tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-60522258812699355272024-03-19T12:53:59.284-05:00The Code Monkey DaddyHow a child can continually break the build as I try to piece it back together.ShankRabbithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07108050453756230647noreply@blogger.comBlogger68125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6052225881269935527.post-26231533864042076662012-06-14T14:50:00.002-05:002012-06-14T14:50:35.793-05:00I should have mentioned this earlierI'm in the process of moving my entire blog over to a place where I have full control. You know... being the control freak that I am. <br />
<br />
So... <br />
<br />
<strong>Update those bookmarks!</strong><br />
<br />
<h2>
<a href="http://shankrabbit.com/">http://shankrabbit.com</a></h2>
<br />
I'll see you over there!ShankRabbithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07108050453756230647noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6052225881269935527.post-32621372360531809712011-06-04T16:53:00.000-05:002011-06-04T16:53:03.514-05:00What would you say you do here?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh85ZNENHibbfZ6UHUCSelVc4yjON8EPZngPSSuDBovN-VO5rcsaJookO39tEn_6Z04jsekvVnFGcq-AvsrJfonDqeRSl7Uno75n6k5n-jxNZE5gpClSz_rysd4AczmJvMvyrPghfB8bYQ/s1600/chimpanzee_thinking_poster.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh85ZNENHibbfZ6UHUCSelVc4yjON8EPZngPSSuDBovN-VO5rcsaJookO39tEn_6Z04jsekvVnFGcq-AvsrJfonDqeRSl7Uno75n6k5n-jxNZE5gpClSz_rysd4AczmJvMvyrPghfB8bYQ/s320/chimpanzee_thinking_poster.jpg" width="249" /></a>I am all sorts of weirdly butt-hurt right now. I just did two things in a row that have left me with the feeling that I'm not super good at anything; just marginally good at most things.<br />
<br />
You'll have to exclude the fact that my kid thinks that I'm the greatest thing since sliced bread when it comes to this post, simply because she doesn't know any better. She's not quite old enough where she can compare me to all the other dads in the world, and even if she could, she has to think I'm awesome because I'm the only dad she'll ever get.<br />
<br />
<b>So what's wrong with being marginally good at most things?</b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
I guess nothing, but I don't have a specialty. I can sorta run long distances without dying, I can sorta do my job, I can sorta play piano, I can sorta cook, I'm sorta an artist, I can even sorta beat some people at StarCraft II... hell, I can even "sorta" blog. But I don't think there is a single thing in my life where you could look at me and say, "wow... ShankRabbit is so amazing at [insert here]".<br />
<br />
So which one do you think is better? To be an expert at one thing, or to be mediocre at most things?<br />
<br />
<b>I know exactly where my problems is.</b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
I don't practice. Ever. It's not my style. I just pick up random things, give them a try for a few times in a row and say "I can do it.". But I rarely ever focus on it again and again and again. I've never lived or breathed anything. All those sports commercials that you see where people are beating the living hell out of themselves just so they can master their sport? Yeah... that's not me.<br />
<br />
But I frustrate the hell out of myself because I want to be that good at something... so how do I motivate myself to focus on one thing and spend lots of time on it without getting bored with it?<br />
<br />
<b>My attention span is like that of lar... uh... huh?</b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
I get bored easily with repetition, which is pretty much exactly what practice is. Repeating something over and over again until it becomes second nature. Usually if I find myself "practicing" you'll see me hating it in a few months.<br />
<br />
<b>Maybe I'm just not cut out to be an expert.</b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
Should I be ok with the mediocracy in many things? Is that something I should be proud of? Or do you think I should hunker down and actually start on the path of being an expert at something?<br />
<br />
What are you an expert of?ShankRabbithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07108050453756230647noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6052225881269935527.post-56644339945746278682011-01-08T11:03:00.000-06:002011-01-08T11:03:54.043-06:00I feel like vomiting words from my mouth.Happy New Year, all. I know that it was been quite a while since I've dropped it like it was hot here. No doubt you daily crack open your little blog readers and see a big fat 0 next to my name each and every day. Maybe you've even dropped me from your reader list all together.<br />
<br />
The thing is - I don't blame you. I might as well be dead to you. Certainly in the world of the internet, with its constant flow of information, when something lies dormant for more than a week it is presumed dead.<br />
<br />
A fickle thing, this internet. If someone posts too much they're annoying, if they post too little they're dead. What is the appropriate number of times to write a blog post? Once... twice... three times a week?<br />
<br />
What the hell am I even talking about right now? (like I said... vomit.)<br />
<br />
<br />
<hr /><br />
<br />
So - what's new (I ask as though we're having a two sided conversation)?<br />
<br />
<br />
<hr /><br />
<br />
I'm working out more lately - and it is this that has inspired me to tippy tap my fingers over this keyboard - because it is a story that almost brought my wife to piss her pants in laughter.<br />
<br />
It had been a while since I had last been to the gym. 2010 was one hell of a crazy year. Between buying a house to getting promoted at work to writing one of the largest applications I've ever had to do for my side business... there just wasn't much time for "me".<br />
<br />
Well, I knew I was getting a little... um... thick... but it all came to a head about 3 weeks ago. Isabella and I were getting ready to go over to a friends house and I decided that I was going to don a nice turtleneck sweater... one that I know Isabella simply loves because it's a little more fitted than my other clothes. I put on an undershirt, then slipped into this crimson cloth of neck warmth. I put it on... looked down... then looked at Isabella and asked something I probably shouldn't have. Words came out of my mouth as though I were a little self conscious bitch.<br />
<br />
Oh wait... I am.<br />
<br />
I asked, "Honey... are these pecks or man boobs"?<br />
<br />
...<br />
<br />
... (this is her long pause)<br />
<br />
" uh.... pe... well they're like... they're pecks..."<br />
<br />
<i>"you sure? they look like tits to me."</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
"Well yeah... uh... squishy pecks"<br />
<br />
<b>I have titties.</b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgROh6ZbhnD3ETXyzmm4fNEUh3oEdVZU81NX_09PaMpx-vy8-MXuZSbxFysjmd63YVFOi5tN2Idv9v3oR4Ul4ZgRWJgMDGF1pZuTPbeIcLjRmZTP0pF_aHLtOjss9RzgPamKrEOafxb984/s1600/Golds_Gym.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="142" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgROh6ZbhnD3ETXyzmm4fNEUh3oEdVZU81NX_09PaMpx-vy8-MXuZSbxFysjmd63YVFOi5tN2Idv9v3oR4Ul4ZgRWJgMDGF1pZuTPbeIcLjRmZTP0pF_aHLtOjss9RzgPamKrEOafxb984/s200/Golds_Gym.jpg" width="200" /></a>It's one thing to look into a mirror and joke with yourself on how big of a lard-ass you are... but when your wife pauses before answering the manboobs v. pecks question - you know you TRUELY are a fat snack.<br />
<br />
<br />
That day we signed up for memberships at Golds Gym.<br />
<br />
<br />
<hr /><br />
<br />
Fast forward one week from that day. Remember how I said I used to work out? Well I sort of remembered the weights I used to lift then so I figured I'd start there, right?<br />
<br />
After a nice warm up of running at the <i>blazing</i> pace of a 12 minute mile (did I say I was running or walking... I forget) - I headed on over to one of the peck machines (anti-tit machines is how I like to think of them). I sit down and stared at the big stack of weights for a while and started hating the previous meat head to use the machine. Really, jackass? You had to push 250lbs right before I sat down?<br />
<br />
<i>Did I used to do 80? 90? lbs on this machine back in the day? Or was it 100... yeah... I'm huge and ripped it had to have been 100. Since this is my first day back maybe I'll dial it down to a cool 80.</i><br />
<br />
I proceed to take the peg out of the 250 slot, cursing the unknown person before me as I move it up 170lbs of plates.... that asshole...<br />
<br />
Whatever... on to me and un-man-titting myself. 80lbs - here we go.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRjpNI_bicvzTtUQrlJLYK9FOu7guovO043e63SXgRnm5pt2DFfgWXxOHrSjvof4R9Gc7j_Eu5-8Q6BpJFo3o2BKGaeRqFCQgNHDKa4Ps6W5uMHUXZfNU2wi9FZo3vY6yqNf3Sne_SXXE/s1600/peckMachine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRjpNI_bicvzTtUQrlJLYK9FOu7guovO043e63SXgRnm5pt2DFfgWXxOHrSjvof4R9Gc7j_Eu5-8Q6BpJFo3o2BKGaeRqFCQgNHDKa4Ps6W5uMHUXZfNU2wi9FZo3vY6yqNf3Sne_SXXE/s1600/peckMachine.jpg" /></a></div><br />
With a confidence of 1000 muscle men, I grab the bars and give a good push. I'm not sure if it was my confidence or my arrogance which prevented me from realizing the weight was at the top of my limit until I was fully extended. I do know that I had fully extended and had immediately started hating myself as I wanted to cry, quit, and shit my pants all in one fell swoop.<br />
<br />
That's when the internal meat-head took over.<br />
<br />
<i>"Well, sissy boy - everyone in the gym already saw you lighten the load by 170lbs... what are you going to do? Give up? Hhahahahaha"</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
"Screw you, internal meat-head. This hurts."<br />
<br />
<i>"Yeah, but everyone's watching. You already have tits, if you give up now they'll think you have tits and a vagoo."</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
"But I don't! I'm all man!"<br />
<br />
<i>"Looks like it, girly boy. Why don't you lesson the load by another 80lbs. Or better yet, there are some cute pink 5lb weights in the girls only room. I bet they'll accept you over there."</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
"No! I'm huge! Look at me... I can do this! This is easy!"<br />
<br />
Which is why I proceeded to do one rep... then two... then ... (oh god this is stupid and this hurts)... three...<br />
<br />
I think I made it to about 6 before I couldn't do anymore partly because I was exhausted and partly because it felt like I had just torn my titties in two.<br />
<br />
I stood up, got a drink of water, then sat back down for another set. Before touching the peg I looked around to make sure no one else was looking, then moved it up another 10 lbs. 70lbs - this is more manageable.<br />
<br />
<i>"Sissy."</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
"Shut up."<br />
<br />
70lbs, here we go. I slowly grabbed the bars, slow breath in, and extenHNNNNNNNNNGGGGGGGGGG (huff huff) HNNNNNGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG ONE!<br />
<br />
<i>"Hahahahaha! Giving second thoughts to the girls only room?"</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
"Mayb... NO! Shut Up! I was only kidding around - only making it look like that was difficult"<br />
<br />
But it was difficult - and once again I had committed to it - so I had to continue. I had to for the sake of all men in that gym. If I started showing weakness, then I would besmirch the reputation of all the meat heads trying to pick up chicks that day. I couldn't do that to them - they were doing their job so well.<br />
<br />
<br />
<hr /><br />
<br />
The next day I woke up and was reminded of my folly the day before. Reminded by the 1000s of daggers jabbing into my boobicles. That sensation lasted the whole week - every day reminding me what an idiot I am... and what a jackass that guy was before me.<br />
<br />
250lbs... honestly...ShankRabbithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07108050453756230647noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6052225881269935527.post-5340823226257369092010-09-25T08:31:00.000-05:002010-09-25T08:31:23.282-05:00Not a Common SituationHappy Saturday! I'm the fortunate receiver of a child who woke up earlier than I wanted her to. It doesn't bother me, because it means that her and I get to hang out during a time where she's usually a little more cuddly than normal. Lord knows her daddy loves some cuddling.<br />
<br />
<b>I never give my wife enough praise.</b><br />
She really is an amazing and thoughtful woman. Being a stay at home mom, she doesn't really have "loads" of stress. Sure, the child can be a toolbag from time to time, but she doesn't have to deal with the stress of excelling at work so that you don't lose your job. My family is completely dependent on my salary and if I were to lose my job... yikes.<br />
<br />
I'm not overly concerned about it, but I know that any parent who works has that healthy fear.<br />
<br />
Isabella takes good care of me, though. She knows that I have a slightly more demanding job, which usually requires longer hours - sometimes into the night. Whenever that happens she is usually the one who gets up and closes the bedroom door while she tends to the kid while she lets me continue to sleep. It really is a gesture that means a lot to me... especially when I was up until 3am the night before.<br />
<br />
<b>Sometimes she need the late night too.</b><br />
The silly girl rarely goes out by herself. It's not that she can't, it's just that she doesn't want to. She's a big time family girl because that's one thing she never had when she was little. Having all of us together brings her loads of happiness. Often times she is so worried about the "family" portion of life, that she forgets about the "Isabella" portion of life.<br />
<br />
She's a fantastic mom... so much so that all I can say is Niamonster is healthy, smart, compassionate, and coordinated (sometimes) little girl - having a mom that can nurture that is amazing. All to often, though, she's ONLY mom.<br />
<br />
Sometimes I make her go out with friends at night just so she can have a small glimpse at herself outside of the "mom" world.<br />
<br />
<b>Last night she went clubbing.</b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
I first have to brag because during dinner she was pondering what to wear to our friends birthday party at a dance club. We came to the conclusion that we should probably run to Target to get her a new shirt that was "boobie enough" but not too "boobie". But when I got there I started getting really excited about her being a hot piece at the club - so I was on a fast kick to get her a whole new outfit.<br />
<br />
