Recently, I have never begging for normal more in the past two months than even my lowest of lows. If one’s life is past upon experience and stretching the outer reaches of emotions without breaking, I have pulled that rubber band back as far it will go for maximum sling. Or a sharp snap.
Work life, home life, parent life, social life, all-consuming with only brief interludes of silence, just enough to recharge the dead battery so the next step can be taken towards graduation. More work, more involved at home, being a dad instead of dude behind a laptop, and double-fisting Captain and Cokes because there’s no reason to sit on the sidelines anymore.
Be happy scares me more than sitting in a dark corner combing through the day, the week, the lifetime trying to find meaning when I can’t sleep because the constant re-evaluating of my life. Is going through this stressful time worth the college degree? What is my marriage going to look like afterwards? Will I continue to try to be a better dad/husband/friend/son? What is this receipt to SexWorld doing in my pocket?
People don’t understand you. They never will. There’s no book, no psych course, no spouse/friend/parent that will ever understand you and why you’re standing in front of a mirror at 5:13am half-naked with Crest with whitening power dribbling down the right side of your lips. However, they can help pull a person into a better state of mind. At least that’s what I tell myself daily, stop fucking with my own head, and just do. For years and even now, I still believe my disability is the reason why people treat me the way they do. As sort of a loyal dog that will never bite no matter how many times kids pull on its ears or forget to feed it.
Even at work where I do well enough to get praise, it seems fake, only patting my head “GOOD JOB BOY!” because I am an employee tax deduction due to my inability to shape noises into conversation. Just once I would like to kick the piss out of the cynic in me and throw him into the woodchipper ala Fargo. Just once I would like to hear “Excellent job on fixing that dispute!” instead of “I’m only saying this because I need more from you”.
That’s my problem.
Because I sit today 116 days from my unicorn, my Eleanor if you will. My daydreams of held back tears. My piece of paper that cost north of $46K and some priceless sanity to get. And while it will be a grand relief to get free time back, I will need to fill it because that cynic will have more time to think again and open its mouth wider than before.
Then again, I have all the people surrounding me that would tell that cynic to fuck off and buy me a drink to discuss why Taylor Swift should cross her legs more and stop whining about her boyfriends through multi-million dollar screeching. I hope to see those people again sooner than later.
Showing posts with label Back to school. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Back to school. Show all posts
Monday, February 25, 2013
Wednesday, February 02, 2011
Mister Mister
I had my own DYKWTFIA moment the other day and frankly to throw in a movie line "I'm too old for this shit".
It was bound to happen and perhaps a few of you academically inclined people out there who stand in front of students giving your knowledge on a subject of choice, could tell me the right way of going about this:
The college I attend online suggest a website called Noodlebib to record all citations and give the wonderful people who teach us about the Nodes of Ranvier, Myelin sheath, and Schwann cells credit for their knowledge much like a picture on a blog. For my first year I ran into zero problems using the site and getting credit for doing so.
Enter the crabby professor.
Yes, he had a bio page at least a page long that was filled with books released, academic titles unknown to myself and 99.9% of the world, awards, created cold fusion, and probably got a blowjob from Raquel Welsh in London during his wild and crazy days at Oxford while on a Fulbright scholarship. Bravo. *golf clap*
.
For the first five weeks of this class I get papers returned saying "not in APA format" as the only deduction in my grade. In other words, the paper was fine but because I didn't use 13.75 Wing-Dings font and 5.29" indentations while using a school recommended website, I lost points.
I do not like this. Again, 12 classes taken, zero problems.
So I type a quick email asking if he could point out the errors of the program so I appease his anal retentive ass. I may have used other words after all this is a Professional Communications class. I get the reply:
"I did not tell you to use Noodlebib, you are responsible for knowing how to use citations in APA format" signed MR. Johnson (bolded on the email as in DYKWTFIA!?!?).
