Getting Under Control

Every ATM in the universe has at least four people waiting. From the back of the queue, I can see the hayseeds puzzle over these Mysteries of Modern Technology, fingers poised over buttons, lips curled in concentration...oops, spit out the card, better start from the top. "Hey Ma! Do we need stamps?!"

My blood percolates at a low temperature. The slightest incompetence, pushing back my task-completion time, drives me fucking batty. I've never spent longer than 45 seconds at an ATM machine. I've never stood in line behind anyone who's ever managed to break that magical barrier.

I'm the guy who finished his exam first, hit the lecture hall door at a full run and never looked back. I'm the guy who--too loudly--prompts the movie theater ticket lady as she puzzles over a Kennedy half-dollar, "It's a fucking half dollar! You know, fifty cents!" I have no patience for ineptitude, for dawdlers. None.

It's a genetic thing, matriarchal. My mother is a jangling bundle of "hurry the fuck up." At its most basic, she and I are people who can't stand to watch people do things at a much slower pace than we know we could do it.

I am non-confrontational, exceptionally so, a fact I consider to be to my occassional detriment. But in these particular situations, I'm capable of a high level of assholery.

********************************

Speaking of confrontations and demanding people, I gotta tell this story, even though it has absolutely nothing to do with the thread of this post. But it's funny.

First, you have to know my Mom doesn't take shit from anybody. She's a high-powered and successful businesswoman and she didn't get there by appeasing dickheads. She's also very demanding and a picky eater. So when she orders her Carl's Jr. hamburger "well-done, dry, with pickles only" (yeah, gag), she wants exactly that. One time, sitting at the pick-up window, she reached into the bag to ensure the food was prepared to her specifications. It wasn't, and she raised a voice in protest, to which the cashier/food handler, who was apparently not having such a good day herself, replied,

I DIDN'T COOK THE FUCKING HAMBURGER!

Which is a riot in and of itself, but the kicker is my Mom, shocked as she was, meekly put the burger back in the bag and drove off sheepishly.

I love that story. Back to our regularly scheduled pablum.

********************************

The problem is that my recent run of poor results, with its attendant frustration, has allowed that impatience to seep into my poker game. It's something I've had to learn, something I've had to fight, ever since I began playing. Lessons were costly. I don't know the answer, but I don't have the inclination to sit and figure it out, so I'll just check 'all of the above' and hope for the best.

It's causing me to play differently. It's causing me to play badly.

*********************************

I got dumped out of two tourneys last night. The first, the $20 MTT on Stars, when my flopped set of Queens fell to A8o, who caught his flush on the river. The second, a $20 two-table SnG, when my A9 got cornholed by A2.

This kinda shit is nothing new. I've lost hands every way a person can lose them lately. Last night, I got my money in when ahead and lost. It's gonna happen. There are actual percentages that tell you how often. Deal with it.

Don't deal with it and you end up throwing pillows, slamming screen doors and generally acting like a four-year-old. Don't deal with it and you end up making calls just because you're pissed off and, in some morbidly curious way, want to see the re-raiser's AA, just so you can bitch a little more about running into AA AGAIN. Don't deal with it and your game loses its solid foundation and you find yourself puzzling over obvious choices just because it seems like no matter what you do, it's gonna be the wrong move. Don't deal with it and your confidence, your decision-making ability, your game and your bankroll go straight into the toilet.

You know...er...as...an example.

**************************

How am I dealing with it? By playing Omaha8, of course. Stepped away from my Hold 'Em torture chamber last night and dove into a .50/$1 NL O8 game. drizz joined me, despite the fact he was already involved in a drive to the Final Table elsewhere on Stars, which might explain why it was five minutes before he realized we were playing No Limit.

I can't believe how much better I felt after just a short amount of time there. Being that it's not my best game, I concentrated harder. I revelled in the different strategy and tried to play as best I could. I dropped half my buy-in, thanks to not hitting my draws. But I wasn't playing like a complete ass. I tripled up my remaining stack when I scooped a pot with bottom set ("You've got some 'nads!" --drizz), when I made a perfect read on my two opponents--put 'em both on drawing to the low--and pushed in on the turn. I knew I loved that Jack when it hit the River. And so I did.

It was refreshing. It was illuminating. A full inhale after a month of gasping for air (after being repeatedly kicked in the solarplexis). No, I didn't win a lot of money. But I played good. I played right. I played patiently.

It's a work in progress. One O8 hand isn't gonna cure what ails me. But I've noticed that the frustration is fleeting. I don't bathe in it, fondling my self-pity. I don't wake up in the morning obsessing about bad beats or donkey plays. I was immediately able to put it behind me at the O8 table.

So why am I carrying that baggage when I sit back down at the tables? Why do I dredge it up at the most inopportune time?

Good questions. I'll let you know what I find out. Soon as I get out of this fucking ATM line.