Check out this hot outfit-<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVH0SeXTPlV1BxBEiuy28SpRvk3fBFM_3KcUyT2375MT1w5kOJHty0Es72WbbLHj5qHVjeg-45ljpEPTbT8zsZbWHY_cBhDbcczGDMQzLc_rGQNQkVQIERL0MMANYfVYTP7HfMFeZ3fks/s1600/IMG00311-20100924-2148.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVH0SeXTPlV1BxBEiuy28SpRvk3fBFM_3KcUyT2375MT1w5kOJHty0Es72WbbLHj5qHVjeg-45ljpEPTbT8zsZbWHY_cBhDbcczGDMQzLc_rGQNQkVQIERL0MMANYfVYTP7HfMFeZ3fks/s320/IMG00311-20100924-2148.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Yeah - I got skill.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><b>I haven't heard the stories yet...</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">But from a text message I got last night she had been hit on at least once (I mean... wouldn't you?). What's funny is that most normal guys would probably get jealous if they found out their wife was getting hit on by some creeper at a dance club - but not me. It makes me feel awesome for two reasons. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><ol><li>Because I know she's hot and really can't blame the other guy.</li>
<li>For as much as I tell her how beautiful she is, I know she'll think it's biased. But if some stranger tells her how beautiful she is and flirts with her - that means something. (weird... I know)</li>
</ol><br />
<b>I'll get up early every weekend morning!</b><br />
I can't make her go out. I can't make her want to go out. But I really wish she would do it more because while I really freaking love the "mom" side of her, I don't want her to lose the "Isabella" side of her. I like to make her feel pretty and MORE than an awesome mom. She's a hell of a individual too!ShankRabbithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07108050453756230647noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6052225881269935527.post-54815477507958502012010-07-16T14:38:00.001-05:002010-07-16T14:43:15.061-05:00I'm a sensitive little boy.I'm one of those people who cracks jokes about things that make me uncomfortable or uneasy. The more difficult and challenging the situation, the funnier I become. Wrap that into a poorly timed delivery and often times I come off as a real jack-hole.<br />
<br />
A good example of this was when my wife was about to go under the knife to get a fairly large abscess take out of her. At the time we didn't know what it was... endometrioma, a small alien, or, God forbid, cancer. I liked to call it her little alien love child - and then suggested that next time she keep her legs closed when getting abducted by aliens.<br />
<br />
Now thankfully my wife loves me enough and gets me enough that she actually finds my nervous and poorly timed jokes slightly funny. It's one of the reasons I married such a wonderful woman.<br />
<br />
<br />
<hr /><br />
<br />
However, there are things that I cannot take lightly. Things that I will never crack jokes and I will never be receptive to jokes, laughter, or humor.<br />
<br />
<b>My insecurities</b><br />
<br />
I'm not talking about the insecurity of having a fat ass or a head of hair that makes it look like I'm sporting a 1980s curly trailer mullet... I'm talking about the insecurities that sit on the core of your soul... the ones you know you have but don't want anyone else to see.<br />
<br />
My biggest insecurity is the fact that I have little confidence in being able to classify myself as a good father and/or a good husband.<br />
<br />
You've got to understand that, to me, I suck at playing this game. I'm the poor uncoordinated fat kid that can't catch, can't run, and can't jump - AND always gets picked last in the game of fatherhood.<br />
<br />
<i>So what sparked the thought for this post</i><br />
<br />
As some of you may know, I own my own business doing application development. With assisting around the house while my wife recovers from getting knives jabbed into her, I have had to displace some of the time that I normally dedicate to completing this very large project due in about a week. The time has now caught up to me and I'm in "uh oh" mode... which means I need to be balls-to-the-walls this weekend.<br />
<br />
...which also means not spending lots of time with my family.<br />
<br />
...which also means that I suck as a dad and husband.<br />
<br />
To boot, we were originally going to drive down to Indy to visit some friends for the weekend and I would have been really screwed.<br />
<br />
When I told my wife what had to happen this weekend... she did the thing that you're not supposed to do when I'm explaining that I'm going to have to work most of the weekend... when I'm admitting that I suck...<br />
<br />
<b>...she laughed</b><br />
<br />
<i>That's not funny.</i><br />
<br />
"Because we were originally going to spend all weekend down in Indy... and then since we aren't going I was just expecting that you'd be spending time with us."<br />
<br />
<i>That's still really not funny and thank you for further rubbing in why I hated telling you to begin with.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<hr /><br />
<br />
I don't know why I'm so insecure about it. My kid smiles and my wife hasn't left me. I guess I must be doing something right.<br />
<br />
But are you doing it "right" when you know there are so many things you do "wrong"?<br />
<br />
Oh well, I'll finish my project this weekend and we'll have that much extra money in the bank for it. Maybe I'll buy her something nice. How wonderfully middle class is that?<br />
<br />
<br />
<hr /><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2-UYsiIBnILr3gpozRJ3YQ-Dp2t4aZ_y94wp2JQL6pFRJF1XpCB6DzhJNQV0FoS2DsluuD0CZHWmJgxAVGuasqGOMu4TvGiLgWeta01JVuTwl_NnvmvPVwmMMS1p51vJ6XzIonP34OPo/s1600/ff.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2-UYsiIBnILr3gpozRJ3YQ-Dp2t4aZ_y94wp2JQL6pFRJF1XpCB6DzhJNQV0FoS2DsluuD0CZHWmJgxAVGuasqGOMu4TvGiLgWeta01JVuTwl_NnvmvPVwmMMS1p51vJ6XzIonP34OPo/s320/ff.gif" /></a></div>Oh... happy Fatherhood Friday! Haven't badged this is a while. This is a community of a bunch of great dads. <a href="http://www.dad-blogs.com/">Go check them out! </a>ShankRabbithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07108050453756230647noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6052225881269935527.post-55859336973836967372010-06-18T12:54:00.000-05:002010-06-18T12:54:49.369-05:00This post is not for the squeamish. It's a poo post.Disclaimer:<br />
<br />
This post is not for the feint of heart, it is not for those who cannot and do not find poop or the act of pooping hilarious. If you just got done eating, maybe wait a few hours before continuing on... if you're thinking of eating a Reeses peanut butter cup soon, think about passing on this post... if that chocolate fudgy bar is calling your name right now, I guarantee it won't be if you finish reading this post.<br />
<br />
"But why?"<br />
<br />
Because this post is about poo... and not just the cute little nuggets of gold that my 2 year old drops, but about the rancid death blobs that come sneaking out of mine.<br />
<br />
Curious?<br />
<br />
Then let's continue.<br />
<br />
<br />
<hr /><br />
<br />
Coming up on Father's day, I love taking some time to reflect on who my child is and what she has done for me even though she may not know it or understand it yet. I'm proud of her accomplishments, be it as small as they are to me - I know they are monumental to her and her fervor and determination (and sometimes full on frustration) are things that make me so happy that she is my daughter.<br />
<br />
I also like to take time to look at her and analyze her looks and personality traits that clearly come from me. It's fun to see little pieces of me in her - fun to see that what I have created (well... I guess all I did was plant the seed - check out <a href="http://alookontherandomside.blogspot.com/">Isabella's blog</a> if you're actually interested in the creation part of it.).<br />
<br />
Now that Niamonster is over the age of 2 we have started potty training - and we've found another trait that she clearly got from me.<br />
<br />
<b>Pooping on public potties does not and will not EVER happen. </b><br />
<i>("you're kidding, right?")</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
Public toilets are the devil. They swim with bacteria and viruses from every man-ass that's sat on them. Women don't understand because they "hover". They have this crazy ability to take a deuce and never touch the seat - maybe it's the low center of gravity... maybe it's the hips... maybe it's because men have turds that are the size of small children... I don't know - we just can't hover like the girls.<br />
<br />
Even if I tried - I get stage fright. The fear of having some crazy STD transfered to my butt mounds or other nether-regions, makes me tighten up like a scared squirrel.<br />
<br />
Finally - I hate the fact that other people are in there and are usually listening very intently on what's going on behind the locked and mysterious door number 3. Pooping is my private time - my time to reflect on life, who I am, and what I'm trying to become. Having someone invade that privacy by peeing in the urinal while I'm in there... or... god forbid, sit in the stall next to me, is akin to Voldemort sneaking his way into Harry's mind through Legilimency - only my butt doesn't have the ability to practice Occlumency.<br />
<br />
There was one time that I was forced to make a life or death decision. You see, I have something called Celiac disease. In summary, if I eat anything with gluten (wheat, oat, barley, a few others), it destroys my small intestine. (This is different then gluten intolerance because intolerance doesn't kill, only cause rumbly tummy and discomfort... Celiac is an auto-immune disorder, intolerance is not.) If, somehow, gluten finds its way into my system, my body goes on this crazy flush cycle to get everything out in the fastest and most painful direction.<br />
<br />
We were driving from Indiana to Wisconsin on a return trip home and the start of the trip had a few signs of "uh oh" in my tummy. I thought we would be ok, so off we went. Well - it caught up with me - and my body decided to run the colon cleanse without my permission. So I had two options - shit my pants - or find somewhere in the middle of farm country Indiana. I was a ticking timebomb and my wife (and my pants) were going to be the victims of a terrible nuclear, shit filled fallout. I had no choice... we had to stop at a Walmart that we thankfully found... and I had to... HAD TO!<br />
<br />
So in I rush to the store's bathroom, slam open the door like Flack busts in on CSI:NY only to be punched in the eye balls OF SOMEONE ELSE'S EXCREMENT! AGH! Timebomb, timebomb, NEXT STALL!!!<br />
<br />
Jump out of used up stall one, to the next one - TP... check - turdless bowl... check - quick quick wipe the seat off... oh god - piss on the seat - whatever... wipe if off I'll shower later - drop drawls.... and KAPBLOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOPTPPTPTPTPTPT. (ahhhhhhhh)<br />
<br />
Kids? Voices? Oh shit... uh... uh... don't make a noise... I hear them walk into the first stall, and hear "EWWWWW" (hahaha... stupid kids found the turd bowl - I'd laugh if I wasn't trying to pretend that I was not there.) Then I hear the little shits walk towards my door. [Door is closed, buddy, probably means someone is in there... don't you] {rattle rattle} "What the hell - it's locked" [No shit it's locked genius - someones in here... why isn't he moving away... why isn't he trying the next stall.]<br />
<br />
The next thing I know this little 7 year old kids head is staring at me. STARING AT ME FROM UNDER THE STALL!!! WHAT THE HECK IS GOING ON!!! He smiles, laughs, and walks out of the bathroom with who I can only imaging was his brother. "Hahaha... that dude was totally pooping."<br />
<br />
They never used the restroom - it was like satan called them up from the depths of hell just to walk into the bathroom and torture me... they were there just to stare at me pooping.<br />
<br />
As if that wasn't bad enough - I now have to wipe. Which brings me to another point of why I hate public restrooms.<br />
<br />
<b>The toilet paper. </b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
See, at home - we have quad-layered, double quilted, fuzzy comfy bears who LOVE to caress my ass clean.<br />
<br />
Public restrooms have this:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5rbJ9knlzQzcH2zD00z7m54B_IGIORpn_W0fXRlk4R7huFS9-lXb0duhYSLLoO53LC9gYq_gIBE2l4zdYuZhdj02R8DVOb6v8dQVfgj1EGapH0LhmAGwjeCIgMJmYxesR2i71wsHIW8g/s1600/IMG00190-20100616-1623.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5rbJ9knlzQzcH2zD00z7m54B_IGIORpn_W0fXRlk4R7huFS9-lXb0duhYSLLoO53LC9gYq_gIBE2l4zdYuZhdj02R8DVOb6v8dQVfgj1EGapH0LhmAGwjeCIgMJmYxesR2i71wsHIW8g/s320/IMG00190-20100616-1623.jpg" /></a></div>1/2 ply, diamond encrusted, dagger paper - now with NO ABSORBING power.<br />
<br />
They call it quilted - but those aren't quilts, those are devil marks solely there to remove layers of sensitive skin. And this paper doesn't wipe, it smears... so you have to use over 9000 sheets which I'm pretty sure doesn't remove the poo - it just spreads it across your crack so thin that it LOOKS like you got it all out.<br />
<br />
After using the butt tissue engineered by the lord of hades himself, I stand up - look at the damage (pretty impressive, actually) - and I flush...<br />
<br />
And the bowl fills... and fills... and... oh shit.<br />
<br />
I ran. I ran like a little girl - and I didn't care that the bowl probably overflowed and decorated the floor with my artistic expression. I was done.<br />
<br />
This is a perfect example of why I NEVER poop in public restrooms. EVER!<br />
<i>(and to that little kid... I hope karma pays you a visit someday)</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<br />
<hr /><br />
<br />
<i>("shank... wasn't this about your daughter")</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
No. Get off my back. It was about pooping. But let's bring it full circle anyway.<br />
<br />
My daughter, bless her soul, is the same way. She HATES public restrooms. Cries and screams just like I want to when I am forced to use one. I've never made her use one yet, but my wife (who doesn't quite understand the emotional destruction that public restrooms can cause) will sometimes make her. And, if she's as much like me on this topic as I think she is, is dying a little more inside every time.<br />
<br />
Someday Niamonster will read this and ask what the words "shit" and "ass" mean - because daddy has a potty mouth even though she doesn't know (yet). And then I'll put my arm around her as she looks at me and says, "see dad? you do get me"<br />
<br />
