The $50,000 Epiphany

It has been over a month since I walked down the aisle at Roy Wilkins arena to take home a gold stamped leather binder showing the Rasmussen College school crest (Doctrina, Concretio, Successio with a rockin Moose for a mascot) with a piece of cardboard that set me back around $50,000.  My wife sat in the upper deck besides her dad and my parents of 38 years, all of whom I owe my life to both figuratively and literally.  Sure I opened the padded folder a few times just to see if my name in fancy calligraphy proclaimed that my time as a student has ended and new path would present itself after shaking the hands of an academic dean I never met and would never see again.

Willingly give up 3.5 years of sanity and free-time to break a corporate glass ceiling that might as well been made out of Kevlar wrapped around the insulation used for the Space Shuttle seemed like a much easier task sitting over a bonfire in northern Minnesota.  It didn’t take Toby Robbins or Henry Rollins to shout in my ear that stasis was slowly killing whatever momentum this life had after breaking out of the haze of a head injury.  Sure, work was going in the right direction with accolades and praise for taking on extra work for the same pay while staying in the poker blogging game covering every –COOP tournament series PokerStars could come up with.  Giving up at this point would have been a trout slap in the face to me and anyone who invested even a nice word in my general direction.

There was no need for a life coach or religious schema to tell me that God would guide my rum-soaked soul to the promise land of fiscal and conscious independence if certain rules of life were followed.  What was needed was another complete detachment from day-to-day life, not completely unlike a certain wheel-assisted ride down Las Vegas Boulevard.  Letting go of a secure job for the chance to become that skinny third grader with the bowl cut and bright blue eyes who could shout out multiplication answers so fast some kids didn’t even try to contest.  Until a few weeks ago, that kid represented the last time I felt whole.

Strangled by insecurity despite a good, solid base at home, I let assholes into my head to plant doubt strong enough to grow a stalk to take Jack up into the clouds for his fight with the giant.  Every glance at a mirror was one of pity and pain wondering if life was supposed to feel that way.  There was no Facebook or Twitter back then to seek out a group of like-minded individuals who perhaps were struggling with similar depressive depths.  Maybe for the better as the brutal landscape of social media likely would have been more devastating than a chant during recess about the inability to hear and communicate like a normal elementary school student.  In retrospect it’s easy to look back on such events and blow it off like a flame on a birthday candle.  As a parent it is easy to go “you know what, in [XX] years you won’t even care or remember how kids at recess made fun of you”.  Yeah, 30 years later after the most amazing stretch of personal advancement, I’m sitting on a couch secure with my skin recalling a bunch of fourth graders throwing around a partly chewed up Nerf football not letting me play with them anymore.

I remember being curled up against the brick underneath the newly painted letters proclaiming the building was Cedar Island elementary during most recesses just wishing I could hide in the library despite my love for sports.  Thanks to my bump on the headspot I cannot recall many good times except for a select few that I follow on Zuckerberg’s peep show that allows me to feel good about their new step into parenting, offer condolences to the death of a parent, or question their life choices while posting a selfie with a Green Bay Packers jersey on.

The core of this whole epiphany was not receiving that $50,000 piece of cardboard or what it took to get to that moment that was captured by OverlyPricedGradPrints.com that offers a SPECIAL DEAL of only $50 UNITED STATES DOLLARS FOR A DIGITAL PRINT MUST ACT NOW!!!!  Seriously, the grad is probably strangled by the amount of debt they just ran up for the past four/five years, do you really thing they have $119.99 for the specially embossed 3-D pic of them wearing an article of clothing that will get used the same amount of times a wedding gown does?  Fuck. Off. 

Sorry.  That’s a rant for another time (luckily my father-in-law takes awesome life stills without directing me to a credit application for the honor of possessing one of them).

As I sit here now into my third drink and re-finding my love for writing in non-APA formatted structures, or any grammatically positive formations for that matter, I see a lot of good in my future despite this new debt sitting over porch’s roof.  Just like when entering adulthood, parenthood, or maybe a familiar neighborhood time is supposed to slow down.  No more parties that end up with a threesome in a cardboard box while others are discussing the superiority of grape over cherry Kool-Aid on a deck at 5am while waiting for McDonald’s to open to grab a Sausage McMuffin and hash brown (yes I’m old enough to remember the golden arches when they actually closed for the evening).  The epiphany came down hard yet landed softly into my timeline.  Stop rushing, hug more, accept more, put up with less.  Enjoy yourself or no one else will, stop expect each day will be filled with glowing unicorns blowing rainbows and perfectly distilled vodka out of their asses.  There will be times you will not like your spouse, there will be times a parent will want to take a full roll of duct tape and stick their tantrum-filled kid on the roof of a jet liner bound for Sri Lanka, there will be times that make a person question is it worth it.

It is.

Life may seem like shit if the manager just informed the department of cutbacks, a best friend suddenly goes AWOL from the friendship, or finding out that Axe Dark Temptation body spray really does not turn panties moist from grinding on that very special lady in the navy blue tank top with three visible bra straps and frayed daisy dukes when Blurred Lines takes to the DJs rotation at TGI Friday’s.  I thought like this for waaaaaaaaaaay too long and it hurt my relationship with my wife, my kids, and my friends.  Opening eyes to notice, hey people may seem ok through the veneer paneling they present in public, but likely have the same insecurities and issues about Christian Ponder throwing forward passes that you do.  Yes, I will struggle to upkeep this new direction but its better to state it and point a finger in the mirror call one’s self out on their bullshit versus not realizing it at all.

This scribbling tonight is the result of writing this post over and over in my head for the past month but never breaching the gate of turning on Microsoft Word to bang out 1,223 now 1,224 words.  At first it was a cautionary tale of after-college doldrums of how college students are not prepared for the utter financial clusterfuck they are about to enter (I just got my “guide to paying your student loan” from the college BEFORE getting my official degree).  But, to expound on this when I am relatively better off (married, just got promotion which breach previously mentioned glass ceiling, and no credit card debt) seemed very hypocritical since I’m not in the same fiscal state as a 22 year old trying dig their way out of the well-used county fair demolition derby port-a-potty of bank interest on top of their student loans while job humping LinkedIn, Monster.com, and mom’s good friend who owns a collection agency might hire the bachelor of accounting as a financial relief consultant to those that have not paid their Citibank Student MasterCard in two years or more.   

Instead a few words came out about the stressed yet calm currently in this author’s life.  My kids love the fact that daddy does not need to sit behind a laptop and expound on the different moral viewpoints of Martin Luther versus Immanuel Kant as it relates to a reversing subledger accounting journal entry.  My wife gets her friend back instead of the highly strung, over-sexed husband.  Well, he still wants sex just not at a Bree Olson pacing and enjoying quiet nights together to critique the Chopped contest’s use of pickled deer hooves as a base for the dessert round. 

Personally it’s a new life, one that should have started 15 years ago as a fresh out of college student but I wouldn’t trade my life experiences for anything, except a Vikings Super Bowl win and maybe some MN State Fair cheese curds with Dogfish 90 minute IPA to wash it all down.  But my life is just that my life.  It is not yours, nor should I or anybody tell you how to get to your one of many destinations.  Judging others for not making enough, like the story I heard at work about a young accountant working 12-13 hour days 5-6 days a week at a Big Four firm and being judge for leaving “early” because he actually had a life outside the office, seems short-sighted by most but some are driven to such career aspirations.  Yes, I was initially aghast but know that I should try to learn from both sides of such a situation.  Hey, if you want to retire by 45 and rock your millionaire lifestyle, go at it until those zeros pile up on the bank statement because that person is getting to where their goal path ends.  No different than my route to a bachelor’s degree while maintaining some degree of social interaction with my family and friends. 