Frankly, I don't care about the nit-picking (and I MAY have replied with his own assignment directions to use Noodlebib putting it in quotes, I heart pointing out things like that) and its bad because even in the corrected copy even he did not cite correctly, that's besides the point. The point is the MR part as I started the email using his first name. This is not high school, I pay to go to college, I am 36 years old and the last time I referred to a male as mister it was accepting my baseball letter from Osseo High School from Mr. Anderson (I think that was the coach's name) about 18 years ago as a 130 pound waif of a senior with a live arm, bad skin, and no self-respect. For you professor and teacher types out there, and well anyone who enjoys "status", do you require or want to be called Ms. Mrs. Mr.?
Now I have a big exception for Doctor, you earned that and fully deserve that in front of your name even after you're unable to solve the puzzle on Wheel of Fortune with all the letters turned over. Mister is a title you get for having a dick or in this case being one, I suppose some doctors are dicks but they were not born with knowledge of the body and earned the title through a mountain of student loans, long study nights, and ramen noodles.
The question I have for the 20 or so people who probably know me personally, how does one respond so I don't have a big bullseye on my head for the remainder of the class?
It was bound to happen and perhaps a few of you academically inclined people out there who stand in front of students giving your knowledge on a subject of choice, could tell me the right way of going about this:
The college I attend online suggest a website called Noodlebib to record all citations and give the wonderful people who teach us about the Nodes of Ranvier, Myelin sheath, and Schwann cells credit for their knowledge much like a picture on a blog. For my first year I ran into zero problems using the site and getting credit for doing so.
Enter the crabby professor.
Yes, he had a bio page at least a page long that was filled with books released, academic titles unknown to myself and 99.9% of the world, awards, created cold fusion, and probably got a blowjob from Raquel Welsh in London during his wild and crazy days at Oxford while on a Fulbright scholarship. Bravo. *golf clap*
.
For the first five weeks of this class I get papers returned saying "not in APA format" as the only deduction in my grade. In other words, the paper was fine but because I didn't use 13.75 Wing-Dings font and 5.29" indentations while using a school recommended website, I lost points.
I do not like this. Again, 12 classes taken, zero problems.
So I type a quick email asking if he could point out the errors of the program so I appease his anal retentive ass. I may have used other words after all this is a Professional Communications class. I get the reply:
"I did not tell you to use Noodlebib, you are responsible for knowing how to use citations in APA format" signed MR. Johnson (bolded on the email as in DYKWTFIA!?!?).
Frankly, I don't care about the nit-picking (and I MAY have replied with his own assignment directions to use Noodlebib putting it in quotes, I heart pointing out things like that) and its bad because even in the corrected copy even he did not cite correctly, that's besides the point. The point is the MR part as I started the email using his first name. This is not high school, I pay to go to college, I am 36 years old and the last time I referred to a male as mister it was accepting my baseball letter from Osseo High School from Mr. Anderson (I think that was the coach's name) about 18 years ago as a 130 pound waif of a senior with a live arm, bad skin, and no self-respect. For you professor and teacher types out there, and well anyone who enjoys "status", do you require or want to be called Ms. Mrs. Mr.?
Now I have a big exception for Doctor, you earned that and fully deserve that in front of your name even after you're unable to solve the puzzle on Wheel of Fortune with all the letters turned over. Mister is a title you get for having a dick or in this case being one, I suppose some doctors are dicks but they were not born with knowledge of the body and earned the title through a mountain of student loans, long study nights, and ramen noodles.
The question I have for the 20 or so people who probably know me personally, how does one respond so I don't have a big bullseye on my head for the remainder of the class?
Monday, January 03, 2011
Sappy with a side of hash browns
Perseverance with bursts of joy.
If someone were to ask me what being a parent or a spouse was about I would answer with the sentence above. It's about work, but it's a job in which no clock is punched, no annual reviews with scary upper management types who merely see you as a piece of paper with long winded self-empowerment words learned at another seminar. There are no chances for promotion, no one trying to leap over your rung on the corporate ladder, just people who you choose to spend your life protecting and thinking about ways to improve their lives.