Love you baby girl. Don't ever think you have to force yourself to do what daddy had to do once. I'm always there for you and will always drive you to where you should be when you make a doody - the comfort of your own home.ShankRabbithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07108050453756230647noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6052225881269935527.post-10171176836977584342010-06-02T00:19:00.006-05:002010-06-02T00:38:01.229-05:00Art Swap 2010So a wonderful person (and father) who I've had the pleasure of meeting online, setup this really awesome virtual event called Art Swap 2010. If you're a twitter-maniac (or even if you just have an account) check out the hash-tag #ArtSwap2010.<br /><br />How this worked: You signed up, you were given some random person's name - a different random person got your name - and then you did art and sent it along - and in return you get art.<br /><br />This made me get off my butt and flex a college degree that I haven't really touched in 6 years. (Art degree, you ask? Yes... Art major turned programmer - bask in its glory).<br /><br />So here was the painting I did (please excuse the HORRIBLE lighting and cell phone camera shot):<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA8eLvJIBeSciRE1W09Wxyd_fNN4t2UtZE4-Wjb4MOPcrj7rfODZJY9VHCUyAXE7HoEV6sjBc_CZtSXKoHn5G3_ZumGOks1tsCK48bKf8W6hRzz5wEpV1_tWaH2L7XgNiimzq6SZ6QbsU/s1600/myPainting.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 249px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA8eLvJIBeSciRE1W09Wxyd_fNN4t2UtZE4-Wjb4MOPcrj7rfODZJY9VHCUyAXE7HoEV6sjBc_CZtSXKoHn5G3_ZumGOks1tsCK48bKf8W6hRzz5wEpV1_tWaH2L7XgNiimzq6SZ6QbsU/s320/myPainting.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478045393000753186" /></a><br /><div>Today I just got my art and holy man was I excited... BEHOLD! A BOX!</div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCFbkrjrWtmTFDrVXZAGGylcP57Ibi-DxWZbRA661kzuZCf0nlPIvf9l7CjM8oxEdnWVWI_nB9kaTk5y0YesPVEUnHIMwiYOeLA5bHfD1NQNWgJ0L4KZvGqE1URmXOmCVIuhzfr_sC8PU/s1600/theBox.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCFbkrjrWtmTFDrVXZAGGylcP57Ibi-DxWZbRA661kzuZCf0nlPIvf9l7CjM8oxEdnWVWI_nB9kaTk5y0YesPVEUnHIMwiYOeLA5bHfD1NQNWgJ0L4KZvGqE1URmXOmCVIuhzfr_sC8PU/s320/theBox.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478044581486086498" /></a><br /></div><div>Wait... what's that... CH? Chicago? no... Chatenooga?.... no no... Montana? (they're weird like that)... definitely not... that looks like... HOLY CRAP! IS THAT A COUNTRY CODE? (quick and speedy googley search because I'm geographically retarded...)</div><div><br /></div><div><b>HOLY SHIT, THAT'S SWITZERLAND! WHOO HOO! INTERNATIONAL ART!</b></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvkicb2zyKrexkkFnb5hjagwxiO_ol_nqJfL__4Mqy8v8-8JDooMs_YZHX-kOMFHo-0hDSq53YwQVmqvC2a0QJszOlWBWBlEi_Wd70F8l34ld8uIgR8POigy7N7NzfhWEbMThVQ7zg-nQ/s1600/boxTopOpened.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvkicb2zyKrexkkFnb5hjagwxiO_ol_nqJfL__4Mqy8v8-8JDooMs_YZHX-kOMFHo-0hDSq53YwQVmqvC2a0QJszOlWBWBlEi_Wd70F8l34ld8uIgR8POigy7N7NzfhWEbMThVQ7zg-nQ/s320/boxTopOpened.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478044577095567586" /></a></div><div>Let's get down to getting this open. Cut a little tape here, a little tape there...</div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRDZlg0A-5az2RtaNJWTgXZGIy5-fbBWpieUGppiL_NiSc7hXGuSwRncYaiZD2nwElNdGfKCbnGWdk2BQMVTEc6GSUQbz5UXQufwf-T5IjLR95v-hR38jsyyeVhJkqFSyLAbEdjHjeYAs/s1600/bubbles.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRDZlg0A-5az2RtaNJWTgXZGIy5-fbBWpieUGppiL_NiSc7hXGuSwRncYaiZD2nwElNdGfKCbnGWdk2BQMVTEc6GSUQbz5UXQufwf-T5IjLR95v-hR38jsyyeVhJkqFSyLAbEdjHjeYAs/s320/bubbles.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478044570195020578" /></a><br /></div><div>Oooooh! Bubbly!</div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3Rjla9UwJDuLzG9iZe1zL0pehnP5HhdV8nWNbkLALBcZBhz3DjFgSSiGTcoJhKBHwuNo2nC2sNS9z8ACjEV8dYrydW5zzGQ3XZyEZX6WZNk_kYVG08uDh6cibHPy-E17H67WaMDuN584/s1600/hardCore.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3Rjla9UwJDuLzG9iZe1zL0pehnP5HhdV8nWNbkLALBcZBhz3DjFgSSiGTcoJhKBHwuNo2nC2sNS9z8ACjEV8dYrydW5zzGQ3XZyEZX6WZNk_kYVG08uDh6cibHPy-E17H67WaMDuN584/s320/hardCore.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478044561630151698" /></a><br /></div><div>Wow - this this was really packed well for overseas travel. (What is not evident is the surgical like precision I used with my scissors to get it open without damaging the art.)</div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaNJXQ9j2n-FB2RE881O95fJgfyPqnWKA9IoRG0Sz7ptwNXn-82AyqXnxwoFT0Gady8ik81rMU_zvCSDwXYJnpZvOghYa3PC_JOQYLY7GqKS8s1Cn8F4ulGm1cdvlTh0-OeQiJ5j1ib7s/s1600/painting.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaNJXQ9j2n-FB2RE881O95fJgfyPqnWKA9IoRG0Sz7ptwNXn-82AyqXnxwoFT0Gady8ik81rMU_zvCSDwXYJnpZvOghYa3PC_JOQYLY7GqKS8s1Cn8F4ulGm1cdvlTh0-OeQiJ5j1ib7s/s320/painting.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478044560011634482" /></a><br /></div><div>Whoa! This is amazing. The color... the composition... I wish I was half as good. (please don't scroll back up to compare, it would shame me.)</div><div><br /></div><div>So, to my overseas art buddy - you're an awesome artist. Thank you for my new wall art which I will display proudly.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>ShankRabbithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07108050453756230647noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6052225881269935527.post-7990108906922658642010-03-17T21:01:00.009-05:002010-03-17T21:33:25.873-05:00Another business trip out of the way.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZedYJNha95PsnlQhU-K7WsPjaRpUSDROP59gn3J2Vkh2uTdicWR6XrF8pSi8lebtrcSMfOf3-US9bdvvrzILjg4nLDZnlV2PxARxMrdTAiHznuRz2HJI-tlB1k59kqC_FEVwt-MzuRN8/s1600-h/tie.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 168px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZedYJNha95PsnlQhU-K7WsPjaRpUSDROP59gn3J2Vkh2uTdicWR6XrF8pSi8lebtrcSMfOf3-US9bdvvrzILjg4nLDZnlV2PxARxMrdTAiHznuRz2HJI-tlB1k59kqC_FEVwt-MzuRN8/s200/tie.jpg" border="0" alt="I don't wear ties. Ever." id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5449788897019302178" /></a><br />As I work my way slowly up the corporate ladder, I find myself having to hop in a plane in the name of business more often. First trip was out to Seattle and the second trip was to Vegas.<div><br /></div><div>I love to travel and see new places and absorbing all of the sites and sounds that are not familiar to me. On top of that, I absolutely love to fly. Ever since I was a little wee lad I have been completely fascinated with airplanes and flying. Before my vision went to crap, I wanted to join the Air Force and be a fighter pilot. Alas, I'm blind as a bat, so commercial "fighters" will have to do just fine. </div><div><br /></div><div>There is just one small issue when flying for business. </div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>I'm alone.</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;">Oh I may have a few co-workers with me and I know that I will always have plenty to do while at my destination necessitating my businessness (oh yeah, I just made that up), but when all is said and done, the bed just isn't as warm without my wife next to me and my child relatively close.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><hr /></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbA4GWDsNK68YMY8_88Lx_JwC6kivVXNrUdIMsd-MEsabZrDu0NFSX5FtRWUDFB6OEiPwHeA7LxDSuX1Kb5zEfNFPxsLZOTGwJfuve9bTOFdzYliYD-0JytMZd5DxaLseCt32KiMxVF4Y/s1600-h/The+Telenav+on+Blackberry+Storm+Phone.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 145px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbA4GWDsNK68YMY8_88Lx_JwC6kivVXNrUdIMsd-MEsabZrDu0NFSX5FtRWUDFB6OEiPwHeA7LxDSuX1Kb5zEfNFPxsLZOTGwJfuve9bTOFdzYliYD-0JytMZd5DxaLseCt32KiMxVF4Y/s200/The+Telenav+on+Blackberry+Storm+Phone.jpg" border="0" alt="Actual phone, not actual size." id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5449791245549245794" /></a>Technology is really awesome in how it just explodes. Take for instance that I am writing this blog post while travelling over 600mph at a leisurely 41,000 feet above the very solid earth. I also love the fact that I am and can always be connected to my family, even if it is through a digital medium. <div><br /></div><div>However, it's a double edged sword. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm sitting at a conference and my phone does it's little vibraty thing. I pick it up because I'm in the midst of fighting fires at work and dreading the update from the product manager (or is it project manager... I always forget). But there is no email, there is a message from my wife - it's a picture message. I first read the caption and see "Cheese DaDa" only to see the picture load to punch me in the emotional daddy face. There is my beautiful little girl with the cutest grin.</div><div><br /></div><div>My first reaction is "awwww", but immediately follows the, "Holy crap I miss them." </div><div><br /></div><div>I never used to be a HUGE sappy face, but three things in life have progressively changed that. </div><div>1. Almost getting my head blown off.</div><div>2. Getting married.</div><div>3. Having a child. </div><div><br /></div><div>Since those three things happened I tend to wear a few more of my emotions on my sleeve. </div><div><br /></div><div><hr /></div><div><br /></div><div>Imagine if you will, thousands of alpha males all getting their nerd on, absorbing all the knowledge and information they can... and my sappy ass is fighting back tears in the 10th row. </div><div><br /></div><div>Yeah... it was that awesome.</div>ShankRabbithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07108050453756230647noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6052225881269935527.post-6671662999066161262010-03-12T11:51:00.005-06:002010-03-13T10:13:59.744-06:00I was yelled at by multiple people.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihtKMSpYgQBXTOB7hGgddk6EG_0KB7wYgVrFbsrooNPsPfMBTFRSxHxw0tkrAkfVHbFYeO9qk2mg5UaYIPhHfCxkf-UFgCCPByXraXzQrB5nZlaQ1BzJlS4tMpadfF7wTFrJdloH6VkyQ/s1600-h/boss-yelling.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 183px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihtKMSpYgQBXTOB7hGgddk6EG_0KB7wYgVrFbsrooNPsPfMBTFRSxHxw0tkrAkfVHbFYeO9qk2mg5UaYIPhHfCxkf-UFgCCPByXraXzQrB5nZlaQ1BzJlS4tMpadfF7wTFrJdloH6VkyQ/s200/boss-yelling.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447806847818315426" border="0" /></a><br />I'm going to sound like a broken record here, but I know that I don't post as often as I used to. Blah blah blah work, blah blah blah new house, blah blah blah family. I know you've heard it all before, so unless you think of me as a classic record that you love to spin up on your turn table just to hear that fantastic lick again and again (which I doubt you feel that way), I'll stop talking about it.<br /><br />I look at that more like a Black Eyed Peas song... "I gotta <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">feelin</span>'... " Yup - you're welcome I just put that song in your head for the rest of the day.<br /><br />What I didn't know was that people actually get pissed at me for not writing in my blog, as though I'm doing them a disservice for not keeping them up to date with the on-goings of my life. You know, you could just come over for a beer and experience it. But alas, if reading is what you must do - then who am I to deny attention.<br /><br />Yes... I whore attention.<br /><br /><hr /><br />My belly is full and fat right now. My stomach's dear friend, Alton Brown, from Food Network had a recent episode of Good Eats where he described the science of the tongue, specifically how sodium has this beautiful knack of blocking the bitter receptors on the tongue. It's not wonder he adds kosher salt to all of his yummy sweet treats.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLLZgSr2U1DRg3WyzGPU6n8ffHvnkZ14ldRH1kwsda1LOpeGZk2jUWEMh1jYImpMD7BUZJaehJmtKAGoy3ZJ_25qwMbfLBjwSLyxJyFFC0_GMC8y7TK6oQPzPdXz6UsURsz2Sj3lgZJvg/s1600-h/ftm_bacon-2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 222px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLLZgSr2U1DRg3WyzGPU6n8ffHvnkZ14ldRH1kwsda1LOpeGZk2jUWEMh1jYImpMD7BUZJaehJmtKAGoy3ZJ_25qwMbfLBjwSLyxJyFFC0_GMC8y7TK6oQPzPdXz6UsURsz2Sj3lgZJvg/s320/ftm_bacon-2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5448145697673779074" border="0" /></a><br />His recent recipe included baking your bacon for 30 minutes, then sprinkling a mixture of brown sugar and pecans (combined in a food-pro of course).<br /><br />Needless to say, both Isabella and I just had major food-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">gasms</span>.<br /><br /><hr /><br /><br />I own a house now.<br /><br />How fun to write such a simple plain sentence about a crazy huge experience. I've taken the next step in my life to put myself in the hugest amount of debt ever. I was explaining to Isabella the other night how the house is more expensive then she and the kid put together right now. (I say right now, cause Lord knows the kid is just going to progressively get pricier).<br /><br />I've heard stories about how generations before us never took us loans out to pay for their houses. Yeah, well, houses used to be 10-20k. Now the prices are 10x that so I'd love to see someone who saves up hundreds of thousands. Although, how fun would that be to slap down a suitcase packed with bills.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg04ohRvjodvm9lNNZL0re4hdPRf57gpclUBUi9zY_WXAfVUUDRYt3vg2VtA50M3XD3n5LFuaTauTGII5179IR9UETookDbDiw3ojfDlIYZohyphenhyphen7CmbX5IfI_mawqOPEYCIfwcDYDi7fLvs/s1600-h/orYDLadn2que0hirLhY64DP1o1_500.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 226px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg04ohRvjodvm9lNNZL0re4hdPRf57gpclUBUi9zY_WXAfVUUDRYt3vg2VtA50M3XD3n5LFuaTauTGII5179IR9UETookDbDiw3ojfDlIYZohyphenhyphen7CmbX5IfI_mawqOPEYCIfwcDYDi7fLvs/s320/orYDLadn2que0hirLhY64DP1o1_500.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5448150129863699186" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Do you accept cash? <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Cha</span>-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">ching</span>!<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><hr /><br /><br />I'm leaving for <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Las</span> Vegas on Sunday night. I'm actually pretty scared about it due to the hype that goes along with it. All the movies, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">tv</span> shows, and slogans lead towards the "sin" aspect of the city. Well, I'm not saying I'm an angel, but at the same time I've got my morals and my religion. So you can understand the conflicting feelings I'm having right now of "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">YAY</span> VEGAS!" and "STAY AWAY HOOKERS!"