
Halladay absolutely mowed them down. He threw seven pitches in the bottom of the eighth, and around the same in the bottom of the ninth. 104 total. He made the other guys look like Little Leaguers. The guy was on fire. Really, it was quite something to watch.
If only it weren't the Phillies.
Because, you see, I hate the Phillies. I have to; I'm a Mets fan. And although I'm so excited for the Playoffs (baseball's back! After the desert of two days off) I'm at a complete loss in trying to decide who to root for.
The Phillies? No.
The Giants? Puh-lease.
The Braves? And their tomahawk chop? Never.
The Reds? The Big Red Machine? Not on your life.
The Yankees? Over my dead body.
The Rangers? I love Texas but George Bush's team? No.
The Rays? Well, I do like that part of Florida, and I love Beth's mom Pat, and I love that Tampa Bay is a body of water, not a city, but they're an AL team.
The Twins? Perhaps I loathe them the least, but please see note about being an AL team, above.
One can analyze the teams by city:
Arlington, Atlanta, Cincinnati, Minneapolis, Philadelphia, New York, San Francisco, St. Petersburg . . .
Or by state:
California, Florida, Georgia, Minnesota, New York, Ohio, Pennsylvania, Texas . . .
Or, if you're really searching for criteria, by ballpark:
AT&T Park, Citizens Bank Park, Great American Ballpark, Rangers Ballpark, Target Field, Tropicana Field, Turner Field, Yankee Stadium . . .
(AT&T Park? Seriously?)
Sigh. It's no use. But I'm still going to listen to every game, and I'm still going to cheer madly . . .
. . . against every team.