Even as I watched my stillborn son's pictures with pats on the back of condolence, our lives crumbling beneath a blackness of bad luck and apathy, we pushed on.
Before the wonderful people who I call my dearest of friends scattered across the US, and soon-to-be invading the UK and Australia came into my life there was a void that they filled. They gave hope, they gave themselves up, naked on a computer screen with stories of divorce, heartbreak, and also laughter, joy, and triumph. They could gather together and out smart the monthly meeting of MENSA folks at the Holiday Inn off 494 and Plymouth Dr. or form a business with an army of lawyers, doctors, accountants, writers, marketing reps, and slimmed down news anchors.
And they still continue to do so up to and beyond today. As I have told many times in this space, my not-so-invisible "internet" friends inspired me to get off the couch and do something about my life. Change is the most difficult of human emotions to force oneself into, as it means breaking outside of that warm Snuggie and getting up to face the cold floor. It means pain, not a Brock Lesner right cross to the mid-section jolt of hurt, but perhaps trading a comfortable eight hours of sleep for four when a paper is due and the kids need help with their weekly spelling tests or enduring the blandness of financial statements.
Last night many of those folks stood virtually behind me as I won a bit of cash playing poker (ok, it was the most I've ever won online). This being a poker blog I should regal you with grand stories of check-raises and screenshots. But, instead I'd rather talk about someone who was checking in during the tourney while doing squats and arm curls, a guy who gave someone a chance to write and it changed his life even beyond the job itself, to friends who gave a cheer for that King to fall with four players left, and that in 11 more months (or sooner if there's hope) I'll be able to shake their hands and buy them a beer or a double SoCo with a water back.
Perseverance with burst of joy, you could say a poker player's biggest need is to push thru the bad days for one like last night, sometimes waiting years for a decent score. Since I had lived thru bad days, weeks, months, or even a yearrrrrrrrr (ok I'll stop the Friends theme song before you folks develop an earworm), coming out stronger on the other side has given me the drive to start school, start being a better parent, being a better spouse, and maybe someday I'll get around to shaping up again to run a 5K. I'm sure there are those reading this right now looking for a prop bet but it will have to wait a bit as learning tax codes and proper ledger entries comes first.
2011 has started off as 2010 left.
With hope.
If someone were to ask me what being a parent or a spouse was about I would answer with the sentence above. It's about work, but it's a job in which no clock is punched, no annual reviews with scary upper management types who merely see you as a piece of paper with long winded self-empowerment words learned at another seminar. There are no chances for promotion, no one trying to leap over your rung on the corporate ladder, just people who you choose to spend your life protecting and thinking about ways to improve their lives.
Even as I watched my stillborn son's pictures with pats on the back of condolence, our lives crumbling beneath a blackness of bad luck and apathy, we pushed on.
Before the wonderful people who I call my dearest of friends scattered across the US, and soon-to-be invading the UK and Australia came into my life there was a void that they filled. They gave hope, they gave themselves up, naked on a computer screen with stories of divorce, heartbreak, and also laughter, joy, and triumph. They could gather together and out smart the monthly meeting of MENSA folks at the Holiday Inn off 494 and Plymouth Dr. or form a business with an army of lawyers, doctors, accountants, writers, marketing reps, and slimmed down news anchors.
And they still continue to do so up to and beyond today. As I have told many times in this space, my not-so-invisible "internet" friends inspired me to get off the couch and do something about my life. Change is the most difficult of human emotions to force oneself into, as it means breaking outside of that warm Snuggie and getting up to face the cold floor. It means pain, not a Brock Lesner right cross to the mid-section jolt of hurt, but perhaps trading a comfortable eight hours of sleep for four when a paper is due and the kids need help with their weekly spelling tests or enduring the blandness of financial statements.