<br /><br />Yeah, I know. All the glam and porn and xxx and gambling is all hyped to the max because it's what sells, and I'm sure it's just a normal city with one block of craziness - but... whatever.<br /><br />I'm going there for a reason though so it should keep the porn off of me. My work is graciously sending me to the <a href="http://visitmix.com/events/">MIX2010 conference. </a>There's going to be a lot of good sessions going on, so I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">ggguuueeeessss</span> I'll stay a little sober.<br /><br /><hr /><br /><br />Until next time... stay beautiful.<br /></div></div>ShankRabbithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07108050453756230647noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6052225881269935527.post-40107543975827716732010-01-18T23:13:00.006-06:002010-01-18T23:59:35.393-06:00Happy New Year - Let's get busy!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfQAlykORfRiqqSgiWgqhR8IT-dq2PXgk4KPpjDfus4-MAqlb942Luy_iTrfu8N5fJjWkpA0jHxQYyhQhT4qXP6eeG9KtAzB9-G1tfFPgBRHKzr7CSaOIEHBKL8vm8a_f8KtnXIHz2B6o/s1600-h/happy-new-year.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfQAlykORfRiqqSgiWgqhR8IT-dq2PXgk4KPpjDfus4-MAqlb942Luy_iTrfu8N5fJjWkpA0jHxQYyhQhT4qXP6eeG9KtAzB9-G1tfFPgBRHKzr7CSaOIEHBKL8vm8a_f8KtnXIHz2B6o/s200/happy-new-year.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5428317125247200018" border="0" /></a><br />I know I'm coming in a solid 18 days late, but Happy New Year!<br /><br />Before I start firing off about the specific thoughts in my head, I would like to take a small moment and go over how you should pronounce the current year. If you have read this somewhere else, please feel free to skip to the next section. However, if you're one of those people who isn't quite sure how to say the current year when speaking to others, please take a moment and indulge yourself in this community service message.<br /><br />We have grown accustomed to saying "Two-Thousand and..." for the past nine years. If you shortened it, I'm sure you've said, "Oh [number]" as in "Oh-nine". This, however, should be erased from your memory for the next 90 years.<br /><br />To start, I'd like you to say out loud (or in your head if you're in the office and people would think you a freak.) (unless they already do... then out loud is fine) (and probably expected)(... freak)<br /><br />1810<br /><br />How did you say it? Probably "Eighteen Ten", which is exactly the correct way of saying it. Let's try another:<br /><br />1910<br /><br />Now how did you say that one? If you said "Nineteen Ten" then you're doing great. Let's do one more:<br /><br />2010<br /><br />This one is tricky. If you said, "Two Thousand and Ten" then I should smack you in your little melon head. Why in god's name would you purposely add 2 extra syllables to the pronunciation of the current year?<br /><br />The correct way to say this year is: "<span style="font-weight: bold;">Twenty Ten</span>". Look at that amazingness! Only 3 syllables and a consistency through the ages.<br /><br />Now you won't look like a colossal douche-bag when you say the date to your friends.<br /><br />You're welcome.<br /><br /><hr /><br /><br />But that really isn't the point of today's post...<br /><br /><hr /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><h1>Let's all beat the crap out of our kids.</h1></span>Straight up!<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDYPsoFsgWvd_IZ9hYBSU6ue4ih8XctyIoQaMTfoCPL6D2RvDjuAb3-Z8b9iDfXgnnDT4IX3e-LGmjO_T2fzR_mq4rP0dyXKkb6N0Cox-sq4ZZLdmtZZW5GXUqCxYhgG1EvEqel1dijj0/s1600-h/6a00d8341c65ff53ef00e550f77fff8833-800wi.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 159px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDYPsoFsgWvd_IZ9hYBSU6ue4ih8XctyIoQaMTfoCPL6D2RvDjuAb3-Z8b9iDfXgnnDT4IX3e-LGmjO_T2fzR_mq4rP0dyXKkb6N0Cox-sq4ZZLdmtZZW5GXUqCxYhgG1EvEqel1dijj0/s200/6a00d8341c65ff53ef00e550f77fff8833-800wi.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5428325654148682658" border="0" /></a><br />Punishment is never a fun topic to talk about, especially with friends. We all have our own ways and our differing opinions on the topic and sometimes it even gets to the level of religion or politics when the discussion comes up in a group setting.<br /><br />I like the generalize the crap out of people (helps my little mind understand oddities), so I've come up with a list (squeee!) of the typical groupings of parents with their ideas of punishment.<br /><br />- The "my child is an angel" parent.<blockquote>No, no your kid is not. All kids are hellions with spacklings of cute. I've seen your kid scream and cry when he doesn't get his way. What you're doing is raising a child who is destined to victimize themselves throughout life and demand that all things should be handed to them while in turn they think that they are flawless.<br />Expert Level: Your child is a full blown narcissist.</blockquote><br />- The "if I ignore it, it goes away" parent.<blockquote>Go ahead, turn the TV up louder. If you can't hear it, it must not exist. Maybe stay at work extra late so you don't have to deal with it when you get home since they'll be asleep. Turn your back in the store and pretend that it's someone else's kid (pretty sure the clinging to your pant leg is a total give-away though). Your child will be lucky if they grow up at all.<br />Expert Level: You leave your kid at the store.</blockquote><br />- The "my child fell down the stairs" parent. <blockquote>Calling DCFS, calling DCFS, coming DCFS - we have a "person" who isn't worth the dirt I walk on. In all seriousness, if you've ever purposely and intentionally hurt your child to the point of injury, consider not being a parent anymore, cause I'm pretty sure I just stopped considering you a human.<br />Expert Level: Let's not go there.</blockquote><br />- The "threaten with no follow through" parent.<blockquote>Now this one I see a lot of, and I understand that you have to pick your battles wisely, but I'm focusing on the parents that ONLY punish this way. Maybe it's the hope that the threat will be enough to properly train a child. Here's a little news flash: It's not. Kids are smart. Wicked freaking smart. And they can totally tell when you're full of shit. Then, they'll start manipulating situations so that you threaten them, and they play "hurt", and then they still get their way. You're training your child that warnings in life don't apply to them.<br />Export Level: "High Voltage" signs excluded your child.</blockquote><br />- The "emotional rage" parent. <blockquote>These are also pretty common (at least when I was growing up it was common). The child (remember, they're all hellions) goes off and does something sassy or stupid that really pisses you off. Then, in the whirlwind of rage you fly off the broom handle you rode in on and unleash the fury of pent-up aggression from all aspects of life through a wooden spoon or a belt or the hand soap in the bathroom.<br />Export Level: Screaming and anger no longer faze your child.</blockquote><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Obviously this is satirical...</span><br /><br />... but I'm sure we've all crossed the borders of some of these here and there.<br /><br />I have this feeling, though, that the general thought of discipline and punishment is becoming more of a taboo and I can't help but feel a little sad about that. Why WOULDN'T you punish your child? To not punish your child for their stupid and out of line actions only exacerbates the pussification of America. I don't know if you've noticed but we've become some pretty hard-core sissies lately.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Humans are stubborn to learn and quick to forget.</span><br /><br />Think about the times in your life when your outlooks and views and actions throughout life really changed. During that period of change, was it emotionally easy? No, probably not. The emotionally and psychological turmoil was, no doubt, the reason for the change. But kids to don't the "hard-knock" life, as they say. They don't have bill collectors knocking down their door, or the lawman watching their every move. They don't have great responsibility to get food on the plate and shelter over the head. They pretty much play, eat, sleep, and poop... and if you're lucky to have an older kid - go to school.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXUG_asD4A0lLuZWE19knMqUNmBIPVBVanSVw02U0ymDVCUsg_OlMGurtpinCVeB58DleFvGc_4t7dOvPbjzttqiYjxa6ozaJ0B3nndJl7qfEg_K5-DdurVnwX2z-L_OB01jcwsmtUTrI/s1600-h/6a01156e5b7d56970c011570756492970c.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXUG_asD4A0lLuZWE19knMqUNmBIPVBVanSVw02U0ymDVCUsg_OlMGurtpinCVeB58DleFvGc_4t7dOvPbjzttqiYjxa6ozaJ0B3nndJl7qfEg_K5-DdurVnwX2z-L_OB01jcwsmtUTrI/s200/6a01156e5b7d56970c011570756492970c.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5428325660606530338" border="0" /></a><br />That is what discipline is for... to, in a small way, create emotional and psychological turmoil in their own heads so that they don't do that dumbass thing anymore. But you have to understand that the turmoil is not going to be something you create, it has to be created in their head so that it burns an image onto their memory. As a parent, what you have to do is create a situation in which that turmoil gets conjured by them.<br /><br />It's age specific too. Any kind of punishment or discipline for a 6 month old is a waste... they don't have the mental capacity to understand any sort of reasoning behind your actions. A full on spanking for a 1.5 year old is pretty worthless because they don't have the mental capacity to understand what the meaning behind the swat is. They can't create the turmoil from the action - all they create from that is fear. But a timeout - a removal of what they want to do - that creates turmoil. Spankings for a 3 year old actually mean something, because they "get it" and why you're doing it.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">But it's not easy...</span><br /><br />I recently gave my 1.5 year old a timeout. And she cried a mournful little wail from the timeout step that she was sitting on. Not only had I removed her from the situation she was in (I believe it was pulling all the DVDs off the shelf to create a little musical tap dance stage), but, to her, I had also abandoned her as I was walking away.<br /><br />I hate that cry. I hate it because I know I'm the one who created the situation for her to feel smitten. But I'll never stop disciplining her for the things she shouldn't do. I would be doing her a disservice and ultimately taking away the opportunity for her to be a better person as she grows up.<br /><br /><hr /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:78%;">Look at me writing like I actually know what I'm talking about. Maybe someone needs to spank me... anyone?... anyone? I need spankings!</span><br /></div>ShankRabbithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07108050453756230647noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6052225881269935527.post-75292281952718147932009-12-09T23:01:00.005-06:002009-12-09T23:19:17.470-06:00One shot should do.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4NCu9qgahmuBLT4rDs_5_lP3RsomQLAB-752JEqDRokDCXvOjlwei1Ic9BKGx7ISH1wO16fnM1S2MjHMQHFXs1MzOiwrKcZUMs3vUSpItXjSNlR8-EASLZ8YbbS41XPJam9lqe9Y_cEI/s1600-h/modern_shooter.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4NCu9qgahmuBLT4rDs_5_lP3RsomQLAB-752JEqDRokDCXvOjlwei1Ic9BKGx7ISH1wO16fnM1S2MjHMQHFXs1MzOiwrKcZUMs3vUSpItXjSNlR8-EASLZ8YbbS41XPJam9lqe9Y_cEI/s200/modern_shooter.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413472420770852850" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbEO_bYoYq5VWKth2yyeRulpgrSGMc6b1CeFxHxLNOACTnGoX0kN3FV2TbmW9AywcAsX9tiYy9OlRZoEf59C5q-IcaMvlNnjvXZhkR9z4YKMrT1M4kbFTflMnJ6FpnPf1kXUVg9sN0nEI/s1600-h/modern_shooter.jpg"><br /></a>I don't drink to get drunk (usually). I usually drink with a purpose other then that. Using it as a muscle relaxant or to mush my mind a little bit so that I don't focus on all the crappy stressful things that have happened at work (or home, who knows). <div><br /></div><div>Does any one just drink alcohol because it's a beverage? Why not just drink juice or milk instead. </div><div><br /></div><div>Someday, when Niamonster is old enough to understand, I think I'll sit down with her and mention that sometimes the reason daddy has a beer IS BECAUSE OF YOU! </div><div><br /></div><div>Did I hear a nomination for the "World's Worst Dad" award in back? Oh, no... that was DCFS. </div><div><br /></div><div>Yeah, yeah. Don't play me out like I'm the bad guy. I'm just saying what we all do. Whether you like your beers or your fru frus, I bet if you have kids you've tossed at least one swig down the gullet to erase the painful ringing in your ear from the crying or whining.</div><div><br /></div><div>Cheers... here's to you!</div><div><br /></div><div><hr /></div><div><br /></div><div>Winter is upon us up here in Wisconsin. I have no reason to complain about it. These United States allow me the opportunity to roam among the 50 where I please without care of visas or passports. It's my own dumb butt that has stayed planted here. </div><div><br /></div><div>So instead of complaining... I say... bring it! </div><div><br /></div><div><hr /></div><div><br /></div><div>I'm installing Windows XP on a VPC and I just saw the "When you insert a floppy, ZIP Disk..." Ha! Awesome. </div><div><br /></div><div>In computer land, the floppy will be to Niamonster what the 8Track was to me, and the ZIPDisk will be like what the BETA video format was. What's a type writer?</div><div><br /></div><div>Christ's sake. I have to stop there. I really am getting old, aren't I?</div><div><br /></div><div><hr /></div><div><br /></div><div>2 weeks until Christmas. Think that's on my mind at all?</div><div><br /></div><div>It's not. </div><div><br /></div><div><hr /></div><div><br /></div><div>I'm going to slowly start blogging here again. I've missed it. I've missed the release and forcing me to be creative. I miss people reading my blog and commenting.</div><div><br /></div><div>I do still read all of yours.... On my phone.... On the pooper. </div><div><br /></div><div>You're welcome for that.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>ShankRabbithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07108050453756230647noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6052225881269935527.post-67833638684696315042009-08-18T15:02:00.004-05:002009-08-18T15:29:13.325-05:00Not All Posts Have to Be Long<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvIhPUhehKF7-pATXi5S4hZRWiH9zPIKHfrVfojf2VPy3dVV2m3MSiHrSQWijxrenMvGTH1PNPA2DiSQyqY1Nbul6RWqjaEo86LMd-NG1otuxksNVXSyhLtn6BFmvStb19eBMPOTiguq0/s1600-h/ChorusLine.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 233px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvIhPUhehKF7-pATXi5S4hZRWiH9zPIKHfrVfojf2VPy3dVV2m3MSiHrSQWijxrenMvGTH1PNPA2DiSQyqY1Nbul6RWqjaEo86LMd-NG1otuxksNVXSyhLtn6BFmvStb19eBMPOTiguq0/s320/ChorusLine.