A rainbow sweater AND a bowl cut?! I never had a chance, Mom.

When I complain about my issues with orientation, I am usually talking about one of two things.  The first, which I have already used this blog to discuss at length, I only partially attribute to my mother, who adorned me in liberal amounts of plaid as a child.  The second is one hundred percent her fault, as my complete lack of directional aptitude is a genetic gift that like my prematurely graying hair, clearly came from her.   

My mother, bless her heart, still gets confused picking me up from the airport located twenty minutes from my childhood home.  She used to create mnemonic devices to remember how to get from downtown Hayward to places our family drove several times a year:          

“We turn on B street, Marea, because we want to BE at the cabin!  C street because we’re going to the Little Theater to SEE a play!”          

My mom once flew into Arizona and rented a car to watch me play rugby, and finding her hotel and the pitch without incident remains one of her proudest life accomplishments.  She still talks nostalgically about Phoenix’s large, well-lit signage.       

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