Last night many of those folks stood virtually behind me as I won a bit of cash playing poker (ok, it was the most I've ever won online). This being a poker blog I should regal you with grand stories of check-raises and screenshots. But, instead I'd rather talk about someone who was checking in during the tourney while doing squats and arm curls, a guy who gave someone a chance to write and it changed his life even beyond the job itself, to friends who gave a cheer for that King to fall with four players left, and that in 11 more months (or sooner if there's hope) I'll be able to shake their hands and buy them a beer or a double SoCo with a water back.
Perseverance with burst of joy, you could say a poker player's biggest need is to push thru the bad days for one like last night, sometimes waiting years for a decent score. Since I had lived thru bad days, weeks, months, or even a yearrrrrrrrr (ok I'll stop the Friends theme song before you folks develop an earworm), coming out stronger on the other side has given me the drive to start school, start being a better parent, being a better spouse, and maybe someday I'll get around to shaping up again to run a 5K. I'm sure there are those reading this right now looking for a prop bet but it will have to wait a bit as learning tax codes and proper ledger entries comes first.
2011 has started off as 2010 left.
With hope.
Thursday, April 08, 2010
Truckin' Now With Riboflavin!
While I sit in pain from aging athlete disease, another part of my anatomy decided to feel the pull of recent events. No, that part is working fine as re-discovered every morning in the shower while virtual glimps Jessica Biel's be-thonged ass are still freshly implanted in my mind. While my shoulder has decided to start crying out daily for a dose of Advil, the learning part of the soft mass uptop is getting a healthy RDA approved amount of knowledge.
The classes are going slowly but well through the first week, as this busy bee is enjoying the time behind a dense Accounting book. The online nature of the classroom has some taking used to, but very welcome for someone in my position as I get to flick on the classroom when I want and not have to have the professor repeat his/her lecture or worry about mis-hearing information.
In a sense. Perfect.
Now if you need some brain juice this morning or afternoon whenever you dear reader get around to reading these pages, Truckin out for all the vitamins and minerals for the thing you call an information storage center needs to stay in top shape. Especially those of us who could use some witty banter besides the debit and credits within Income Statements, Cash Flow Statements, and Balance Sheets. Holy shit, I retained somethin' I read, 14 years in Accounting and never had to know/learn the basic finanical statements, well played bullseye.
Anyways, on to the show:
1. Lovers' Whirlwind by Paul McGuire
I don't know if you want to know the real answer. You're a new arrival. It's not proper to ask all these questions on your first day. The real answers are not important... More
2. The Dog Lover by Sigge S. Amdal
I had a chat with my pet fish and decided to check out the local pet store to see if they had frozen larvae – a delicious to hungry Kili fish that'll make 'em fornicate like swine given the opportunity... More
3. A Hermit Faces the Drunken Public by Jonny Vincent
People are still - generically - boring as all fuck. Guys are still - generically - pathetic in their desperate and pitiful sleazy crabbing for attention when placed in the vicinity of the Unfair Sex... More
4. Pie by Katitude
Her gray hair was caught up in a bun that had become untidy and thin wisps had escaped it to frame a pale face. A much-washed pastel pink t-shirt proclaimed her to be the "World's Greatest Grandma"... More
5. Crazy Colonel Ranald MacKenzie by Johnny Hughes
In the scene in Dances With Wolves where Kevin Costner rides around between rebel and union lines trying to get shot, that was based on Crazy Ranald. He was brave like only a crazy man can be. He got shot with bullets and arrows. He was also called Bad Hand because he lost two fingers in combat... More
6. Hip-Cat Jargon by Tenzin McGrupp
I secured a one-way rental. $300 for the week. Would it take me a week? Maybe more? I had no idea. I'd probably want to make a couple of spontaneous stops along the way. My new life in California would have to wait a couple of days, maybe a couple of weeks. Who knows, maybe I wouldn't even end up there at all... More
The classes are going slowly but well through the first week, as this busy bee is enjoying the time behind a dense Accounting book. The online nature of the classroom has some taking used to, but very welcome for someone in my position as I get to flick on the classroom when I want and not have to have the professor repeat his/her lecture or worry about mis-hearing information.
In a sense. Perfect.