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5371397243531398450" /></a><b>Pffffffft. You call those Jazz Hands?</b><div><br /></div><div>I'm really just passing time right now while I get over the fact that what I've been working on is still "in discussion". </div><div><br /></div><div>Ah, the life of a software developer. Expected to go forth and produce the most amazing piece of software to the exact needs for all clients and managers everywhere and to meet and exceed all expectations. </div><div><br /></div><div>Oh... and get it done before the due date and make sure it contains all of the specifications. You know, those specifications <b>THAT HAVEN'T EVEN BEEN DECIDED ON YET!</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div>Oh yeah. It's that awesome.</div><div><br /></div><div><hr/></div><div><br /></div><div><b>Beep Beep Beep Beep</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div>I've been pondering a "plan B" lately. You know, the "if I wasn't doing this, what would I want to do?" question that we all ask ourselves. I'm a software engineer and I really do love computers and knowing the ins and outs of software development, but really... sometimes the stress is just way more then it should be. </div><div><br /></div><div>I realize that a lot of this stress is self induced while I try to maintain a day job and start up my own business and making sure that I'm a good family man. So would plan B even offer any relief?</div><div><br /></div><div>Ponder. Ponder. Ponder. </div><div><br /></div><div><hr/></div><div><br /></div><div><b>Day Care</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div>Isabella has 99% decided that she is going to head back into the work force. I can tell she's being super strong about the change, but being her husband I know that internally she's conflicted with the goods and the bads. Just because the "goods" may outweigh the "bads" doesn't make the bads any easier to handle. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm proud of her decision - and I told her that the decision was all hers. It's not like we need it financially, but I can also tell that she's starting to get a little stir crazy and wanting to feel more apart of the financial success of this family - as well as furthering her knowledge and expertise in a field that she enjoys. Sewing can only offer so much "success" feeling. There is something to be said about working for a company where you are treated in a way that let's you know you are contributing to the success of the organization. </div><div><br /></div><div>I think she misses that. I'm glad and proud that she's doing what she thinks is best for her.</div><div><br /></div><div>This... however... has introduced us to the world of day care. Since "B", our best friend, godmother, nanny - watched Niamonster when Isabella worked part time at the beginning, and then Isabella being a stay at home mom - we've never had to look around for day care options. But we feel that Niamonster is old enough to start hanging out on her own (well... supervised but not by us) and expanding her social skills without mommy and daddy to always cling to. </div><div><br /></div><div>We'll see how this goes. </div><div><br /></div><div><hr/></div><div><br /></div><div><b>Sucker!</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div>I am pretty excited that this means that Niamonster will be all mine in the morning. Sure, it's great having Isabella around all the time, but having her as a SAHM means that daddy doesn't get much one on one time. With this new situation I'll be getting up with the kiddo, dressing her for the day, driving her to and picking her up from the day care. Hearing all the stories about how good (or bad) she was and what they did during the day. </div><div><br /></div><div>Oh yeah. So awesome.</div><div><br /></div><div><hr/></div><div><br /></div><div>I will for sure keep all posted on how things are going with the day care/work/dad is awesome things in life. </div><div><br /></div><div><hr/></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Day Care Yay! / or / Day Care Nay.</div>ShankRabbithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07108050453756230647noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6052225881269935527.post-76882559174471228722009-08-01T22:52:00.008-05:002009-08-02T00:08:22.707-05:00I Really Freaking Like...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUhfSv-qQxFAGLt_G0OVNaxPxEHHF-5kJ6UaSerhuHjCECdq-VLxC3MGnOL0-TKplVTnG0Patvy-faQSoir8u-aqfOfqdMRD5QbQjEb5KGt87caacHZvsEMmmqplqeBkIvuQb2y3HHsRk/s1600-h/presto_deep_fryer.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUhfSv-qQxFAGLt_G0OVNaxPxEHHF-5kJ6UaSerhuHjCECdq-VLxC3MGnOL0-TKplVTnG0Patvy-faQSoir8u-aqfOfqdMRD5QbQjEb5KGt87caacHZvsEMmmqplqeBkIvuQb2y3HHsRk/s200/presto_deep_fryer.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5365211199225654018" /></a><br />This post is inspired by some homemade french fries that I made tonight which made my mouth do a happy dance. <div><br /></div><div>I thought pick a few things which I really really like... </div><div><br /></div><div>Starting with:</div><div><br /></div><div>I really like my family. There are so many times when we are hanging out and laughing where I almost go into a third person mode and think to myself, "wow... I have the coolest family in the world". It's still really weird to say "family" and associate it with my wife, my child, and myself - instead of thinking of "family" with me as a child. (I have so many more things to write on this subject, but now is not the time.)</div><div><br /></div><div>I really like Fresh Prince of Bel-Aire. To this day I'll still flip it on and laugh my butt off. There is just something about a young Will Smith cracking off the one liners within the confines of a campy sitcom. </div><div><br /></div><div>I really like complex nerdy problems which revolve around networking issues or programming and then solving them and throwing my hands high up into the air and yelping "I'm a Genius!". Although, sometimes I get really crabby when the problem draws itself out.</div><div><br /></div><div>I really like music. All kinds of music. I'll try anything and am of the belief that you can find a music for every situation. This leads me to also loving to create music (though it's been a real dry spell lately). Music invigorates me, drives me, and LOVES to get stuck in my head.</div><div><br /></div><div>I really like hanging out on porches with friends and doing nothing but talking. This is often times made better with a beer or with tea. I'm really simple when it comes to entertainment and conversation and friends is complete rapture for me. </div><div><br /></div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj58pAGv9MmGUAHEZ4CxAmClctpx_kM84PMfIqBtQwwa5eqZoTaiRaidYSsDtguD-VLyV8GqKcdW4V92WGjcMVvMbsi7R91f2FeMhRfih_h-fC7wLiNTBwtU7qmABnj3TmYpjq-IwJ7osA/s200/bumpits.jpg" style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5365219196788780946" /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I really like bumpits. ....</div><div>Yeah - ok, that's a lie. I'm sure I'd have this indescribable feeling to rip it out of someones hair if I ever came across one. </div><div><br /></div><div>I really like Red Robin's Bacon Avocado burger. Isabella and I have discovered our new Red Robin and have come to realize that the food there is way better and the prices way cheaper then the Applebees where we used to go. Ever since ordering the bacon Avocado burger I just can't bring myself to order anything else.</div><div><br /></div><div>I really like fried food. I know it's not good for you and it would make any health conscious person cringe, but the taste... it's sooooo goood. </div><div><br /></div><div><hr /></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Top 3 Things You Really Like.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Ready.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Go.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>ShankRabbithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07108050453756230647noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6052225881269935527.post-91819217257616770372009-07-27T23:29:00.008-05:002009-07-28T00:35:51.089-05:00Meaningful Monday - A Night with ShankRabbit<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigq11660UmZh90eVMMJo2FCSVX2Pk6Py-QKgcuEGUoMKD3GpLFBXwN5dlZSzC0Sw9R01ietnf85ygkNj8ep-YQlnGkMaUNbC_pNJNg5Pnduhq03xvv2tAKZjPMYjlIFfPT9zwNoTYw2JI/s1600-h/no-marketing.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 173px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigq11660UmZh90eVMMJo2FCSVX2Pk6Py-QKgcuEGUoMKD3GpLFBXwN5dlZSzC0Sw9R01ietnf85ygkNj8ep-YQlnGkMaUNbC_pNJNg5Pnduhq03xvv2tAKZjPMYjlIFfPT9zwNoTYw2JI/s200/no-marketing.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363378872800767442" /></a><br />Greetings everyone. It has been a time since my eyes have last gazed upon the tan and blue theme of this blogging system spewing forth words of intended wisdom that more then likely fail into humorous tid bits which, if we were in second grade, you could use against me in a silly little chant as you picked me last for the kickball team. <div><br /></div><div>(ooh... that brought back bad memories)</div><div><br /></div><div><hr /></div><div><br /></div><div>I have my little snifter of brandy (actually it's rum, but saying a snifter of rum sounds like I'm a cheap, Dale lovin', dogs under the porch kind of..... oh... wait... I am.)... I have my little styrofoam cup of rum, sitting in the new location of my office, and feeling the need to let words dribble from my mind onto the keyboard in front of me. </div><div><br /></div><div>Join me, will you, as you meld your mind with mine for a briefest of moments through these words.</div><div><br /></div><div><hr /></div><div><br /></div><div>I haven't been myself lately, and if you're any sort of once a month reader of this blog, you already know that when I'm not "myself" I usually shy away from mediums which allow me to express myself. </div><div><br /></div><div>Most of the times it's not even that I need to ignore this blog, it's just that I don't know how to elaborate on the thoughts in my head since they're all so relatively new to me. </div><div><br /></div><div>I can't really <i>apologize</i> for not writing more often as of late, because really I think it would be better that you say, "Where is ShankRabbit" instead of, "Ugh... Shut up!" Believe me, I'm an extremes kind of guy. It's one or the other... (think they call that bi-polar). </div><div><br /></div><div>(I'm not really.)</div><div><br /></div><div><hr /></div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1Ql7uRYvhyLj4wrQG5W2N2tMLl4lOFj0gLwccpjq7hlovSOUX5gkSMJ3JOEj5KYgVDZrHWRlZ5QnvCDASEZnbKkF7d0gBKkU1SMbuQ7UzociP3ZQrYHUBh-xOQngd1S9df7SAKJfK-q4/s1600-h/sociallyAkwardPeng1.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 175px; height: 175px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1Ql7uRYvhyLj4wrQG5W2N2tMLl4lOFj0gLwccpjq7hlovSOUX5gkSMJ3JOEj5KYgVDZrHWRlZ5QnvCDASEZnbKkF7d0gBKkU1SMbuQ7UzociP3ZQrYHUBh-xOQngd1S9df7SAKJfK-q4/s200/sociallyAkwardPeng1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363375040998425938" /></a><div>So, in the awkward tone that usually presents itself when you meet up with someone you haven't seen in a while, allow me to ask the question I'm sure many of you would ask...</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>"What's new?"</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b>New Locations for Everything</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div>Most recent, my beautiful wife, Isabella (<a href="http://alookontherandomside.blogspot.com/">oh totally check out her blog</a>), decided that we wanted to move a couch (futon to be exact) to a different location in the house. Well... what the heck... if we're going to move a couch, why not rearrange the whole dang house. </div><div><br /></div><div>So... Niamonster's room is now upstairs in what once was the TV room, the TV room has been moved downstairs and has merged with the Living Room, the dining room is no more and is now a sitting area, our office room is now Isabella's work room (sewing and computer), and Niamonster's room is now my office / studio.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Stressful Job</b></div><div><br /></div><div>This is a big reason that I haven't been blogging much. I actually, for the first time in my life, found someone that I struggle to get along with. </div><div><br /></div><div>I've been called a chameleon before, someone who blends in with his surroundings to get along with people. Some people call it fake, I call it meeting people where they are. Chances are it's going to be harder to get someone to meet you where you are at, so it's best just to meet them on their turf instead. </div><div><br /></div><div>I have nerdy friends, I have artsy friends, I have friends who go and get drunk every weekend, I have older friends with 3 grown children, and I have younger friends who haven't even graduated college yet. </div><div><br /></div><div>But there is this guy who I am forced to work with now, who is seriously impossible to get along with. And whether it's because we work in two different offices, or whether I'm threatening to him, I just can't get myself to meet him at his level. </div><div><br /></div><div>Probably because it seems his level is always changing. Oiy. </div><div><br /></div><div><b>Budding Job</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div>Pixel 73 is apparently taking off. We landed out first bigger contract not too long ago and I've been hauling butt to get things done. This is good news and bad news. Good news that the company that I want to someday take into a full time business is taking off, bad news because it requires lots of time. </div><div><br /></div><div>Isabella and I have it worked out pretty well, although some nights, where I have to go to a client meeting, I can we working for 14-18 hours. Oooh wee that can be fun.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Drama Queen</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div>We knew she would get there. We feared the day that her personalization of my genetic disposition would start showing itself through physical interaction. </div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkxXb3GaKvnBYMVEIDeS9nmgMLIhxEMyecF9uonz-7cLPLqqvtQ8gT7Tc5JY_pzvzCuc29MCtUVuP2ZLAjrwrGCWzAfsUkhbmMhz7pJl3Y-GY3llNqVMrHr9xgcSqgvxnCC95jPEGezLo/s1600-h/dramaqueen.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 161px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkxXb3GaKvnBYMVEIDeS9nmgMLIhxEMyecF9uonz-7cLPLqqvtQ8gT7Tc5JY_pzvzCuc29MCtUVuP2ZLAjrwrGCWzAfsUkhbmMhz7pJl3Y-GY3llNqVMrHr9xgcSqgvxnCC95jPEGezLo/s200/dramaqueen.