Behold The Power of Cheese

So, here's the thing. We're moving. I've been working as much as humanly possible on our house of late to get it ready to sell. It's been very trying to my patience. All of the shit that accumulates in ten years can be massively overwhelming. Looking at this house of mine is like looking down at pocket aces. You're in love! Except within five minutes they're cracked by someone holding 23 offsuit when the flop comes down 456. That's how much I tilt when I think about all of the 'projects' that are still left to do on this crack den. Hardcore. Fucking. Tilt.

I've alluded to moving before in this blog, and in comments to Stb and Musical Poker, but I've never put the extent of the move down here for fear that someone I work with may read it (not likely). Horror stories of being Dooce'd are always in the back of my mind, but fuck it. If anyone from work is reading this, please keep it to yourself. I have an ASSLOAD of commission coming my way at the end of the month, and goddamnit (Bonus Code: IGGY), I need it.

So, here it is:

I packed up my family this past weekend and moved them from the "big, scary city" (10 points to Griffindor if you can name the movie that comes from) of Minneapolis, MN to tiny, little Portage, WI, population 9K and some change.

Here's the part where the panic attacks come in.

I packed up my wife and two beautiful children and moved them to my mother-in-law's house for three weeks so my wife (who shall now and forever be known as Smurfette only because I think it's funny) can start her new job in Wisconsin Dells. That has been the catalyst of all of this. We've been talking about moving forever, but she found her dream job in the Dells. It's absolutely perfect for her and pays just about the same as her job here in the Twin Cities paid her.

I have been left behind to continue improvements on the house and get the fucker sold. I'm not coping very well with not having the kids around to yell at, and Smurfette around to keep me on task (plus, other things...nudge, nudge,wink, wink, know what I mean?). It's really fucking hard. She, of course, thinks, that I'm going to be deee-lighted with being alone. Nothing could be further from the truth. Just walking into this empty house alone makes me sad enough.

When I do eventually leave my current job and head east, I will have no employment lined up (sales people are hired NOW, not three or four weeks from now), and no place to live (though I'm pre-approved through our bank for an assload more than I thought I'd be).

It's a scary place to be in. No prospects, no home, just hope.

I just crapped the bed.

I'm not a big believer in hope. I'm 100% a glass 1/2 empty kind of guy. My philosophy? It's better to be pessimistic and be pleasantly surprised when good things happen, than be optimistic and get no joy when good things happen, because you expected it all along.

Smurfette made the comment the other night that she hopes our marriage can survive this move. It pissed me off to no end to hear her say it, but after some introspection, I have to say...so do I. I don't adapt to change well. It took me years to get over my mother moving the drying rack in the kitchen sink from the left-hand side to the right-hand side. Don't even get me fucking STARTED on the day we got a new mailbox. Shit went down, I tell you what.

My wife's concerns are well founded. I don't adapt to change well, but I'm the one who wanted this move. For the kids, for me, for our family. But sweet dammit, if it doesn't scare the shit out of me.

This is a life change. This is a BIG DECISION for us. I've lived in this city for 16 years, and though there are things I love, there is a lot to hate. Crime, crime, noise, traffic, and did I mention the crime? We live in a so-so area in the city that is constantly on the news because of the gang violence that happens two or three miles away. And I'm tired of it. Tired of not trusting anyone. Tired of always looking over my shoulder because, even though the crime isn't in my backyard, it's inching towards it.

I want a really nice house (and for what we'll get for 'casa del crack', we can get a doozy in small town 'sconie). A deck. A firepit. A place where, at night, I can sit outside with a beer and listen to...

nothing. No constant hum of traffic, no 8 year old kids screaming 'fuck' at the top of their lungs and proudly exuding what a 'gangstah' they be. I want crickets, and cats fighting in an alley, and bug zappers, and the crack! of wood burning in a chimnea, and people enjoying each other around a grill, and all of the other corny small-town things that I've forgotten exist (that I know exist) and are good and needed and desired.

It really is like that you know. People really do stop over to just to talk when they smell your grill, or see you raking your leaves, or even see you outside catching a smoke. That conversation can turn into dinner that can turn into a small group of friends sitting on a deck talking and enjoying each other, while the crickets chirp and cats fight, bug zappers zap, and fire cracks.

So after all of this pontificating, what does it have to do with poker? This is a poker blog, right?

Here it is:

"It's not always about getting the best hand, it's how you play the hand you're dealt."

And I'm playing this motherfucker to the river.