Now if you need some brain juice this morning or afternoon whenever you dear reader get around to reading these pages, Truckin out for all the vitamins and minerals for the thing you call an information storage center needs to stay in top shape. Especially those of us who could use some witty banter besides the debit and credits within Income Statements, Cash Flow Statements, and Balance Sheets. Holy shit, I retained somethin' I read, 14 years in Accounting and never had to know/learn the basic finanical statements, well played bullseye.
Anyways, on to the show:
1. Lovers' Whirlwind by Paul McGuire
I don't know if you want to know the real answer. You're a new arrival. It's not proper to ask all these questions on your first day. The real answers are not important... More
2. The Dog Lover by Sigge S. Amdal
I had a chat with my pet fish and decided to check out the local pet store to see if they had frozen larvae – a delicious to hungry Kili fish that'll make 'em fornicate like swine given the opportunity... More
3. A Hermit Faces the Drunken Public by Jonny Vincent
People are still - generically - boring as all fuck. Guys are still - generically - pathetic in their desperate and pitiful sleazy crabbing for attention when placed in the vicinity of the Unfair Sex... More
4. Pie by Katitude
Her gray hair was caught up in a bun that had become untidy and thin wisps had escaped it to frame a pale face. A much-washed pastel pink t-shirt proclaimed her to be the "World's Greatest Grandma"... More
5. Crazy Colonel Ranald MacKenzie by Johnny Hughes
In the scene in Dances With Wolves where Kevin Costner rides around between rebel and union lines trying to get shot, that was based on Crazy Ranald. He was brave like only a crazy man can be. He got shot with bullets and arrows. He was also called Bad Hand because he lost two fingers in combat... More
6. Hip-Cat Jargon by Tenzin McGrupp
I secured a one-way rental. $300 for the week. Would it take me a week? Maybe more? I had no idea. I'd probably want to make a couple of spontaneous stops along the way. My new life in California would have to wait a couple of days, maybe a couple of weeks. Who knows, maybe I wouldn't even end up there at all... More
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Trading a Diamond for a Degree
Leaving the mound for what would be the last time after throwing hard and impressing no one after having the similar results of a 16 year old taking a drivers test and running the car through an antique store while busting the rare Faberge egg on the high shelf behind the counter with a cracked pane of storefront glass, what was there to do for someone who's hobby was sports.
Hung up the breezers and helmet last year, love for volleyball was still three glorious summers at Mama G's bar and the rusty old Robbinsdale school away, but baseball was front and center for getting my head out of a computer, my only social machine for a recluse stick-figure of a kid with a hearing problem. Then came a bored night in Champlin at Clyde Andrews Park while I watched my best friend play softball and scoffed at these adults hitting an oversized ball being lobbed to them as if they were swinging from a tee. "Baseball players don't stoop to this level" I told my overconfident, snobby self. But it took one feel from my right arm, remembering all the nights of ice packs, stretching, massaging, and of course the pain as my underdeveloped arm never had a chance of going more than seven innings due to the overuse and it would only get worse.
I played in jeans and Reebok high tops that night like a rookie and after getting handed my first softball jacket and jersey, stepping back on the mound would only happen at the State Fair speed pitch game. Three nights a week, tournaments on the weekend, 2 for 1 pitchers, and a couple in the parking lots, the adult tee-ball game of slo-pitch softball filled the void of needing competition as I would soon find a couple of great girlfriends and eventually a wife thru its social aspect as well.
After the head injury at work, my life changed, no longer important was making that tournament in Becker or closing down DeLisi's on Tuesdays. Kids came into the picture while I attempted to get back on the field, seizures be damned. A marriage was crumbling yet softball was still a consistant, playing a co-ed team was the one way both us were able to get out of the house, away from the blackness that our vows continued to be weighted down by.