And getting the college degree was not my goal.  My goal was to get to this point and being able to see that cute third grader again in the mirror before the glasses, acne, and depression.  I wanted to like myself again versus panning for praise from those around me. Yes, it cost $50K, yes it took almost four years, but I sit on this beige couch in suburbia-land with a sweaty Captain and Coke after tucking in the kids that I enjoy being me and accept the faults and awesomeness that come from it.

It is done for a reason

Ugh.  Wanted to hit up Al's new-ish poker site Face Up Gaming this weekend but ran into 6,000 words of homework and a double reporting night at PokerStarsBlog. 

There were real words and real bad grammar mistakes to be posted right here as well, but my laptop has been funky and locked out this site from posting as well as not hooking up correctly with Facebook. 

Reason for not posting lately?  My schedule yesterday:

4:30am - Wake up
4:35am - "Are you going to take your hands off my boobs yet?"
4:37am - "No"
4:45am - 5:15am Get kids dressed, in car, drop off at day care
6:00am - 4:30pm Work, work, WORK, work
4:55pm - Get home, throw clothes off for Mets vs. Dodgers game, put approprite coaching gear on
5:15pm - At ballpark to warm up the pitchers
5:30pm - 7:00pm Mets win 4-1 as they rally in the fourth once again as the other team's pitching staffs consist of 2 or 3 kids who can actually throw it within a city block of the plate, my staff has seven.  Suck it Dodgers from rich part of the city
7:30pm - Grab Leaann Chin's to-go (overpriced, under-flavored, but local chinese is already closing up for the night)
7:45pm - Wolf down food and go on a 2.25 mile run, purposely hitting big hills, and keeping a little under 9:00/mile pace.  Replace stress with sweat.
8:30pm - After shower, tell kids to head to bed
8:42pm - Physically remove kids from porch place in bathroom to brush teeth
8:46pm - Remind son that toothpaste does not go in sister's hair
8:48pm - Place female child in bed as daughter still requests Black Eyed Peas to sleep to.  (walk away dejected)
8:51pm - Place male child in bed with Bomb Bird Angry Bird head blanket, he demands AC/DC Live (faith in my spawns is revived)
9:00pm - Watched "Chopped" Grill Week and muse that unless Ted Allen tells me there's microwavable mac n' cheese or eggs in my basket, Geoffrey Zakarian is probably going to throw the plate at me

9:30pm - Start weekly homework that was neglected yesterday due to having fun with the kids and turning baking myself into the same color of that wild boar the Chopped chefs had to do something with
11:00pm - Body finally gives up as I wake up with my overweight cat staring at me judgementally
11:04pm - "Really??!?  Must you?!!?" 

Two weeks until summer time, no homework, all fun and maybe a little time for posting.

Scribbles From the Writer Formerly Known as Drizz

“Best of the lousiest and the lousiest of the best”.

It is the theme call for a local radio station KFAN’s “The Common Man” who brings excellent wit to his daily sports and off-topic talk show from Noon – 2pm. Growing up this exemplifies my wanderings into athletes as either was picking splinters out of my bony ass on an upper division team or one of the better players on the lower division. After a while and much acne, self-image, and depression issues, the younger version of me just gave in to mediocrity and only played on teams against inferior opponents, not stretching whatever ability my 110 pound frame could muster.

Academics came easier but eventually fell into the same category as the baseball diamond or hockey rink as trying to get laid (and failing like your basic teenage movie about the wonders of growing up as a sulking kid without a stereotype or direction) became much more important. Yes, the conversation with past me would contain several “WAKE THE FUCK UP YOU MOPPING SHITHEAD!”. Instead of going off to a foreign land like Tempe, Arizona with the sole intention of spending tens of thousands of American Dollars on 10-packs of soft Taco Bell tacos and gallon sized under aged marked up bottles of Karkov vodka to spend a year learning that application of one’s self is a direct correlation to how people treat you.

As I watch my boy take the hard turn on a raised go-kart track, cutting off the 34 year old mother who visited the Kalahari bar for the six-shot Grey Goose Green Lantern special a couple of times before sending a few four-letter words in the direction of my little Jeff Gordon, there I saw my motivation. Again while arguing with my wife of eleven years, something clicked, something unlatched like a series of tumblers finally unlocking as for the past years and especially for the past few months a shell of myself turned into asshole-mode (with the except of a certain weekend to celebrate one Bobby Bracelet’s journey to minivan-land).

It was finding the medium between working as hard as possible at the highest level and still retaining the mindset of the child inside of my adult form (which has many lumps BUT I’M WORKING ON IT!  ). I probably have drafted some 30-odd kick-ass posts from Twins baseball (suck, suck, but getting me interested with every game they score most than one run and SURLY BEER AT TARGET FIELD!!  (it’s not Furious, but the aptly named “Bandwagon”), and yes even a poker post or three as I played a few hours while in Vegas last month (and went home a losing poker player for the first time, RIGGED!).

But, life gets in the way, kids need their pizza cut in exact shapes, and and and and yeah excuses come out instead of pushing yourself to do what you should at the effort level that little person inside your headspot is telling you at least give. The result might not be there like me getting back into the sporting arena with running (28:00 at the Goldy’s Run 5K *flex*) or getting stuffed numerous times playing beach volleyball by people you would normally be wrapping the word “Spaulding” around their forehead but can’t since your vertical turned into more of a horizontal uplift powered by a Yugo motor.

At least I’m in the game again. Parenting, writing, athletics for never-were’s, and even a little poker despite our government’s best intentions on killing a hobby that started this little journey into typing more than 140 characters at a time.

Yesterday I wrote “Life should overwhlem you at times, because if it doesn't, it means you have given up”. It’s time to start earning the quote but this time keeping both eyes open for what I’m missing.  And stop being a dick.

Same old, Same old (tired) situation

A post seen too often lately from friends followed for almost eight years.  "Where have you been?", "why haven't you been posting?", "is this place getting dusty?".

The first one, school has kicked into high-gear, combined with no weekends off for over month plus trying to get up to the cabin every weekend, equals zero time to jot inane markings of my boring suburbanite married life.  Busy does not equal exciting, at least in my world, to others flying around the world in exotic lands and less-than-safe hotels and airports, my path is pretty straightforward with the same 8.7 miles commute in the wee hours of the morning, same return trip and maybe spice it up with a stop at the Holiday gas station, then back home to become either daddy or that one parent trying a little too hard to remind his five year old daughter to keep her hands together while swinging the bat playing T-ball.

Add in the Swedish sauna-like heat over the past three weeks, plus an annual guy's weekend trip that included passing out next to a bottle of Pliny the Elder and getting stacked in a $20 buy-in NLHE game by a chick that had her chair crying for mercy, and you've got one tired blogger.  Hell, Saturday night there was me, myself, and I slumped on a tan sectional all alone when I should have been downtown having a beer on a rooftop with good friends.  But the sirens of the afternoon nap called and four hours later I woke up to Parker Bonn Jr. trying to close out a bowling match on ESPN 26.

Lack of posting is both the above excuses, which really are lame, and lack of desire.  Since my advanced composition professor has decided to make our fingers bleed while banging out long drawn out analytical thesis,  10 to 1 arguments, scouring academic papers for the true meaning within, and becoming conversant while penning the next Moby Dick, my fingers and whatever is left of the magical pixie dust of creativity within my rum-soaked fingers is dried up from the effort.  The challenges are awesome, I mean who wouldn't want to learn how to draft a cost summary for a processing plant while derviving the meaning from a paper that compares tommy girl perfume commericials and corporations exploiting nationalist pride for profit?

Again, exciting life I lead.

