Two months of silence!
It’s 8:32PM. I’m sitting in my office where I’ve been for nearly 12 hours – a common tale for the past several months. To my left is a styrofoam plate displaying half-eaten tacos leftover from Monday, reheated, topped with nothing but salsa and cheese, being consumed not out of hunger but because I felt like eating. That and because of how obviously well they pair with the Spanish rioja in the glass to their side. Jim Byrnes is on Spotify, beautifying the room with soulful honest-as-hell blues that too few people in a world of Iggy Azalea care or know about. A huge thunderstorm just passed, its retreat tinting the sky with that wondrous summertime orangey-pink glow that is so nice to finish a day with. It was a rough night dealing with the babies – one of whom was in an “I’m going to cry about everything” mood, and both of whom have learned they’re able to navigate the house on their own accord. My hands are sore from today’s “lunch break” activity – using an axe to smash panels of an old wooden fence that have been sitting in my backyard for two years.
I was going to type “It’s a hard knock life, and all that jazz,” but realized nobody who actually has a hard knock life uses the expression “all that jazz.” So maybe it’s not hard knock. It’s still pretty busy.
I’m working on developing a project that is soon to encompass the majority of my daily work, instead of just consuming all my after-hours. It’s a project I’ve been developing with a lifelong friend for the bulk of 2014, and which few people know about yet. I believe in it whole-heartedly and want so much for it to be a success – but as with any new venture, we both worry. It’s incredibly exciting and equally stressful, and leads to regular late nights of work with wine and tacos and Jim Byrnes (or occasionally Samantha James, Birdy, Hozier or any of the other great artists on my “Jeff’s Random Phat Titties on Toast” Spotify playlist.)
Even though some days my vocabulary would make one think I’m a great candidate for admittance to a mental health asylum or that I serve as some sort of professional expletive dispatcher (that would be a great job), I enjoy every moment. Every day is almost exactly the same, I only leave my house on Saturdays, and I rarely evacuate the clothes I slept in before 4pm. I’m busy as sin running one business, developing another, helping around the house, taking care of two babies and trying to not lose my mind. And that’s perfection. Like that piece of gum Chandler received from Jill Goodacre when he was trapped in that ATM vestibule.
It’s perfection because I work in my house, I’ve got my wife, kids and dogs with me all day, I can pee in my own toilet, and the flowers in my back yard (outside my office window) look amazing. I’m really, really excited to tell the world about my friend and I’s latest venture and know it will be worth all the late night leftover tacos and cheap Spanish wine combinations it’s taken to make it a reality.
I spend a lot of days on the edge of explosion. There’s a lot going on. Sometimes it’s pretty overwhelming. I often feel like I’m being smothered by all my responsibilities. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.