A new home, a new baby, a new start soon came after and softball took a back seat to the birth of another group of friends that showed that my love for cards, gambling, and sarcasm was to enjoyed via writing. Thus the birth of this page of which I've chronicled the last nearly six years of my life. Effectively giving both my marriage and my self-worth a big enough boost to live again versus going through the motions of the average. Working at the PokerStarsBlog for the Sunday Majors along with WCOOP and SCOOP Poker Tournament showed me what could happen if I'd step out of my comfort area of plunking numbers into spreadsheets.
Bringing me to today. For the first time in 16 years I will not be donning the jersey of a local pub, auto body repair shop, or local construction company on the fields in Crystal, Brooklyn Park, or Maple Grove. Between school, work, family and friends is were my free time will be this spring and summer. Playing catch with my son and daughter in the backyard for the past two nights nailed the coffin on my playing days. Sure, I may step in for a special guest appearance on the diamond like Wil Wheaton stepping onto may different sets including playing Sheldon's neimsis on Big Bang Theory (which I watched the show for the first time on Monday and got hooked). And if school goes well, I may find myself playing an abbreviated season in the fall, but as for the kid who watched behind Field #3 16 years ago, he might have grown up a bit in the respect of placing what is truly important.
Don't worry, one part of me will never break the Peter Pan spell which I'll hold to till death as becoming a GET OFF MY LAWN type will have to wait until I'm sitting on my porch on an Arizona golf course several decades from now sipping my morning scotch pelting the country club types with my Daisy BB gun for trying to retrieve their horrible shanks.
Hung up the breezers and helmet last year, love for volleyball was still three glorious summers at Mama G's bar and the rusty old Robbinsdale school away, but baseball was front and center for getting my head out of a computer, my only social machine for a recluse stick-figure of a kid with a hearing problem. Then came a bored night in Champlin at Clyde Andrews Park while I watched my best friend play softball and scoffed at these adults hitting an oversized ball being lobbed to them as if they were swinging from a tee. "Baseball players don't stoop to this level" I told my overconfident, snobby self. But it took one feel from my right arm, remembering all the nights of ice packs, stretching, massaging, and of course the pain as my underdeveloped arm never had a chance of going more than seven innings due to the overuse and it would only get worse.
I played in jeans and Reebok high tops that night like a rookie and after getting handed my first softball jacket and jersey, stepping back on the mound would only happen at the State Fair speed pitch game. Three nights a week, tournaments on the weekend, 2 for 1 pitchers, and a couple in the parking lots, the adult tee-ball game of slo-pitch softball filled the void of needing competition as I would soon find a couple of great girlfriends and eventually a wife thru its social aspect as well.
After the head injury at work, my life changed, no longer important was making that tournament in Becker or closing down DeLisi's on Tuesdays. Kids came into the picture while I attempted to get back on the field, seizures be damned. A marriage was crumbling yet softball was still a consistant, playing a co-ed team was the one way both us were able to get out of the house, away from the blackness that our vows continued to be weighted down by.
A new home, a new baby, a new start soon came after and softball took a back seat to the birth of another group of friends that showed that my love for cards, gambling, and sarcasm was to enjoyed via writing. Thus the birth of this page of which I've chronicled the last nearly six years of my life. Effectively giving both my marriage and my self-worth a big enough boost to live again versus going through the motions of the average. Working at the PokerStarsBlog for the Sunday Majors along with WCOOP and SCOOP Poker Tournament showed me what could happen if I'd step out of my comfort area of plunking numbers into spreadsheets.
Bringing me to today. For the first time in 16 years I will not be donning the jersey of a local pub, auto body repair shop, or local construction company on the fields in Crystal, Brooklyn Park, or Maple Grove. Between school, work, family and friends is were my free time will be this spring and summer. Playing catch with my son and daughter in the backyard for the past two nights nailed the coffin on my playing days. Sure, I may step in for a special guest appearance on the diamond like Wil Wheaton stepping onto may different sets including playing Sheldon's neimsis on Big Bang Theory (which I watched the show for the first time on Monday and got hooked). And if school goes well, I may find myself playing an abbreviated season in the fall, but as for the kid who watched behind Field #3 16 years ago, he might have grown up a bit in the respect of placing what is truly important.