The film of non-use on this writing shelf?  Since this is my shelf to place trophies, kids stories, and bitch about when the missus and I have not had sex for weeks, it will be used, abeit sparingly during the summer.  Much like the golden ages when Americans could play quasi-legal online poker for more than points towards a t-shirt or brass bracelet, my fun time online takes a big dip in the months filled with baseball, sweaty boxer briefs, and tall, cold pours of Surly Furious on the deck.  Drunken poker Thursday are no more, as my degeneracy has been diluted to playing slots on Facebook.

See DOJ, you make me cry, turning my hobby night of blank thoughts into an evening of Mark Zuckerberg sponsored pokes and pop-up windows to remind my friends that I'm playing Slot-O-Mania past midnight. No worries about that five page paper and 30 different general ledger entries due by Sunday before getting the low-down on the final two tables of the PokerStars Sunday Warm-up.  Yep, NO FUN FOR YOU! /Soup Nazi

No drawn out rant today as tonight I'll be thumbing through 20 pages of academic writing penis pumping (or titty enlarging?), as the author's of the textbook seemed more concerned with the amount of 50 cent words they could cram into paper-filled vacuum than trying to teach a point to improve my writing skillz (or lack thereof).  Reading while taking my son and 10 other kids to something called "SkyZone" to wear them out playing dodgeball on trampolines. Actaully looking forward to this as we had a blast the first time I took him here, something that the recent stock market roller coaster, riots in London, or moral online gambling zealots won't touch.

And times like these will get my pen here for a few minutes each week.

Redirected to virtual oblivion

There's a moment each workday morning if the weather is particularly calm and not freezing things at the rate of liquid nitrogen where this suburbanite can stand outside the home he grew up in after tucking the kids in with nana and pa for the day to reflect for two seconds.  Much Arthur Dent watching Earth being put back together, there's an eerie fakeness to how calm everything seems without another soul moving or making a sound.

Then like a record that suddenly has the needle slammed down on it and scratches a few moments become picking up the music embedded below, life continues on with grabbing my wife's ass and piling into the car for another day of climbing the corporate ladder.  Then after a hard day of spreadsheets, and a spittle of inane shop talk there home with a five year old with too much energy and the body that can't keep up with band-aids covering 70% of it from various falls.  The boy quietly laying the groundwork to become a gamer and requires a few pokes before he comes to life and get a few details about the final days of his second grade year at school.

But, before crossing threshold of the porch is the kitchen which underwent a massive remake from a hindrance into the best part of the house besides the family room/porch.  On the floor are little black critters which have been squished, poisoned, and flicked like those paper footballs that you hit Carly Cosgrove with right between the eyes with 28 years old.  No, these are not Otis' ants, those spawns of Satan can stay in the South, just annoying black ants that crawl around for the sake of getting my preschool graduating daughter to try to pick up a bowling ball to kill one. 

Subtlety is not her strongest suit.  Make note of that future ex-boyfriends.

Last on Sunday night as I was wrapping up my second to last week of the Spring quarter (only six to go WHOOOOOOOOOWHOOOOOOO!!!) on a spreadsheet solving for a company's ROE and suddenly one of those ants seems to have burrowed its way into my laptop as one by one my windows started shutting down.  For the next two days, thanks to the wonderful hacker that found a way to set a redirect virus into my laptop, the ant became the one squishing me.  Nothing work, all my school/PokerStarsBlog/music files were gone and it seemed like there was no way of getting them back.  Luckily enough my friends are smarter than me and pointed me to malwarebytes.org to patch the problem, then last night after some research I was able to restore my files by reloading from a time where I didn't worry about ants attacking my hard drive.

The laptop is still infected despite the malwarebytes holding off the actual virus while browsing the internet, as luck would have it again, I have been looking for a new laptop anyway.  Luck?  No, more like a lesson as I was ready to tear the hard drive out, have it professionally "cleaned", and throwing a bunch of cash at this just because I wasn't diligent enough to turn on the anti-Malware package that came with the computer.

Never again.  And no, there will not be another convert into Steve Jobs' techno-borg beyond a possible iPhone5 purchase in a few months (oh you know its coming stop thinking its not) by snapping up a MacBook Air that I can't afford .  Another PC laptop suits me just fine but time I'll be laying some virtual cornmeal laced with a little acid around the perimeter so no more ants find their way to my armless midget porn and schoolwork that become less and less with each passing week of the year. 

Natural Caffeine

"... the solid ace became a solid pair of aces on the flop [5c][Kc][Ac] and a winning pair of aces by the river [5s][2h] as FlipFlopUK collected the remaining 17.5 million chips from the pot winning the entire $187,207.92 first prize after defeating the 6,153 player field!"

And scene.

Damnit Raiders of the Lost Ark had to start up now?  It's like the pool scene with Phoebe Cates or watching Andy Dufresne break out of Shawshank.  The Hovitos poisoned tipped darts, the gate of metal piercing Indy's "friend" as he tried to run off with the gold statue, being chased by a concrete snowball, and diving thru a spider web out of the tomb just in time to hand over the artifact to Belloq.

Will power finally turned up while finding the power button to turn off Indy's race thru the forest as the natives chased him. The article finally published as the Windows updates kept me up for another five minutes but that was ok because despite my utter hatred of snow there was a fresh three inches falling outside. 

All of the lights in the house were off and not needed to view my little corner of the neighborhood which was rightfully sleeping at near midnight on Sunday going into Monday.  The brightness of the powder illuminated the townhouses across the street, covered the black ice which showed for the past couple of weeks as Mother Nature can't decide if its time to thaw or hit our state with another icy blast.  It was sort of a ground level aurora borealis with a many layered orangish hue swirling around my kid's snow fort down the street that I would be traveling in five hours for work.

Pretty.

A quick few minutes of reflections on a busy month, interrupted by a sleepwalking seven year old grasping the black and orange oversized gorilla he won at Dave and Busters during our guy's day.  Picking up the not-so-little one and carried him and the primate back to the safety of his faded Transformers sheets.  Noticing he's getting bigger and requires two arms to grasp him down the stairs, yet still involuntarily squeezes tight as a side hug before tucking him back in.

You want to know what fuels my schedule?  Those squeezes.  The feeling of being needed without reward.  The feeling of not being viewed as disabled.  I'm just dad to my son and daughter, someone who provides and takes away.  Someone to cuddle with (for now).  Hopefully when the cuddling stops we can still be friends when school drama enters the picture. 

When its late and the glare of the computer screen informs me of two more pages of discussing the pros and cons of a Flat Tax system are due, those squeezes, those looks of adoration pack more caffeine than a six-pack of Red Bull.  They won't always be there, but the memories will.

A different kind of recap

The past five days have been a chance to catch up on what has been hovering out me while I do my best Rodney Dangerfield impersonation minus the team of experts to write papers for me and the ability to pull off the triple lindy.

With the ladies doing their thing:

Color me amazed that she sat still for 20 minutes

I took the boy out for a guy's day (alas with no pictures, but a short video coming soon).  First, off a trip to Perkins for a hearty breakfast to soak up any remains of the previous evening's run to another victory in my favorite $5 PLO MTT for $200.  Quick aside on that:  It is now a multi-entry tournament at Full Tilt and while I don't buy all four entries, giving someone with an iota of clue for Omaha and making the final table one in three times (with a field around 250-300) isn't that tough. As seen with the FTOPS Main Event 7 out of 9 players were in for the max (6 entries), only two of them managed to get thru the massive 14K+ field to reach a shot at the $1 million prize (chopped by Blair Hinckle). 

Did I have 6 * $640 to maximize my shot at a win?  Hell no, at least I wouldn't put out a good HUGE chunk of my bankroll to do so.  But, I DO have the funds to buy in multiple times at the levels I'm comfortable with ($5-$10 MTTs).  People who satellite in are left with the same issues as if they won a ticket to a rebuy tourney.  But, the responsibility goes to the person who is in the satellite, not Full Tilt, not those who can afford to blow nearly $4K, know the rules before playing the game.  There's good (massive prize pools) and bad (elite players can play looser knowing they get more than one barrel), again know the rules and plan your game accordingly, for the record I had two entries of the 277 that signed up on Thursday night, one finished in 53rd after aces were cracked, the other won the whole thing.