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363379016844872658" /></a><div>Niamonster is becoming Miss Drama. If you've been through this stage then you know. The limit testing, the whining, the indecision of whether you want me there or not, the whining, the... whining... </div><div><br /></div><div>did I mention the whining?</div><div><br /></div><div>We're also reaching the age where she understands, on a very high level, the difference between right and wrong. With that knowledge comes the need for some stern talking tos if she's being sassy. </div><div><br /></div><div>I don't like giving stern talking tos. I'm probably really not going to like full on discipline when she gets older even more. </div><div><br /></div><div><hr /></div><div><br /></div><div>So... that's what I've been up to lately. I'm going to try to get back on the good foot and obtain my regular posting schedule again. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I'll be honest... I did miss you.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>ShankRabbithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07108050453756230647noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6052225881269935527.post-6908631290264734552009-06-29T15:40:00.006-05:002009-06-29T16:36:50.165-05:00Meaningful Monday - Relaxed<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtsd473D4elk6Xhf_oAJCPPn8F1O-F08qpODADpYmvhNgjDVnpsE3a_miiSXyqixAiJ06D4WqDVoacdC6h3FNPDGJybNvYPO7sJlFOFolti3j0WWM8ME1UD596e_yZ3O8bZ4g_oPuF_J0/s1600-h/double-overhand_knot.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtsd473D4elk6Xhf_oAJCPPn8F1O-F08qpODADpYmvhNgjDVnpsE3a_miiSXyqixAiJ06D4WqDVoacdC6h3FNPDGJybNvYPO7sJlFOFolti3j0WWM8ME1UD596e_yZ3O8bZ4g_oPuF_J0/s200/double-overhand_knot.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352852546608915298" /></a><div>I never really realized how much stress and pressure I store in my upper shoulders. Don't get me wrong, I always knew it was there just not to the extent of which was presented to me this past Saturday.</div><div><div><br /></div><div>This is the story of my first professional massage.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><hr /></div><div><br /></div><div>My wife has always wanted me to go in for a professional massage. I think it has a lot to do with the fact that I ask her all the time for back rubs, but due to her weak wrists and dislocated, goofy-assed, double jointed thumbs - the amount of pressure she puts on my muscles is akin to a house fly inadvertently changing its course into my shoulder blade. (ok, that was a stretch, but overexaggeration to prove a point)</div><div><br /></div><div>She finally found a really good deal where it was 50% off at a ritzy little Spa in downtown Milwaukee, and immediately called one if for me. </div><div><br /></div><div>Well, given that it was my first massage I started pondering all the cliche things that could or should happen at a massage from what I've:</div><div><ul><li>Seen on TV.</li><li>Read in articles</li><li>Heard from my sister-in-law (a professional massage therapist)</li></ul><div><b>The Biggest Fear</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div>Ladies, not all men are giant pigs. I tend to think I'm one of the kind that isn't a pig. Thus, my first and ultimate fear was the dreaded <i>boner</i>.</div><div><br /></div><div>Yeah. Lying naked on a warm table with someone rubbing oil all over you while massaging your muscles... you can see how the fear would arise. It started bringing back fears of high-school where the bell would ring and I'd be sporting the semi. But at least in high-school you have the good old binder over the crotch trick to fix that, at a massage you have nothing but a flimsy little sheet. Hell, even jeans in high school helped. </div><div><br /></div><div>Then, what if she's attractive... or worse... hot?! Then what?!</div><div><br /></div><div>"Oh no oh no... maybe this massage thing is a bad idea."</div><div> </div><div>No. No... I was being irrational. I'll be fine.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>The Day Arrives.</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div>So I get there and first of all can't find the front desk... so I wander until this gentle looking lady finds me. She looks like a massage therapist and is talking to me like she's been expecting me. I think to myself, well if my assumptions are correct you will be my massage therapist and I am in no way attracted to you. </div><div><br /></div><div>We walk to the hidden front desk together and I check in. We walk back downstairs and she hands me a clipboard with waivers and information which I need to fill out.</div><div><br /></div><div>After she hands it to me she says, "Enjoy your time with us. Nikki should be right with you."</div><div><br /></div><div>... um... shit... you apparently aren't going to be my therapist.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Ok... ok... it's cool... you won't find Nikki hot either... just fill out the info. Name - oh... this one is easy... Address - cool, another easy one..."</div><div><br /></div><div>A new voice speaks, "Hi, Ben? I'm Nikki"</div><div><br /></div><div><b>OH COME THE "F" ON, REALLY?!!! REALLY CRUEL WORLD?!</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div>Yup. She's hot. Ok... to be fair... she's way cute but not as cute as my wife. And I'm really not just saying that to cover my ass. Isabella saw her and agreed. (We kinda have that open relationship, talk about everything, sort of marriage.) But still, ugly therapist is easier then hot therapist for ANYONE, not just guys... (cough cough) ladies.</div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-he-oEmWY6qX8C4x-Q8fMyT4Dnxqc0OEYN196RogOykvaLzk4jItwSSbEU2QaCNursMPVzoybXRMyWWXByicR0lJxHbprZXnPQMbx1HJ_78g1ArMIaHjgT4m370WghjNQ7hKykEsyDa0/s1600-h/dtv1.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 132px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-he-oEmWY6qX8C4x-Q8fMyT4Dnxqc0OEYN196RogOykvaLzk4jItwSSbEU2QaCNursMPVzoybXRMyWWXByicR0lJxHbprZXnPQMbx1HJ_78g1ArMIaHjgT4m370WghjNQ7hKykEsyDa0/s200/dtv1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352859226455551058" /></a><br /></div><div>So we walk back to my "personal suite", she shows me the shower area. Ooooh. Kohler insane, blast you from all angles, 1 million gallons/second, kind of shower. I'll be sure to enjoy that after the massage.</div><div><br /></div><div>She says, "I'll step out for a second and you can undress to whatever level you're comfortable with." then appends, "naked is perfectly okay." (oh gee thanks for adding that cause I didn't know.)</div><div><br /></div><div>Whatever, buck or go home. So buck I went and slid under the sheets. Then... massage time. I'd say it took about 1.32 seconds and there was no possible way I had any reason to worry about my winky going camping in the bay. Hiking perhaps, but no tents would be pitched. It was just too dang relaxing to even be worried about, what now seems like, such a trivial matter. </div><div><br /></div><div>She did ask when the last time I had a massage... being... never. To which she responded, "I can tell, you're so tense. I don't know how you survive like this you poor thing." Yeah - lets not read into that. (Though I wouldn't be a guy if I didn't.)</div><div><br /></div><div>60 minutes and a whole lot of deep tissue massage and time was up. </div><div><br /></div><div><b>Steam vegetables anyone? Perhaps a steamed ShankRabbit?</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div>I enter the bathroom and turn on the shower. Yes, it really is water from all angles and it is hella-nice. I'm standing and enjoying the complete drowning in water, when I notice a little silver panel on the wall. A little digital readout that was off... and three silver buttons... one bigger one and two smaller ones. </div><div><br /></div><div>You know the red button syndrome that some people have. The one where even though the button is big, giant, and red, and says "Do not push"... you push it anyway? Oh yeah, that's me. </div><div><br /></div><div>There were no labels and I HAD to know what it did. So i pushed the big button. The digital display sprang to life and start flashing numbers from 19 to 109 and bouncing all around in between. </div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkDSJ72cGeSohClhcnl1HG_oxKi0vn-UWLf4CfYFO9A2lTUTHMZ_m-U1CmWVOx-s_kqOrJ2_zcagwNpKi58jUybCVfUQktSiJiBDAFGhnByNBvLsXVFB-1ndeq5WjgwhNdaD4HEc0nFDU/s1600-h/pandf.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 186px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkDSJ72cGeSohClhcnl1HG_oxKi0vn-UWLf4CfYFO9A2lTUTHMZ_m-U1CmWVOx-s_kqOrJ2_zcagwNpKi58jUybCVfUQktSiJiBDAFGhnByNBvLsXVFB-1ndeq5WjgwhNdaD4HEc0nFDU/s200/pandf.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352861744488814050" /></a></div><div>But nothing happened. "Hrm. Hope that wasn't the self-destruct. That'd be embarrassing." Which of course Phineas and Ferb quotes pop into my head with "<span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 19px; font-family:-webkit-sans-serif;">In hindsight, I question the logistics of including a self-destruct button in the first place."</span></div><div><br /></div><div>I walk back under the torrential downpour of water when, 5 seconds later, I hear this insane hissy whoooshy noise from the site of the wall. Oooooh... little silver boxy = sauna. </div><div><br /></div><div>Sweet!</div><div><br /></div><div>Well... it was sweet until it started getting a little too steamy. And too hot. And the little silver boxy thing no longer responded to touching. Those little red numbers changing in no discernible pattern... oooh annoying. I liken the experience to trying to see through glasses when they're all fogged up... only - my glasses were off my head and on the counter. </div><div><br /></div><div>"I hope that thing turns off."</div><div><br /></div><div>It eventually did... AFTER I was out of the shower and pruned up like a... well... a prune, I guess.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Up and Out.</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div>Upon leaving my "personal suite", I walked back upstairs with Nikki... you remember Nikki... that hot massage therapist... so that I could pay. </div><div><br /></div><div>Remember the 50% off? Me thinky there was a computer error. Cause what I paid for was NOT 50% off. </div><div><br /></div><div>But I didn't care. I paid it. I left. It was money very well spent. </div><div><br /></div><div>Isabella's first comment was, "wow... you look like you were just sleeping for 5 weeks straight. </div><div><br /></div><div>Mmmm... definitely need to go back.</div><div><br /></div><div><hr /></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><i>does anyone else laugh at the word therapist? because it looks like the rapist. Nikki, professional the rapist? yes please.</i></span></div><div><br /></div></div></div>ShankRabbithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07108050453756230647noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6052225881269935527.post-36231398502035417362009-06-25T12:59:00.003-05:002009-06-25T13:01:55.295-05:00This would be an interesting movie...<div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDTKiz_wH4H1eKbg3GIHCd_Bk_EUGUtqzTirUSLLT3gkCHjGnNakyhxofKmNZtrtPgvaYaIXXW_N-VP8sjgto1k8k3LBW0HkMSpPlyladF-J0F1vsInbSZLB3joMeoBxFHtmPJ8iq_AmE/s1600-h/pandoraSong.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 162px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDTKiz_wH4H1eKbg3GIHCd_Bk_EUGUtqzTirUSLLT3gkCHjGnNakyhxofKmNZtrtPgvaYaIXXW_N-VP8sjgto1k8k3LBW0HkMSpPlyladF-J0F1vsInbSZLB3joMeoBxFHtmPJ8iq_AmE/s400/pandoraSong.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351326555483563090" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">Braveheart, Film Score</div><div style="text-align: center;">by: Horner, James</div><div style="text-align: center;">on: Star Trek: The Wrath of Kahn</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Album Cover: Titanic</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: underline;"><br /></span></span></div><hr /><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">What if, Pandora... what if?</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>ShankRabbithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07108050453756230647noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6052225881269935527.post-19874259661336182292009-06-22T23:05:00.004-05:002009-06-22T23:22:20.794-05:00Meaningful Monday - My head is swimming.<div style="float:right"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHD8CrldH5ffSUr4CCi-L9kSZT_JOg13kqwVOqn7obBhyphenhyphenGyAd-k_gfxFCkEFhd9Vzm00J7NviTWcdEM6dO2alPHkOe9T3N14V5DhA_GAwEljUtrEnvY7Y35St88zZFXywaLAmQWtuQics/s1600-h/hand-shake.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 151px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHD8CrldH5ffSUr4CCi-L9kSZT_JOg13kqwVOqn7obBhyphenhyphenGyAd-k_gfxFCkEFhd9Vzm00J7NviTWcdEM6dO2alPHkOe9T3N14V5DhA_GAwEljUtrEnvY7Y35St88zZFXywaLAmQWtuQics/s200/hand-shake.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350372918855145826" /><br /></a><div style="text-align:center;font-size:7pt;"><i>so cliche</i></div></div><br />I'm starting this post on Monday so it still counts, even though I'll probably finish it after midnight. I think the starting of it counts. <div><br /></div><div><hr /></div><div><br /></div><div><b>Planning.</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div>Life is a bitch. You hear it all the time and yet no one really takes it to heart until the events in life happen to take a stroll past your house at 3am and start throwing eggs and toilet paper in a trivial and juvenile action that, in the end, doesn't really hurt your life - it just messes it up for a small time. </div><div><br /></div><div>No, don't worry, that was purely a metaphor. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm writing this post standing in my basement on my workbench as half of my servers are cracked open and awaiting the installation of their new operating systems, servers, and development systems. Why am I standing down here at 11pm while everyone else is asleep?</div><div><br /></div><div>Because, as a business, we just landed our first large contract and have been told multiple times that, "if this goes well, we'll be coming back to you again and again." Needless to say they really like our style, but of course words only mean so much in the business world and they are using this first project as a proof of everything I've been talking about. </div><div><br /></div><div>It's a little nerve wracking. