Things I need to blog about...

[ ]Lamaz class with Deuce McCallister
[ ]Embattled Congressman Dollar Bill Jefferson and his ice cold cash on a 1-2 table during Essence festival at Harrahs
[ ]Why I Hate Name Dropping
[ ]Donkley update
[ ]Phil Ivey
[x]Details about my life you could care less about

Since the last one seems by far the least interesting we'll start with that. Been super busy the last couple of weeks and I'm actually glad I didn't go to the Vegas for the WSOP. Would have been nice if I could have made it out there when Southpaw and the Honest Player visited, but it was undoable.

I'm still looking forward to sharing some drinks after a tournament with Kai, Monkey and folks, and Vegas always presents opportunites for that even if tournaments and poker is 24/7. This fall, I promise, at least one night we'll unleash a little bit of Superbill be it at the Beau or Harrahs.

Right now though, baby is on the way, and wife is about to pop. She's had a rough go this pregnancy (and I say "this" like it's the first of many...) enduring just about the worst of every trimester in "the" pregnancy (she says "the" like it's the last of any). Don't know how many google searches I've done for symptoms that "can't possible be normal" only to get two results every time: CALL A DOCTOR! and it's normal.

Doesn't matter what it is, you try... google something like this "My belly's growing and so are my tits... first trimester pregnancy" you'll get a slew of results half telling you to high tail it to the ER with gems like "SEE A DOCTOR! My belly grew at a blistering pace, they found out I was going to have multiples AND I have elephantitis of a lady part. Fortunately, I scheduled my elective surgery with the birth" and the other half saying it's perfectly normal. Or, try a scarier one, "I'm bleeding out my ears, my vestigal tail is more tail than vestigal, sometimes at night I'll put a flashlight on my belly and I'll hear Murder, Murder, Kill, Kill... 22nd week... slight nausea" and you'll find that you should get to a doctor/priest/shaman ASAP or "just get off your feet you'll feel fine after some bedrest."

As we head into the home stretch the little guy is playing on her ribcage like it's a xylophone, and since nobody plays a xyxlophone what I mean is he's just bludgeoning her ribs like I did any musical instrument that came with mallets. She's ready for the kid to come out tomorrow. I on the other hand, realize once he comes out he's never going anywhere, ever. I'm excited to meet the tyke but I'm enjoying the last vestiges of life as I know it.

Did I mention, I'm sure I did, that after we got married we bought a shit-hole house. It's a fixer upper and neither of us has any talent in that department. I can take directions moderately well for almost half a day, at least that's what my 10th grade summer job boss told me at noon on the first day of work as he was firing me, but generally since then if somebody can show me what to do, I'll do it.

My parents came down and unfortunately, for them, it's like a work camp. But they sign up for it. I can't stop them from volunteering despite being well passed the retirement age. They simply can't stand for anything to not be in tip top shape. As much as I have an urge to get swallowed by my sofa, they have an urge to transform the house. My engineer father and I just installed three thresholds (one he custom made), fixed/replaced three leaky faucets, grouted a bathroom, installed a new shower head, put up blinds, repaired two windows, and installed a new toliet seat plus some other things. He had to be stopped from installing a flux capicitor and DeLoren doors on my refridgerator "to go back and find the parts that actually came with this 1960s piece of garbage." or to "stop the aholes that installed this in the first place from doing such a p.o.s. job."

BTW, when I say my engineer father and I, I mean mostly my dad. Sure he'd give me tasks and I'd do them, but then he'd either shrug with the implication my half-assed attempt would be passable--but barely, or roll his eyes and redo it. So most of the time, I would basically play lead nurse to the surgeon, "Flashlight, phillips head screwdriver, no, the phillips head, not the flat one, the phillips head, pliers, wrench. No, that's a level, no that's a chisel, that's a... that's a plunger, I want the wrench, no that's the level... are you fucking with me?"

My mother was off on her own returning duplicate wedding gifts, another of our errands saved for a rainy day and just like all the handy man tasks that rainy day was never coming. My parents seemed to innately know this. And my mom just went about doing stuff we didn't know we needed doing but we were grateful for, for example somehow, without my knowledge or even seeing her do it she mulched our flowerbeds. Like went to Lowes got mulch and mulched. One day I came out and the weeds were gone and it was just there. Wish I could attribute all this to careful poker strategy like thought but I'm just the lucky guy, saying it's better to be lucky than good.

I wanted to say "Stop. Just relax." Sometimes, my wife and I, instead of cooking we might put on the Food Channel, so that tells you about our domestic work ehtic, but when I said, "Mom, Dad, why don't you two stop digging us a wine cellar and watch some Home and GardensTV," it wasn't met with enthusiasm. I'm obvious extremely lucky to have parents like that. They live pretty far away so I don't see them much, but when I do they it's like they are a band of Episcopalians after Katrina trying to rebuild the city starting at our hourse.

Speaking of the storm, after Katrina I helped my father on a ton of things messed up at my sister's house, and that guy has an engine that won't quit. Doesn't matter what the task is, he'll figure it out, he'll know which tool to use and do it in half the time as a professional. That guy will get up at an ungodly hour, I think before the sun rises, and work non stop. I am blessed to have him.

Though this isn't just a brag, imagine growing up with a guy like that and not being able to open up caulk without sealing your eyelids shut. My disinterest in taking things apart or putting them back together again caused a little friction growing up. When visiting Phildelphia, after my freshmen year in college, I told him I wanted to be an English major, and he said, "And what will you be able to do with that? Speak English? No, you need to learn a skill." Then he was pulled away from the Liberty Bell and sternly told to put down the welder's gear and leave the Bicenntenial Crack alone.

Anyway, while I was doing all that work at home... okay... when I was handing my father tools, I was also trying to hit Harrahs because of the bad beat jackpot jumping up over 200k. So we'd work til 8 and I'd head over there at 10. Course, when I would make it over to Harrahs I played like a donkfish. One night I was so bleary eyed on three successive pots I put the wrong amount in, trying to limp when raised, trying to raise but not noticing someone else had already raised for more, and taking three efforts to correctly make a call (probably a bad one).

I'd leave at 4 or so in the morning and my parents would be rolling up at 9 because they were lettting me sleep in. Not to mention writing some WSOP blogs elsewhere whenever tiem would allow. You catch the part where I implied getting swallowed by the sofa passes as a hobby for me, well, I'm not good with a lack of sleep. If I could I'd sleep 10 hours a night. So in no time, I had reverted to an irritable, petulant little brat. Despite my parents getting their Bob Villa on somehow I became a 13 year old punk. Don't know how they put up with me, oh yeah, I do, my own little punk is coming and they are going to savor every little moment of it.

..........Alright, this is getting to be a pretty long post, I'll be back to try and wrap these things up and get to the more interesting stuff, particularily the stories involving the names I dropped.

To Be Continued...

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