Now after biscuits, gravy, chicken fried steak, gravy, homestyled potatoes, and you know it MORE GRAVY it was time to hit the road with the first stop at SkyZone.  After getting to the massive trampoline park we were greeted by a massive line of weird high school/toddlers mix and a clipboard stating the next jump time available was another hour and a half away.

No worries.

Quick dash home since my cell phone is the equivalent of something you'd see during a 80's John Hughes marathon on TMC and fired up the laptop to make reservations for later in the afternoon to give us time for a movie before playing dodgeball on trampolines with kids.  To my surprise the boy picked out Gnomeo and Juliet over MegaMind, after which I demanded he do two shots of Jack with me for manliness.  But the movie didn't start for an hour so we killed time at the local Dave and Busters where I refrained from a little hair of the dog and focused on winning enough prize tickets for the stuffed orange gorilla he wanted.

King Kong acquired and a Chipotle stop for more alcohol soaking goodness, this time wrapped a tortilla and smoothered with sour cream and pulled pork.

The movie did not disappoint as I managed to stay awake and enjoy it unlike last time while at the IMAX theater up in Duluth when I somehow fell asleep to the Dinosaurs documentary despite the volume going to 11. 

Finally, hopped up on excitement we got to strap-on the blue boots at SkyZone to jump around like an idiot for an hour.  I lasted 30 minutes as my knees and dignity quickly fell in short succession.  My son however bounced his way around, up and down, flipping into a foam pit, and taking a Globo Gym-esque sized shot to the mid-section (he would have a tear and beg to get into another game five minutes later).  For $12 and an hour it was an awesome value. Then it was homeward bound for a pizza picnic (THAT'S INDOORS BECAUSE MOTHER NATURE INSISTS ON FISTING MINNESOTA LIKE A FIVE DOLLAR HOOKER IN THE BACK ALLEY OF HENNEPIN AVENUE). 

Sorry.

I really hate snow.

Back to family time, and no I do not have Tourette's but would take every ounce of patience not to forearm shiver someone who is excited by the nearly two feet of snow we've received in the last two days. 

SKIING YEA!  FRESH POWDER!!!1111 

*thump*

Find a three foot icicle and promptly fuck yourself.  After five months of winter "sick of it" doesn't cut it, swearing and drinking are my equalizers.

Ok.  Back to the family moment.

Pizza, yes.  Me and missus who returned home from their day and new nails enjoyed bacon, pineapple, black olives and pepperoni while the kids opted for just the pepperoni as we watched Despicable Me which despite a bad review from my sister-in-law was very watchable and I dare say funny.  Loved the The Godfather/head of horse scene that Gru gets after the girls are sent back to the orphanage.

Both promptly took to their beds while I barely remember getting into mine.  For one day, daddy didn't have to "get a paper done" or "work", no instead daddy got some time to refuel the parenting engine and let his kids know the real reason why he's behind that laptop all the time.

2011: The Search for Perry

Fresh year, fresh quarter of school, and fresh snow for all!  Including our friends in G-Vegas who unfortunately lack the snow removal tools to deal with the white, slippery stuff.  It's a sliding scale of course as people in the northern states and Canada-land are used to the delays, hourly shovelling, and the bitter cold of the winter months whereas those south of the Mason-Dixon line may not have city wide plows, salting trucks, and a general tolerance for such weather.

 image credit

Dead birds, mass flooding, and the Packers somehow winning a playoff game have the conspiracy/Armageddon nut cases in a frenzy as 2012 approaches.  If the world is ending prior to my 2013 graduation from college (current GPA a double flex worthy 3.98, ladies form the line to the right, I've been told there's plenty for everyone) why not party it up?

This year will be busy if not more than last year when I stretched myself to the limits by returning to school on top my daily routine which tires most people out just reading it.  The plan is to stay the course, continue to find pockets of fun underneath the wave of swimming lessons and Income Tax code books that outweighs a pan of lasagna for 10.

Last year took me to G-Vegas for Mastodon Weekend which was the perfect kick off for returning to school.  A weekend without my fingers being frozen while waking up, bars that don't force their employees to wear flare and served awesome beers, and most of all like-minded friends who shared themselves and dropped their professional suits in the garbage bin full of empty Yuengling bottles and strapped on the degeneracy wear to tear up downtown Greenville. 

There was making sure I had the funds for such hijinks as I helped out the PokerStarsBlog for the PokerStars SCOOP and WCOOP tournaments, trading regular sleep patterns for final table wraps about people winning six, even seven figures online.  My love for cards and watching the action got me thru the wee-hours of the morning and kissing the wife go to work at six a.m. and finishing up while dishing out Fruit Loops and bacon for the kids.  Reporting on poker is something that gives me a little extra spark as my regular job lacks forward thinking and being able to shove a few puns and use active thinking while writing helps bring some energy to a rather drab cubical life. 

Then the circus came into town for a Twins game, golf, and gallons of Surly Furious as Gentle Summit invaded downtown Minneapolis where we got Speaker and his newly minted lovely wife Emet addicted to the local brew.  StB sailed in from Milwaukee and DonkeyPuncher found the ability to board a plane semi-sober and stumble down Hennepin avenue with us.  I was lucky enough not kill everyone with my "sunglasses at night" trip from Canterbury Park and even walked away with enough money to cover the weekend's lap dances and Drizz drooling over 2am beers and wings expenses.  This summer however I vow to best Speaker on the golf course despite having the inability to swing a club for the next five months and will remember not to partake in that seventh NewCastle on the back 9.

After our usual kick-ass summer at the cabin/trailer, the fall months quickly brought December and my month to unwind from a stressful year.  Birthday, WPBT, four day weekends, New Year's parties, two weeks off of school, basically an off-loading of every deadline, every six page double spaced paper with appropriate APA formatting and reference page, every "I DONT WANT TO EAT THAT!!!!1!!!", every argument with my better half who I lean on more than I should but she stands tall despite being a foot shorter than I.  Every inch of stress gone, ready to reload for 2011 as the only memory still not on paper is the kick ass Black Crowes concert that may be Truckin' worthy once I finish it.

2011 brings something to look forward to versus something to be endured.  I've already hit the ground running with a spring break trip in the works, and a long time friend dropping in from Philly to make sure I get my alcohol and poker quotient in for the month year.  If I survive the AlCantHang experience again, you'll read it here.

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.

Quick hits: Parenting question for those with good poker faces

Quick hits:

• Brad Childress fired = Drizz happy camper.  It doesn't help the team any, but least shows they're willing to move forward.  My hopes that the "moving forward" part means building a stadium in Blaine, MN not LA.

• There are just 15 days left before the WPBT Winter Classic.  Do you have your three person PokerStars-infused prize pool last longer team in place yet?  What the fuck are you waiting for?  The Lions to the win the Super Bowl or Obama to admit he could have done things differently in his first two years in office?  Not gonna happen.  So go.  Sign up your weak-ass team that will visiting Davy Jones' Locker after run over by the Brad Childress-less Viking ship of TEAM SKOL!!!  If you dare bust one of us out I'm sending this guy to your house to rinse your mouth out with month-old dead trout or his unwashed arm pits:

Photo cred here



• On Sunday I got a lazy day as a present to myself for waking up at 6am and busting out a two page essay on poems, half of my final paper (due in three weeks), and finished a statement of cash flow for a mock corporation. Shortly after the Viking's implosion that had Packers Fans creaming their green and gold g-strings my daughter entered the room with a worried face. Usually this means a) "Daddy, I took five bars of Hersey's chocolate and ate four of them while smearing the fifth one all over the kitchen" b) "I want to watch Strawberry Shortcake's adventure in Berry-Berry land for the fifteenth millionth time but can't get the DVD player to work after jamming three discs in there" or the dreaded c) "I did something that I won't tell you, but know it's wrong and need to be questioned like a police's person of interest". Can any parent tell me the secret behind keeping a straight face while your adorable four year old daughter tells you she cut her bangs with safety scissors? Bluff a flush draw on the turn in a heated PLO game with a stony face? Yes sir! Not laugh on my cutie's hair malfunction?