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm also in an interesting situation because my 5 year plan had always been to take Pixel 73 LLC to the point where I didn't have to go into work anymore. Where I could just stay home, run my business happily, code what I want to code, and do things my way in the business world. No more answering to the higher ups because I would be my own. </div><div><br /></div><div><b>Shazzam - how about this thought wrench. </b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div>Of course, on top of the clients I already have, I get this client who also drops another potential project in my lap and basically says, "if we get this, we'll need you full time."</div><div><br /></div><div>Whoa... wait a sec... that's not five years from now. That's 5 months from now. What the...</div><div><br /></div><div>See? It's not destroying my life, it's the just wet soggy toilet paper hanging from the limbs of my lifestyle trees. </div><div><br /></div><div><b>So I ponder.</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div>I'm playing out all of the thoughts in my head. Wanting to be comfortable financially, but still wanting to pursue my dream. And of course, until contracts are signed, this is all just mind-slobber. </div><div><br /></div><div><b>Love to hate to love</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div>I have such a love/hate relationship with tough decisions. I hate them because I wish someone would show me 5 years in the future based on each decision. I love them because making the tough decisions makes me a better person... a better dad... a better husband. </div><div><br /></div><div><hr /></div><div><br /></div><div>Oh life... you traitorous whore, you.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></div>ShankRabbithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07108050453756230647noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6052225881269935527.post-68917057676841974842009-06-19T15:44:00.004-05:002009-06-19T16:09:42.639-05:00Fatherhood Friday - She wins.<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhSaRh8DbzQfxx1rI04CxKMa9eFr0Mcm8Hr5oWIMv5XE0NLhJV3iBbKkbs3IdIpyW_3HMN_z1lA4OTzv3JKZlXfMEn_35681xuNTZk1K7Ls36IIyt-HiOS5uO_2llTUgzdRp1NIG6V8ZU/s1600-h/ff.gif"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 124px; height: 125px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhSaRh8DbzQfxx1rI04CxKMa9eFr0Mcm8Hr5oWIMv5XE0NLhJV3iBbKkbs3IdIpyW_3HMN_z1lA4OTzv3JKZlXfMEn_35681xuNTZk1K7Ls36IIyt-HiOS5uO_2llTUgzdRp1NIG6V8ZU/s200/ff.gif" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5349142425545329538" /></a>What's happenin' blog readers? How was your week? Mmhm? Yeah? Good. <div><br /></div><div>I think today is a special Friday because it's the Fatherhood Friday before Father's Day. The day that is all about me. </div><div><br /></div><div>Wait. What's this crap? You don't know what Fatherhood Friday is? BEHOLD! <a href="http://www.dad-blogs.com/">Check out Dad-Blogs</a>. Neat dudes doing dude stuff and writing about it. (Girls are totally allowed too).</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><hr /></div><div><br /></div><div><b>She Was Right</b></div><div><br /></div><div>I hate being wrong. Hate it more then hate itself. However, I've noticed that with less sleep, more work, and more responsibility my cache isn't as big as it used to be. Because of this I've noticed that I tend to be wrong a lot more then I used to. It's a small price to pay for mental efficiency in a mentally hazardous environment. </div><div><br /></div><div>Well, I have to give Isabella some big props because she pretty much made me go to the doctor yesterday... and... wouldn't you know it - I have bronchitis.</div><div><br /></div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhezVaKj-OoJRkf2h_K4ouZcb3Rz8vnhhi4_zm5A3Q-hk3ms5HfFnDke5H69fLHABnUd4_58Dd5qcBw1K73pawgvTsbNEYPjSufP5Wswp2i6vNg6fKMBmLbosE-RCQlqZhMR3g5zgnnNBY/s320/hwkb17_090.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 209px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5349144931292652258" /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Apparently it's bronchitis season. (Like flu season, or deer season... only for shit in my lungs.) And this year has been a fun one with the doctor saying how this kind tends to come back. Well, wouldn't you know that earlier this year I had the exact same symptoms as I did this time.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">So I guess my bronchitis came back for round two. Only this time I'm going to take it down to China-town with some Azithromycin. 5 days of hard core bacteria killing...</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">... and 5 days of the Hershey-squirts. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Damn you side effects.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><hr /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I need a vacation. I need to unplug from the constant blast of coding that happens to flow from my fingers every day and every night. It's my own fault for having the aspiration of owning my own business and living completely and comfortably from that business someday - so that requires a lot of time spent at the computer at night. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">This also leads to some pretty late nights since I don't want to be working when I'm at home and Niamonster is awake. So (obviously coming full circle here), you can see why I've been getting sick more. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I beat myself up, but it's already starting to pay off. Lots of big things in the works and just started a new deal with a new company that will finally boost us to where we need to be. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><hr /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">To all my dads out there - Happy Father's Day on Sunday. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><hr /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">.....</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">......... huh... just kinda seems like a really abrupt end to my post... no closure really... just - "goodbye".</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">... kinda akward, huh.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">...so... </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">kthxbai!</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>ShankRabbithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07108050453756230647noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6052225881269935527.post-53543955560633799702009-06-16T23:45:00.007-05:002009-06-17T00:28:52.774-05:00Wacky Wednesday - Healthy Living (cough cough)<div style="text-align: center;width: 100%; "><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtW-VLwA4GmxHFzuqU7YdERcOUs2miIBPFcGyFhOpvuM9YXljCgMSaCBU3wyc0m6Ls7MLPvmniyurwEvLw_RkRn-DcUiMEROYh-gSHcqxwIaOP_hDgq12HcvcIyehLLabKlQaQzryGuvI/s1600-h/19656.jpg"><img style="text-align: center; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 256px; " src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtW-VLwA4GmxHFzuqU7YdERcOUs2miIBPFcGyFhOpvuM9YXljCgMSaCBU3wyc0m6Ls7MLPvmniyurwEvLw_RkRn-DcUiMEROYh-gSHcqxwIaOP_hDgq12HcvcIyehLLabKlQaQzryGuvI/s320/19656.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348162735528961250" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>I'm done. <div><br /></div><div>I'm done with being sick more then I should be. I can't decide if it's the child or if it's the job or if it's the fact that I had pneumonia once. I try eating healthy and exercises and I still get sick WAY more then I used to. </div><div><br /></div><div>It's annoying and it's ALWAYS respiratory.</div><div><br /></div><div>Bastard little green phlegmballs.</div><div><br /></div><div><hr /></div><div><br /></div><div>Isabella and I started a financial planning class tonight. 13 weeks of instruction to get our asses in gear for making sure Niamonster (and perhaps some future children) are set when growing up. </div><div><br /></div><div>Believe me, we'll instill in them the virtues of making a living for themselves, but I also don't think you can expect a teenager to be able to pay thousands of dollars for college when they can't even keep money in their checking account. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm sure you'll hear more about this in the future with both of our blogs. </div><div><br /></div><div><hr /></div><div><br /></div><div>I asked my wife last night if I needed tickets to the gun show. She was trying to flex for me. It'd be even funnier for you if you knew how scrawny she was. </div><div><br /></div><div><hr /></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheOCe1Q5U2FaHCFZIgih8dpKQ4jt9gcmfhA_MJlsDr_i_YGWNvHDtw584gbfDTzBuSkLv4e2rJIPfWyj26kMftGp7Wg-_ET3DM6gT3iskQ2XDiEEeKM8uyLRdfJDt1lJaXBTKHzd_g6UA/s1600-h/20756.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheOCe1Q5U2FaHCFZIgih8dpKQ4jt9gcmfhA_MJlsDr_i_YGWNvHDtw584gbfDTzBuSkLv4e2rJIPfWyj26kMftGp7Wg-_ET3DM6gT3iskQ2XDiEEeKM8uyLRdfJDt1lJaXBTKHzd_g6UA/s200/20756.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348163089791996658" /></a></div><div>Finally - </div><div><br /></div><div>Interesting stuff going on in Teh... uh... you know that one place that just had elections. (Don't want some crazy ass coming over to my blog and censoring me... or.. whatever they're doing.)</div><div><br /></div><div>I guess I never really understood riots and destroying things to make a point. I mean... you're not really making much of a point at all. </div><div><br /></div><div>What goes through your head?</div><div><br /></div><div>"This election was rigged! Quick! Everyone throw bricks through the windows of local stores!"</div><div><br /></div><div>Cause... that's going to accomplish a lot. Irony sure would set in if the store owner was two blocks down throwing bricks into someone else's window. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'd hate to be a police-person in that state. Get up in the morning knowing you're going to have to get crap thrown at you all day. I mean - I don't agree with what's going on over there at all, but you have to be somewhat sympathetic to the police officers. Could you imagine waking up in the morning knowing full well that you were probably going to get rocks and bricks thrown at you while people try to rip you off your bike so they can burn it. Just because your jacket says "Police".</div><div><br /></div><div>I don't think violence is the answer, but if someone threw a brick at me, you bet your ass I'd crack them in the head with a billy club. </div><div><br /></div><div>Just sayin'...</div><div><br /></div><div><hr /></div><div><br /></div><div>Hope your Wednesday is full of happy, billy club-free moments!</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>ShankRabbithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07108050453756230647noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6052225881269935527.post-29730429175759158652009-06-12T00:00:00.001-05:002009-06-12T00:00:00.338-05:00Fatherhood Friday - Hello End of the Week... so soon?<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.dad-blogs.com/profile/fatherhood-friday.html" mce_href="/profile/fatherhood-friday.html" target="_blank"><img src="http://www.dad-blogs.com/images/stories/ff.gif" mce_src="/images/stories/ff.gif" width="124" height="125" alt="Fatherhood Friday at Dad Blogs" border="0" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Hi Kids. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Welcome to another edition of Fatherhood Friday. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><hr /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuaCQo7iR6eyxuCCwWWK2nInlhDhtmhnhESpWNlpS-abT4cOUHklP3Xyymb3o_HUogNBxfrlR3xx8U3L7e-aWuG45WKaO-sE0JP_JDjl1FKqyQ_14wyYHtcdCWbI0edoIOks5B9u5R0IQ/s200/smallWWW.jpg" style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5346274025358470290" /><div style="text-align: left;">So it's official. As of Monday of this week at 12:14pm I am officially MINI free. Eh - it's kinda sad, but that sadness faded pretty dang quick when I saw how many 0's I had to write down on my deposit slip. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">oooh... that's nice. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">So we've started paying off credit cards and other stupid bills that we've had (oh... the bills). We're a one car family now and the more I think about it, the more it makes perfect sense. Things would be a whole lot different if Isabella had a daytime job (not that being a stay at home mom isn't a job), but she can take me to work every morning and it gives us a good chance to just talk for 15 minutes. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">So many times you find yourself focusing on your child's needs and playing with her (or him) that you just forget to sit and talk. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Fatherhood = selling stuff and spending quality time together.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><hr /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeYctQGNpyDNJrRwxbKRI9im9eC17TXiw76tMejN-pQR8yahyI5q1xOGbmu7TaWirROfVXnaITlKHJKGsw8RAzWU3SeTRQOi6wTRYELgTJSe5jeEYTkVQN1MbL8uw21A0kJ8mnzpSBvdc/s1600-h/torianddean.jpg"><br /><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 97px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeYctQGNpyDNJrRwxbKRI9im9eC17TXiw76tMejN-pQR8yahyI5q1xOGbmu7TaWirROfVXnaITlKHJKGsw8RAzWU3SeTRQOi6wTRYELgTJSe5jeEYTkVQN1MbL8uw21A0kJ8mnzpSBvdc/s320/torianddean.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5346277085191872546" /></a><div>My wife and I watch some odd TV sometimes and one of the odd little shows we came across was Tori and Dean... if you haven't watched this show: do it. </div><div><br /></div><div>It's Tori Spelling and Dean McDermott, and you know something? Yeah... they're actors but they're such normal people. What's more is that Isabella and I are very VERY like them. If you ever are curious as to what our household is like - watch this show. </div><div><br /></div><div>I could talk about it and describe it, but you should just go watch it. It's on Oxygen.</div><div><br /></div><div>Fatherhood = knowing that all dads go through the same stuff.</div><div><br /></div><div><hr /></div><div><br /></div><div>I'm not sure who came up with the phrase "Terrible 2's" but they're full of shit. It starts way before the age of 2. </div><div><br /></div><div>Oh yeah - Niamonster has started throwing cute little temper tantrums and while I'm sure it'll be cute for the next couple of weeks, I'm pretty sure I'm going to start flipping my crab about it. </div><div><br /></div><div>She's has this little thing where she'll just walk over to the rug on our kitchen floor in this sick little whiney fashion and just fall to the floor whenever she doesn't get what she wants. </div><div><br /></div><div>Neat. Can't wait till it gets worse. </div><div><br /></div><div>Fatherhood = patience.