Don't worry, one part of me will never break the Peter Pan spell which I'll hold to till death as becoming a GET OFF MY LAWN type will have to wait until I'm sitting on my porch on an Arizona golf course several decades from now sipping my morning scotch pelting the country club types with my Daisy BB gun for trying to retrieve their horrible shanks.
Wednesday, February 03, 2010
Attempting the Triple Lindy
Poster cred: Filmaffinty.com
This morning I got my Bizet on. While in a car that was purchased right after the missus and I decided to become a couple ten years ago, it is now the possession of my parent's since three months after bringing home the now defunct Black Daewoo Laganza my life took a heavy turn into the ditch.
The radio stations were not set to the usual Mike and Mike in the morning, or the local rock station for some Zeppelin to bide the time between home and the Bullseye. So, I let the car get covered in sweeping notes with an opera singer in the background and reflected a bit while avoiding the black ice that the latest snow fall covered up. Thanks to a handed-down mini van that's transmission may or may not determine if our savings account will get a bump from the federal government after taxes are done next month, I'll be riding in this reminder of a life prior to migraines and dark corners which left me shackled for weeks at a time with Jigsaw's Saw-like efficiency.
Most who read here already know the happy ending, or beginning depending on the point-of-view one would take as blogging, and poker blogging in particular have given this man-child another shot at becoming the person that was tested for "talent" back in the days of Cedar Island elementary. Two years ago there were tears shed as I climbed back into the driver's seat of a car. Not needing a ride to the airport to go to Philly for quiet, somber time with AlCantHang and the bar olympics. Actually it was the opposite of silent, and defined everything that rocks about the people I've met thru this little haven. Guinness Pot Pie, gunshot riddled walls, "skillets", good booze, better conversation, amazing people.
Then last year more facial raindrops came as I heard that annoying car beep if you leave the blinker on too long for the time after getting the hearing aids. The crackle of your egg frying up in the Bertoli Extra Virgin Olive Oil, the misprounced words of a three year old sounding more endearing, and Joe Buck droning on about how football players SHOULD conduct themselves rather than focus on the play and the reason millions of Americans watch the sport (think Aikman will ever just turn to him and say "Shut the fuck UP"?)
I'd pay good money for that and throw in a basket of freshly baked oatmeal chocolate chip cookies.
This year after watching a good friend lose his job and taking a good look around myself and deciding that I need a little more challenge I'll be shooting to don another cardboard hat and tassle sometime in the way off future. It a scary place like the crawl space under the stairs with a suspect light and possible dark elves waiting there to kidnap you to be sacrified in front of the Spider Queen so they may stay in favor of Lloth. While I hope to avoid such a dreadful death, living without a complete college degree is one that I can't no longer justify. Right now the uncertainty of where to even start such a side road is making me skittish, but since my 2-year A.S. degree is about as good as (insert poker analogy here, cmon you WANTED IT!) there's a need to see myself with a thousand watt smile sometime in 2013 or so with a ticket to a better job.
Returning to the classroom will not have the immaturity of playing Aces, Euchre, or Cribbage in the student union instead of learning about the marketing techniques of adult toy companies. Actually talk about slinging dildos and fleshlights sounds interesting as you can't slap a billboard up in Times Square about the mouth, anal, vagina 3-in-1 attachment deal going on right now without having the moral police coming the next day to knock down your displays of Sasha Grey life-like dolls to put you out-of-business.
No, there will be focus on the kids. There will be focus on learning proper sentence structure and maybe a few creative writing courses will be needed to spice up these pages and when I get the tap for tournament reporting (especially the big tourneys like SCOOP and WCOOP at PokerStarsBlog, and possibly the WSOP). But, honestly its for those two little ones at home and a wife that I love that pushes me to try a little harder and not become complacent with being happy now and instead look at giving our family the best chance to stay this way.
Not a bad thought train for a 10 minute drive. Now I just need to buy the ticket and get on.
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