Not this guy.

Updated pic of said daughter for those who do not follow me on Twitter

Life imitates smartphone

While skating last night with the kids as they attempt to gain mobility on Minnesota's most known surface, there were strands of little kids in various hockey and bike helmets in various stages of ability.  The chair-user, the future Gretzky, and the kids having the ability to stop which mine don't thus run the risk of having their faces find out just how hard the boards and plexiglass really are.

Then there was this guy...



Since our two little ones had adjacent lesson times with a half-hour practice time in front of each one, we got to spend an hour whipping around on the ice and I got a few loops with carrying the kids that they enjoy.  But, THAT guy above is real.  It's not a fuckin commercial.  He laced up his skates, most likely his kid's too, and stood on the ice Twittering to his little heart's content.  Not once looking up from his smartphone to see a smile on the kid's face or chase him/her until they would get caught.

The sad disconnect of the digital age is real, I know it because I'm at home pecking away at school work while the kids are up when I should be explaining that you go up the ladders and down the chutes and to stop trying to take five spaces when a four is spun.  At least my intentions are somewhat benefiting the kids with potential higher earnings and a father who is trying to become a better person by not standing around looking up nude Bristol Palin pics as life skates by.

Instead of saying the cliched "thanks" next week:  I thank my kids and wife for being understanding of the need to return to school, to be with friends in far away places, to allow me to be myself and not forget how big of a dork I am.  I thank my friends for the same reasons, whether you read here or not, just the occasional text message or even a "tweet" that makes me smile even when you're just as busy as I.  I thank my father who now has seen more injuries cutting down trees than his two Purple Hearts while serving in Vietnam, how you and mom selflessly give without any reward other than a fading embrace from a rushed son and grandchildren. 

To those who help me purchase my hearing aids last year, I thank you and another round of drinks awaits in Vegas in a mere 20 days, as I can't wait too see everyone again and hear their tales versus reading them.

Steps in Parenting: Try or try not

The bargain bin alarm clock with the red tag of clearance half torn showed a blurry 4:37am as the clock puncher rolled out of bed to start the morning ritual.  The schedule returned to watching Sportscenter as the best team in baseball can only draw 17,000 to their home games despite giving away tickets.  But, on my mind wasn't the inability to avoid rather sizable obstructions like walls and refrigerators while trying to splice together a quick breakfast.  It was another parenting lesson.

Two days ago while still hit hard by the moonlighting as a online poker reporter, there was some fatherly duties to attend to for the precious daughter.  Dentist at 4pm proved to be a breeze as I answered questions as to why my eyes looked like I just ran over my dog and decided to knock away the pain by watching Lassie re-runs on Nick at Night while downing a handle of Captain.  No, "just some extra work that I'm proud of doing and hope those who read it get some pleasure from the words" was my reply.  After the teeth were whitened to an ivory sheen, the Spongebob Squarepants toothbrush acquired, and an extra prize gift grabbed from the long forgotten basket in which she took a piece of twine that was wrapped as a "present".

No idea, I don't claim to understand the female specie.  Anyway, she happy with said rope, I was happy she didn't try to spit the industrial strength mint flavored toothpaste all over the 42" flat screen or jerk her head while the dentist was probing her mouth with a metal pick.

Happy would end about two hours later in an elementary school gym where after getting dressed up a leotard and tights it was time for dance class.  A see-if-she-like-it type thing put on by the community as I still hold wishes she'll take up volleyball or softball and grab a college scholarship after being named to the all-state team three times (not likely but one can dream).  For the first half she performed gracefully as I peered over the top of the new book I got from Lulu the other day.  "The Chosen" by John Hartness with the picture of my favorite kilt-wearing blogger on the back, and I got to the part where Adam and Cain reconcile their differences over an AlCantHang-sized bender (side note:  Happy Birthday to the original walking party himself)  and are heading to New Orleans to confront Eve. 

My son's PSP went down due to lack of batteries and the charger was left on the kitchen table as he pulled the book down to inform me that someone was being less than cooperative in the dance line.  I didn't need to even look to figure out it would be my purple spandexed spawn refusing to getting up despite plees from the community-ed instructor who was probably getting $25 for putting on a fake smile for 50 minutes while dancing to Kidz Bops 14.  Sure enough my daughter with a mix of my stubbornness and my wife's fierceness sat on her ass while the 14 other little girls twirled for their parents.

Since these was not a first offense, she knew what was going to happen.  "Wyatt, go politely tell your sister to come here" I said in a calm voice that rivaled The Godfather's right before the violin music came out and someone got whacked.  To my surprise she came right over, sparing her the potential embarrassment of going in front of all these parents while I tried to catch her in front of the room.  I told her she knew what would happen, and to my surprise she didn't cry as I carried her to the car 15 minutes before schedule.

To tie in as I buckled her to her new big girl car seat booster, I looked back at the boy and told him about his "less than stellar" (copyright Joe Speaker) performance in his Saturday soccer game that made Manny Ramirez look like Pete Rose, if I saw him do the same thing in Tuesday's game I would walk across the pitch and carry him home as I have just about zero shame.  Fast forward to yesterday's performance in which the team won their sixth straight game 7-0, he played with a extra kick, challenging balls and not giving up after the first try.  Running up and down the field, abeit bunching up as mob-styled play prevails at this age, but showing speed versus the light gait of a snail shown on Saturday. 

Nothing makes a parent more proud of their offspring to see them try.  Some may force their children to "be the best", and forget those little legs may not have the genetics to become the next AAU all-star, but to allow them to smile and recap the shot on goal that missed by a time zone but to someone who hasn't scored all season got that chance, was a boost to a kid normally regulated to video games.  Perhaps this is something to build on, a reason to go outside and practice a bit with the under-coordinated father and maybe build some skills.

Even if he doesn't, he made a dad proud.  Now, I just need to figure out the other one...

Wild Thing. You Walk Everything.

The second white spray painted line was drawn with a little hitch over a recently tar-patched crack.  I looked down to make sure my gazelle-like stride would not exceed the make shift foul line.  "Three balls for five dollars, throws must be made from behind the line" barked the carny with curly auburn hair and black metal rimmed glasses. 

County fairs are an off-shoot of major league baseball's minor league system.  Each major county in Minnesota has one as I'm sure the same could be told in other states, but only a few states could rival the grandness of the Minnesota State Fair (three weeks, reallly?!!?). These county fairs are usually run by the D-crew of the state fair, carnies traveling the US trying to catch on with a bigger company or make enough to move on to the next city/county celebration.  We dropped by the Anoka County Fair this weekend to watch my brother turn my grandmother-in-law's old chevy into a metallic wrecking ball for five minutes.  Demo derbies are a sight to see if just once in your life.  The fans in the stands are most likely those from "Fight Club", those who fix your cars, serve dinners, deliver your mail, people who some snootier sort wouldn't notice unless they took their asses out of their $2,000 personally plated iPhones for two seconds.

