It's taking out the overstuffed garbage with the last bit of your wife's BBQ meatball grinder tray that fed the dozen or so friends that came out to spend a day trading landscaping work for decent beer and food. Standing in the driveway with a fading sunset and hues of dark red climbing beyond the wall between your place and those with net incomes that will be attained sometime close to retirement. The delicate balance between being responsible and giving up is a juggling act that most people lean towards punching their time cards five days a week at the same time or with enough regularity that the in-house Starbucks barista has your triple no-foam mocha Grande espresso ready before punching up Microsoft Outlook to see the balance of inane meetings and fake smiles for the day.
Getting in a routine is good for goal-setting and attaining. Each day the work gets done to the point that the pile of dishes are not resembling something you'd see an art museum next to the human vagina project that the state paid $100,000 for someone to simulate menstruation every fourth week of the month inside of glass box. Routine of sleep, work, kids, homework, sleep gets broken briefly with self-imposed time-outs for imbibing in a few adult beverages without worries that your essay on Anne Bradstreet's "To my dear and loving husband" written with the help of rum and a deep love for my fellow routine task-master. She's more than that, my friends are more than that, I am more than that, there's needs to be a point of satisfaction and despite having everything I could possibly want, the bottomless hole of want never gets filled. It's not a bigger TV, house, or cool phone that produces perfectly slow-cooked ribs with a touch of a button, and achievements won't slow this down either. No amount of "employee of the month" or Dean's List certificates (although I'm a little proud of that fact and hope to continue to carry a nerdy GPA until graduation in 2013) will stop the cold chill feeling like I need more.
More what? It's dark, shapeless, odorless, tasteless, it's carbon dioxide, there's no stanza to describe the more that is needed to feel whole. Do you give up the routine that keeps you buckled down enough to enjoy those who are kind enough to put up with your quirks and earn enough monetary funds that society accepts you as a productive member. I thought going back to school would fill a void, and it does on a resume and more to the fact that the cobwebs upstairs needed cleaning. But, I've also learned that I will never be completely satisfied no matter the amount of small glimpse of joy like sex, a Vikings victory, or the feeling my kids or wife give me with an unconditional embrace. The latter keeps me going at 11pm after getting up for work at 4:30am while trying to figure out the present value of a $400,000 bond with a 12% contract rate and 11% interest rate paying semi-annually and how to book it properly.
Maybe someone at the Geisha Bar or a Pai Gow table while surrounded by my very good friends in one month could sit down with me under similar intoxication explain how they "got there". Or least how they look at themselves daily in the mirror and say "I'm pretty ok with you today, so don't fuck it up". I apologize for my usual no structure writing but I've found that my "Nuke" Laloosh form of posting is my voice since that's also the way I threw a baseball for the Osseo Orioles 18 years ago.
In the WPBT news "Team Procedure" captained by BadBlood is looking for a wing-man (or woman) to fill out their feeble attempts to overtake Team SKOL at the Up For Poker last longer portion of the Winter Classic sponsored by PokerStars. My advice... don't arm wrestle The Mark left handed, drink whatever is put in front of your with a smile, and if you want to keep your winnings don't join those two degens at the PLO table afterwards.
29 days, get my birthday presents ready folks, I have high demands. Like smiles, drinks, and tales of Superpanchos while discussing who gets the dragon hand in Pai Gow.