The cliches never miss:  the biker with the sweat-soaked red hanky on his head with a generous beer gut stretching that 99 cent wife-beater for every taiwanese made fiber with a heavy sleeve-less leather jacket over the top.  The very pregenant 16 year old holding a baby while alternating hands to take a drag on a Red.  Various assortments of breasticles popping out of multiple exposed bra straps and jean shorts tight enough to look painted on.  The wirey old leathered tanned guy that weighted 80 pounds before breakfast was in the pits offering his services for a fee or a bottle. 

The sparks fly as two cars race to the middle of the slicked, muddy track to smash the watermelon in the middle, good for $50 and basically your entry fee back.  One such race for the melon left its driver dazed enough to take down her fluorescent orange stick signaling she called it quits.  But, being knocked out first wasn't the end of the disappointment as race was stopped while seven firemen and women tried to extract the 300+ pound driver from the car.  No idea how she managed to get in, but getting out required the jaws of life, an exposed ass crack and mega sling-shot sized animal print thong that I will never be able to un-see, and perhaps a Daddy-size can of butter flavored Crisco.

After taking a crippling blow to the radiator, my brother finished 6th out of 13 cars, good for $25 and a deal at the cheese curd stand.  After being beaten down for two hour in the heat it was time to blow money on the midway before heading to friend's place for previously feathered animals on a grill.  As the story left off above my first three tosses were of the Ricky Vaughn pre-skull crosses glasses variety and almost managed to miss the entire giant inflatable batting cage-like structure.  "Four balls for $5 and you automatically win a small prize".  After dumping off my walk-around poker bankroll at home because having several hundred dollars bills in your pocket at a carnvial seems less than smart, I had three singles to my name.  My wife of 9 years 361 days (see what I did there?) offered the extra two bucks for male ego purposes. 

The length was a little beyond the 60' 6" and flat with a hole where the catcher's mitt should be, but I trying to reach back to 1993 and throw a low to middle 80 mph fast ball and get the auto-win as posted "Male:  Any pitch over 75 mph wins".  I found those days are WAAAAAAAAAY behind me after tossing three balls under 65, and my fourth was no better at 62 and hitting the outlined right handed batter in the helmet.  Fifth and sixth pitch had Harry Doyle going: Juuuuuuuust a bit outside ball six.  Wife with arms crosses and a father having to decide between which kid he wants to hear whine because the other one got the auto-prize, I toed the line one more time.  This time a kid in a blue Minnetonka jersey stood in the box with the only catcher brave enough to catch me wearing the black and orange of Osseo high school behind the plate as I dropped my arm and let the ball fly versus trying to do some John Daly twist before throwing....

"Double Winner!" the kid in the yellow polo shirt cried.  The dejected Minnetonka Skipper batter walked back to the dugout as I handed over two multi-colored inflatable hammers to happy kids after the perfect strike down the middle hit the hole with a thump and $10 wasted let an old man smile like the 120 pound kid with the jersey that barely fit and belt that required extra holes 17 years ago.  I don't know if the carny had a button for the speed gun to display a number of his choosing but it was enough to walk away with an empty wallet and a former athlete's pride intact.

Couch: The Lost Time Machine

My apologies for blank space but the need to refuel writing outside of work that doesn't seem like work is very necessary.  Last night there was no hot tub, but a couch that was older than the two people sitting on it for most of the evening.  One every ten minutes or so, a four-year old would bounce up with a tired smile to curl up then take off without reason.  Besides the boarded up fireplace in the basement which shielded the nasty recent humidity front which cooled the area to be comfortable, was a large HDTV.  A relative relic now standing at six years old and weighs about 100 pounds but works well enough for the kids to have a place to watch Tom and Jerry re-runs or Monsters vs. Aliens on the dual VCR/DVD combo.  But, last night after my wife found some old VHS tapes we decided to take over the space for a short time traveling excursion.

The first was her playing in the 1990 14-year olds Minnesota State Softball tourney somewhere in northern Minnesota.  After seeing the dot matrix like white font with the year, date, and time as a constant reminder of OLD OLD OLD with every pitch during her team's defeat of 6-0, it took a quick look in the bathroom mirror with gray hairs sticking defiantly from my chin to confirm OLD OLD OLD.  As I hobbled back to the couch after pointing and laughing at its age thus tempting the structure to collpase, the second tape was put in

Mullets, fritzy hair, acne, indecision, depression, freedom, baseball, pep rallys, Grease:  The Musical, a future.  The 1994 Anoka Tornados Video Yearbook came across the screen and for the next hour finger-pointing at hair-dos, people my wife remembered included a sizable young man who was featured several times as royalty to the different dances took his life just one year after donning a faux-velvet crown and getting a stand-ovation as he walked across the basketball court floor.  The muscials shorts were well-produced, the clips of the debate team, foreign language, and every other student organization gave a short group "hello" to the camera along with the leaders nervously telling what future world problems they would solve (perhaps they could start with that BP oil spill and work their way to the US budget deficit

On a personal level I tried to remember my high school years as replays of the various dances came across the screen, and since my fawning over just two girls the entire time I walked the halls of Osseo Senior combined with the complete lack of confidence, I barely knew of all these after school dances, much less any after-school activity that didn't involve another round of advance math and science classes or baseball during the spring trimester.  The friends I shared locker space with are the same ones my kids play with their kids today.  Homely, for a guy who loves the bright lights of Vegas but I had my chance to break from my hometown if I so desired.  Being a freshman at Arizona State and holding my own academically but inside, fixing to jump off the top of one of those buildings if I didn't find something to latch onto, the decision was to return home and right the ship before I ended up like the gentleman above who took his own life despite being named a dream date by several girls wearing the school's maroon and white. 

The after the credits rolled and the couch returned us to an asleep child who needed a parent to take her upstairs to her beloved and ragged "K" pillow, and a mohawk'd one in Transformers PJs to his much faded blue lizard two kids had grown-up in different ways only to end up in a basement of a house built the year they were born to start the process again.  Will I be able to provide the push to my kids to achieve what they can instead of what is safe?  Can I help them find themselves so they do not have to endure the same painful adolescent years without a sense of direction and self-worth

For certain, they will get everything I know I can give them and perhaps things I didn't know I could get them.

Harder Than Rocket Science

While the sight of baseball from behind a field instead of kicking the lime-streaked foul ball lines is settling in, so is my appreciation for the effort being put forth on the diamond.  No longer is every swing and miss critiqued, rather it's stored for later use, much like seeing a tell at the poker table.  Eyes front and center, both hands on the follow-through, swinging thru the hips, all were shown last night.  The clouds finally broke the outcast skies as the sunshine forced the bleacher crews to become right fielders with hand visors trying to block out just enough light to see a line shot coming from the bat of their child. 

Appreciation of kids gets lost among the daily routine, the struggles of job security, and the inevitable times of a kid being a kid.  They don't shoot out with a grand knowledge of the world and it's societial rules of etiquite.  They're immature since they haven't made the mistakes that we have yet.  That doesn't prevent the scolding and losing patience of when one of those written or unwritten rules is broken.  The parent's mind breaks from logic for a few seconds and becoming a bubbling volcano only capped by a thin but iron clad lid of reason.  Yes, there's times when that lid is blown off and shoots towards Jupiter at the rate of a Stephen Strassburg fastball after the little footstep are heard coming down the hallway for the sixth request of a drink/book/movie/snack.  Out on the playing fields at the beginning of the season I lost that appreciation.  Focusing more on "he's better than that" rather than "I'm glad he's enjoying himself".  He could feel my glares but I was blinded by my tunnel vision of setting my son out there unmolded and him transforming into the best player on the field.

Then you kind folks wrote in on your own experiences with this, and it made me realize WHY I'm making the trek thru my parent's backyard that once held the tee box of a makeshift six hole golf course and up to the ball fields where Ricky Vaughn would have been impressed with my inability to throw it across the plate.  I am merely the hand that guides now, it is his decision to play and at what effort level he chooses.  If he wants to hit up the cages, we'll do that, have a catch in the backyard, let me get my glove, but it's his choice not mine.

Last night my boy hit the first pitch thrown to him without much effort and lined both of them hard.  His swing was fluid and I could tell there was a level of concentration going on unseen during that first game.  The person who needed to improve was the one wearing the size 13 shoes, not the size two.  While I'll still wince at the dropped balls, as long as I get that goofy smile with the thumbs up, I'll know there's a chance that both of us will become better in our respective roles and continue to enjoy each other for who we are.

Carnival For Two

Are you an official college student for signing up or when grades are handed down at the end of a quarter/trimester?  While I failed to rush a decent frat or school classmates on the finer points of beer pong after a night of downing a half handle of Captain Morgan, my first of 14 quarters towards graduation is in the books.  Like most people working two jobs and going to school is a tad stressful and in dire need of stretching the day to about 32 hours so tired bodies can do more than complain about being tired.  My senior moments have come in more frequently, suddenly snapping awake after standing with the fridge door open handling a carton of eggs staring blankly at Sportscenter as they replay the missed World Cup call by Koman Coulibaly who replaced Jim Joyce as the goat of officiating in the United States.

The eggs were returned safely to the upper shelf to become a Ham/Sausage/Bacon omelette at a future time after the drool was mopped up from the sides of my face.  No one mentioned that pushing yourself to become more would ever be difficult, but sitting on my ass and watching potential seep thru my cubical chair would have left me with regret.  Facing my family daily knowing that I did not put up a fight would allowed the specter of depression to unlock the front doors and close the genuine smiles found every morning, unlike the fake ones seeing in the pictures hanging throughout the house from years past. 

For Father's Day, I'll focus on the weekend spent alone with the boy as we both got to indulge a bit with daddy not having to work or type up a paper until Sunday.  He already has an eye for video games much like his dad as bad weather found him inside playing on the Cartoon Network's site while I completed DragonAge on the PS3 for the second time.  When the sun came out the garage door was opened for heading up to the community pool to cannonball dive off some steam.  Well, for him, I found two towels, one lounge chair and drifted off while MILFs paraded in front my view point (best time of day for seeing cougars is around noon to two).  After a little time at the gym, which is a bitch to motivate yourself to go during the summer, it is time to hit up the Hennepin Country Fair.    Sadly, I've seen larger "fairs" put in the parking lot of our city's string of mini-malls.  Regardless of size, the agri-magician provided free laughs and a petting zoo highlighted by a Texan Longhorn not named Vince Young as Wyatt needed some coaxing to feed the rather rabid bunch of goats in the middle cages.  But after one chocolate and vanilla striped animal licked his hand clean of the grains, he didn't want to leave.

I should have stopped at the $1 cup of goat food. 

Instead I overspent on pop, cheese curds, and god-forsaken plastic swords in the run-down carnival section.  Thankfully exploding a Bombay gin bottle gave me a wide smile at the cost of $5 for nine balls, even the boy managed to throw one thru a used Budweiser and earned himself a Twitter-like stuffed bird which dominated the conversation for the balance of the car ride home.  While the "prizes" certainly were not worth the forty bucks spread amongst the well-worn games of chance but surprisingly good squeeky cheese curds, his smile over-shadowed the lost Jacksons very quickly.  

Money can always be replaced, those brief moments of a child's joy cannot. 

My Snowflake

Two people, two personalities.

Children would be easier to raise if they came out the same way, had the same sleep schedules, and refused to eat their veggies with the same pout.  One book written by a billionaire author would be given to you as you peer thru the tempered glass at the little blue or pink blanket to raise your child from ages 0 thru seven.  After seven the rules and guidelines would get thrown out with last night's party leftovers, but before then parenting is as easy as taking a stroll thru a beautiful Minnesota morning along the Mississippi.

People don't live in the Matrix however.  Instead you get a new book daily that is drafted on the fly with every temper tantrum and hug.  Never knowing which side of the behavior coin is going to hit the deck after sending little number three with your last name emblazed on his back.  Last night it was my turn to take on the new project of introducing my daughter to sports.  As you may have read here, this is the child who will make kool-aid in a bathroom sink, pile two rooms worth of pillows to reach a box of Wheat Thins/Chips/Oreo cookies then proceed to lick the middles off of each cookie and put the box back in place.  I think a large monetary tip to cover her Kindergarten teacher's psychiatric care may be needed for next year.  To say my daughter is "strong willed" wouldn't do it justice, it would be like calling Phil Hellmuth "a bit into himself".  If she wants something, and you don't want her to get it, duct tape and/or welding her door shut might prevent her actions for a few moments until she figured out how to MacGyver the obstruction using her Barbie Princess Beauty Kit and clothes hangers.

While the boy seems to be finding his stride after more "nice swing" than "bend the knees, chin up, elbow angled, etcetcetc" (thank you commentors), my daughter is going to take a different approach.  She doesn't feed off "nice swing" and regular encouragement, instead she will do her own thing until the rage of watching that little pink glove getting thrown to the ground happens for the 15th time ends with a kicking four year old getting hauled away to the car.  Although to her credit yesterday after the first 10 minutes of a Milton Bradley-like defiance, she let up and actually tried to scoop up a grounder while crouched in the hands-on-knees ready position for the remainder of the practice.  Its hard when your kid is the only one not waiting patiently in line and filtering thru like the others.  The stares of disgust from other parents do not bother me, but rather I feel as I'm failing her by not helping her become like the others.  Prim and proper are not in my daughter's vocabulary and maybe that's a good thing, as her intelligence leaks out in the form of not having any reservation to ask questions and try things when she doesn't understand.

Love her for who she is, but how does a parent mold such a child while not breaking the form that keeps her unique?  No, she's not a snowflake, but she's my kid and even while she's prone face down on the long patch of grass on Brittany Field and the urge to toss her in the SUV to drive away is seconds from happening, there's needs to be a way to enjoy her difference to my son's attitude, to the crew-cut boy next in line, to the red-headed girl already showing the freckles and alabaster skin.  Just one of a billion parents re-writing a parenting book that will never get drafted, and a billionaire author won't be able to publish those pages, due to the fact that each child IS unique.  And while my unique child did not earn Dairy Queen last night, she does me proud each day for being healthy and being herself.

Steps in Parenting: Smiles

Busy much?

Busy.

While personally I consider myself further outside the World Series of Poker than Pokerati, seeing that I do my "reporting" without pants and nor to I subject myself to the air conditioned Amazon room for 18 hours a day, I am no less rushed as the circus of cards parades in Las Vegas.

But, there are two little ones at home that don't get to see all the spreadsheets, inane meetings about planning a meeting, or the four a.m. Monday morning deadlines for that third job you picked up to stay fresh with work that you actually enjoy doing.  They are not privy to the corporate ladder, traffic jams, or why mommy and daddy could really use a drink after a day at the zoo.  Lately a sense of growing-up as a parent has been trickling in-between the late-night study sessions, subbing for softball games that have been "forced" to go to (batting a clean 1.000 in four games with 17 hits thank you very much) since speaking to nothing but Microsoft Excel and degenerate poker players could render a human into a ball of doing nothing but charting out historical data on lime tossing bets 24 hours a day.

Kids get to see daddy laying on the ground as a perfect opportunity to pounce, to question, to use as a pillow.  They don't care about the two hours of sleep a night for the past four days, and nor should they, because work and play for a parent has the kids in mind first.  Sure the hard-working bread winners need to kick back on a side porch with nothing but a microbrew hitting the back their throats, as I will be in two days since my plans to see a group of friends in Vegas has officially fallen thru thanks to airlines who wish to charge the equivilent of a black market healthy liver for a short flight to the nation's capital on sin.

That's in two days, yesterday yet another step in parenting took place in my poor excuse for a backyard.  I think landscaping companies check out Google Earth and see my dirt lined yard, drooling at the prospect of trees that need to be uprooted and infinite rows of sod to lay.  It was in the patch of grass that my son stood in a batter's ready position with the newly erected ball trampoline behind him to act as a surrogate catcher since his mother was pitching and I took to the field to play all seven positions behind her. 

That's when I saw it.

The smile.

It came briefly after a hard liner nearly headed deep into the trees that separate our land from a pond and some townhouses.  Then came back with every swing hit or air.  If you want an example of such a smile, and perhaps a perfect frame of one, look no further than Speaker's AJ in the bottom of this post. You can read the words too, I hear he puts together words in a readable manner (THATS INTERNET SARCASM), really read the post then enjoy the smile.

Parents know that there is one reason you go through the arguments of cleaning up the playroom, blood pressure raising rants about changing their mind after ordering food, and the endless shuttles to a new activity.  It's that smile.  Some parents think throwing toys, movie, and amusement parks in their faces will allow their lips to curl upwards.  True, it will but I akin that to a rub and tug versus real sex with another human that you've known for awhile.  It's a fake-ish smile so to speak, the genuine grin comes out after a sense of accomplishment, like yesterday when Wyatt's fluid swing started connecting or after he came in the house and instead of going thru a Tom Emanski video worth of things he could improve on I geuninely praised him on the fact he was moving towards the ball, reach out with his glove, and moving the bat in more than one linear motion thru the box.

The next game is tomorrow, and a different father along with a different son will show up to have a different outlook on the same field in my parent's backyard that I grew up on wearing jersey #9 with B & M Video layed across the front of it.  And both of us will have that smile regardless of balls dropped or being told to take a seat after so many swings because it isn't about becoming the next Bryce Harper or Stephen Strasberg it's about smiling and enjoying the little time you get to spend with each other.

Cost and Benefit Returning to College Module of Marriage

Ask any parent what sound they would like to hear again before stepping off the earth into (insert afterlife/dirt nap belief here).  As someone who has two little forms currently tearing up his house and bank account the one thing I could listen to for my final days and nothing but is their laughs. 

Prior to kids there was no reservations about going out to eat, hitting up a party, or prolonging an education.  Time and circumstance seep into every decision now and one of the biggest ones is the cost and benefit of returning to school.  Not so much the monetary form of debt, but one of time.  Growing up with a part-time dad who worked himself to the bone so he could provide a stable household gives me shocks each time we're sitting around their new widescreen displaying the Price is Right on a Friday morning.  While Drew's Dancing Dolls (do they have a monkier yet like Barker's Beauty's?) are bouncing on stage after Wilma the 320 lbs. admin assistant from Marietta, Georgia drops her Pinko chip into the $10,000 slot, here I am having a conversation about football with my father that baffles me since I barely met that man growing up.

He tirelessly worked for our benefit, but left a hole at home at times and each time I hear my children laugh I wonder just how much my father missed that versus having to resort to being an after hours disciplinarian.  Of course now he's the doting grandfather who's job is nothing more than provide hugs and a warm place to sit down for Max and Ruby on Sprout.

While researching this going back to college thing, there's a tear between losing hours with my kids, wife, friends and wanting something a little more but unsure if that something more is worth the cost.  Am I doing it for the right reasons, to benefit the house or is it merely a pursuit of self-satisfaction with a heavy cost on those whose lives I'm trying to better?  If I were single, heck if I didn't have that nasty head injury years ago I'd probably already have my Bachelor's degree instead of the dusty Associates degree that seemed to do nothing but take up a quick line on a packed away out-dated resume.

Me personally, I'm fine with the extra work load as a new challenge would be a great boost, but is there balance for them?  The websites of the colleges I looked at were very vague on completion and even worse since I haven't gone to school in over 10 years my credits may not transfer and starting completely over is not in the ballpark. Looking at the flow charts of courses for the past week I felt like that idiot 19 year old freshman at Arizona State who couldn't decide on a mild or hot sauce for next 10 pack of Taco Bell faux burritos let alone a major.  Do I go back and continue trying to become a CPA?  Or chase my love for all things computer related and channel my inner-geek that has been locked away for years in a CIS-type program?

The push and pulls of the excuses and questions has me leaning towards status-quo but possibly looking for something new on the work front instead.  A big problem is the wife expressed her skeptism towards this educational push, missing T-ball games, swimming lessons, and our renewed marriage. 

The last one being a VERY big reason in my book.

Being practical and realistic isn't for chasing a dream, it's for preventing your car from becoming inbedded in a eight foot high snow wall because you tried that cornering move once seen on Fast and the Furious Toyko Drift while trying to channel your inner Vin Diesel.  Right now I'm torn between sliding my tires sideways and hoping they catch in time to make the turn or taking the bend slowly for a smoother ride and enjoying the scenary as it passes.

Seven for Ten

Minnesotans already blanketed by some white stuff as the shovels were not quite put away for the season and unless Punxsutawney Phil says otherwise we'll enjoy every flurry and flake. People who like snow most likely don't have an 5am daily commute and got stuck behind a snowplow while having to share a car for the week because the other one had a transmission that decided to cease functioning while driving 65mph down I-694 with two kids in the back that wanted nothing other than to learn how float in water.

Tax return to shore up savings? Yeah, that was a great idea at the time. Kinda feel like the couple in "Up" trying to throw change into the large jar for the trip to Paradise Falls only to have life show up at the door and say "take the hammer out again, the move is going to have to wait". It's the journey right? Right now that journey has frozen digits 90% of the day and a daughter who tries to make two gallons of cherry red kool-aid in a dixie cup then decides to clean up the mess by smearing in on the walls and tile with a white towel.

At least there's a smile.

The busy end-of-the-month Sunday's at the PokerStarsBlog give me a chance to slide on the cozy slippers of hair metal, online geniuses, and bad puns as the kids and wife vacated the porch while wrote up the Battle of the Planets, $1,000,000 Turbo Takedown, and Sunday Warm-up tournaments. While those were going on, my eye was taking a quick glance at Twitter because rumors have been swirling about a certain Minnesota sports icon looking to come back.

No, sadly if you're one of the legion of Brett Favre fans no word from the land baron as of yet. My advice is to listen for the words from Jay Glazer or local reporter Mark Rosen NOT Ed Wants-to-stir-the-pot-and-play-with-the-big-kids Werder.

Pic cred sportsnet.ca

No, its the hometown kid. "The One". The reason for the move from the homerdome to Target Field starting this season. St. Paul's own Joe Mauer is on the cusp of signing with the Twins basically a contract for the remainder of his career. Effectively removing any chance of tainting the all-star catcher with Yankee pinstripes, LA Douchebagerry or Bloody Soxs should he sign contract being floated out there instead of bagging the bloated contract he could demand from the above teams.

While I will always have an interest in the local ballclub, it's magnified when number seven is playing. Much like a golf tournament with Tiger Woods, a hockey game with Gretzky, to a Minnesota Twins fan who had to watch their hero from the 80s fall from grace and to health, because of Joe Mauer they had someone special to cheer for again. While Puckett exerted energy, Mauer's freshly cropped sideburns brings the quiet cool. Cool enough to to be in awe but friendly enough to play some catch with the fans on a side street if asked.

Mr. Mauer it is with hope that you decide to spend half a season in the confines of downtown Minneapolis for the next decade as I'll be there every month except in April because outdoor baseball in such a month in this state is borderline retarded (yes, I have played in snow several times). Just make the decision soon and leave the ESPN drama to Favre who has experience in such waffling and football fans have grown used to it.

Take the high road down newly named Twins Way and find a few fans that will show up regardless of team's record (and maybe even the weather).