</div><div><br /></div><div><hr /></div><div><br /></div><div>Speaking of selling the MINI, one of the biggest things for Isabella and I that always bothered us was that we never had enough money to give lots to charity. My dad works for a company that deals with people who are severly developmentally disabled (an amazing organization: <a href="http://www.blhs.org/home.asp">Bethesda Lutheran Home and Services</a>), Isabella and I have a huge heart for <a href="http://www.maryvilleacademy.org/">Maryville</a><a href="http://www.maryvilleacademy.org/"> Academy</a> since Isabella stayed there for a while given certain things happening in her life.... plus there are other churches and little charities we just want to give to. </div><div><br /></div><div>Well... now that we have a little more padding in our bank it's been really nice to have that available. </div><div><br /></div><div>So - today some fellow online friends made mention of another blogger who has fallen on some series of unfortunate events. Well, the friends got together and collaborated a little fund to help the family out in their time of need. </div><div><br /></div><div>Yes! Our first "random" charity. Yay!</div><div><br /></div><div>Fatherhood = Charity and giving selflessly.</div><div><br /></div><div><hr /></div><div><br /></div><div>Finally, and the biggest part of being a father - </div><div><br /></div><div>I had to go play business tonight and head out with some SVP/VP type people and schmooze. However, that meant coming home late and Niamonster was already asleep. </div><div><br /></div><div>I walked into her room to just see my little girl... and she must have known it was me because she propped her little head up... looked into my eyes... gave me the cutest little tired smile... and layed back down. </div><div><br /></div><div>Uuuuuuh.... I think my heart just melted....</div>ShankRabbithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07108050453756230647noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6052225881269935527.post-51037829615363727192009-06-05T16:18:00.003-05:002009-06-05T16:25:11.444-05:00It's a quick post in the neighborhood.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgktbprbpjKzkwK1PtUqimN6lDuxJl4vX83wcjHsdzI6q8QAKHIuqhp0OeBDo1bj8bR35caOlQfODqG1bfbnbN7YiZFEHgIhyR0xfH2iclC1glhsR0srXD85AdLFxkmYRbIF9VQ8JHaTvM/s1600-h/ff.gif"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 124px; height: 125px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgktbprbpjKzkwK1PtUqimN6lDuxJl4vX83wcjHsdzI6q8QAKHIuqhp0OeBDo1bj8bR35caOlQfODqG1bfbnbN7YiZFEHgIhyR0xfH2iclC1glhsR0srXD85AdLFxkmYRbIF9VQ8JHaTvM/s200/ff.gif" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343956655223283058" /></a><br />My wife is on her way to picking me up. I realize it's early but my head hurts and today is going to be the only nice day this weekend.<br /><br /><div>It's a quick Fatherhood Friday. </div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i>W<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">H</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">A</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">T</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">?</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Y</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">o</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">u</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">d</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">o</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">n</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">'</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">t</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">k</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">n</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">o</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">w</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">w</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">h</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">a</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">t</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">F</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">a</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">t</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">h</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">e</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">r</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">h</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">o</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">o</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">d</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">F</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">r</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">i</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">d</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">a</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">y</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">i</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">s</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">?</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">!</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">T</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">h</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">e</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">g</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">e</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">t</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">y</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">o</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">u</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">r</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">b</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">u</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">t</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">t</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">o</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">v</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">e</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">r</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">t</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">o</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://www.dad-blogs.com">D</a></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://www.dad-blogs.com">a</a></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://www.dad-blogs.com">d</a></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://www.dad-blogs.com">-</a></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://www.dad-blogs.com">B</a></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://www.dad-blogs.com">l</a></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://www.dad-blogs.com">o</a></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://www.dad-blogs.com">g</a></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://www.dad-blogs.com">s</a></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">a</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">n</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">d</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">c</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">h</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">e</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">c</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">k</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">i</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">t</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">o</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">u</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">t</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">.</span></i></span><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><hr /></div><div><br /></div><div>Fatherhood is:</div><div><ul><li>Leaving work early to spend time with your family.</li><li>Sneaking into your child's room at night to stand over their crib and watch them sleep.</li><li>Calling out "Dance" and immediately dropping everything to shake your booty.</li><li>Crying when you <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">inadvertently</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">injure</span> your child.</li><li>Cuddling up to your wife when she needs you.</li><li>Staying up late to finish work after everyone else goes to bed. </li><li>Be willing to give up everything for your family.</li><li>Love them more then yourself.</li></ul><div><br /></div><div>Those are some of the things fatherhood is to me. </div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>What about you?</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div></div>ShankRabbithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07108050453756230647noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6052225881269935527.post-49459874440360481912009-06-04T11:26:00.006-05:002009-06-04T15:50:03.991-05:00Wackey Wedhursday - What?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz2FJkmT7nM4whEqxndFJFLwaM0s6wxhAfb1B-fYcxh3ru7eaFnrSueu9d-8iE5ZqO1xT4x5awRGr0Lv6VNLelC6odpBnndWUahuQJGoA28Ai_z76iR44X9pzQeyMRr1uoj2HTapnuS6w/s1600-h/6a00c2252585da549d00c225275698549d-.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz2FJkmT7nM4whEqxndFJFLwaM0s6wxhAfb1B-fYcxh3ru7eaFnrSueu9d-8iE5ZqO1xT4x5awRGr0Lv6VNLelC6odpBnndWUahuQJGoA28Ai_z76iR44X9pzQeyMRr1uoj2HTapnuS6w/s200/6a00c2252585da549d00c225275698549d-.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343510226757908882" /></a><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Happy Wedhursday</span><div><br /></div><div>Why? Why Wedhursday? Because I started writing this post yesterday and am finishing it today... that's why. So to my online posting persona I am actually transcending the space time continuum and spanning my existence over a time frame which includes both Wednesday and Thursday. </div><div><br /></div><div>And you thought you were just reading a weirdo's blog. </div><div><br /></div><div><hr /></div><div><br /></div><div>Straight up now tell me do you really wanna love me forever (oh oh oh)</div><div><br /></div><div><hr /></div><div><br /></div><div>Now that you have that song stuck in your head... Let's continue and talk about something gross. </div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Girl</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div><div>Nope. Not my daughter. Not some random female. But... <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">that</span>. Call it whatever you want... Aunt Flo, Periodicals, Girl... all the same thing. Well, with the onslaught of Niamonster, Isabella hasn't had to deal with it in the first person, and I haven't had to deal with it in the third person in a very long time. </div><div><br /></div><div>Isabella got preggo sometime in July of 07. From July of 07 until March of 09 we really hadn't had to deal with it. </div><div><br /></div><div>Well... she's back. Can't say I really missed her. </div><div><br /></div><div>Though, for all you guys out there... dealing with the hormonal crazies from pregnancy gives a whole new "gentler" light on the girly-crazies. They just don't seem so crazy anymore. </div><div><br /></div><div><hr /></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">New Domain!</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div><div>Being the dork that I am, I have an entire business class network setup in our house. Domain controllers, DNS servers, routers, switches, etc. You'd think I ran a <a href="http://www.pixel73.com/">small business out of my home or something</a>.</div><div><br /></div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicsQZ1Bui8RkQKHGRvdKT-QCTsZ2WDyU-3J4Q0Humyk54_O5IDGKIFLyqKcqF2qOPc2dmNcH22rwTbwnMPiNvog0eIE0tP865GZVCRm84mvxaGS0vMmabEESdBn9i2Wm0Z80GgkYYWGwo/s200/network.jpg" style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 127px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343576511905698738" /></div><div>Well, with the glorious purchase of 2 new dual 2.6ghz Xeon servers I decided it was time to re-setup the domain since I kinda botched the first one. (Single name domains aren't very friendly)</div><div><br /></div><div>So I stayed up till 2am last night switching things over from my old server to the new ones, and by the time I went to bed I had gotten rid of the B**** domain (starred cause it's my last name... and let's be honest you know I don't write real names here) and started up the tarkus.shankrabbit.com domain. Tarkus meaning "wisdom" in Estonian. </div><div><br /></div><div>Why Estonian?</div><div><br /></div><div>Because I'm weird, that's why.</div><div><br /></div><div><hr /></div><div><br /></div><div>My daughter has taken a liking to dirt. Isabella already wrote about it so you should <a href="http://alookontherandomside.blogspot.com/2009/06/not-oreo-crumbs.html">head over there</a> and read up somes. </div><div><br /></div><div><hr /></div><div><br /></div><div>This weekend can't come soon enough. I'm bushed. </div><div><br /></div><div><hr /></div><div><br /></div><div>Finally, I know I haven't mentioned it much - but Busy-Dad-E, I should be finishing up the song this weekend. You know... the song you won... so long ago. </div><div><br /></div><div>I haven't forgotten. </div><div><br /></div><div>I never do. </div>ShankRabbithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07108050453756230647noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6052225881269935527.post-59725992853644766282009-06-01T00:00:00.001-05:002009-06-01T00:00:02.771-05:00In like Flynn<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiADB5O8eskcWTHPjWmma1jeAywtzVSQ_5GuT8ryUEwCPq1P3A8aKdd6lbKcpqu1-ohMU-jCdIfoBPZ5zuDYx7tPBRJhmQrUdlXpXMa8fRy00Q9BXU73NQ41hxrDTUMt6okrXYvyV3Kqvk/s1600-h/363px-Dr_Nick.png"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 121px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiADB5O8eskcWTHPjWmma1jeAywtzVSQ_5GuT8ryUEwCPq1P3A8aKdd6lbKcpqu1-ohMU-jCdIfoBPZ5zuDYx7tPBRJhmQrUdlXpXMa8fRy00Q9BXU73NQ41hxrDTUMt6okrXYvyV3Kqvk/s200/363px-Dr_Nick.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5342196777904834290" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" font-weight: bold;font-size:24px;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" font-weight: bold;font-size:24px;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" font-weight: bold; font-size:24px;">Hi Everybody!</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" font-weight: bold;font-size:24px;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Miss me?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><hr /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Dogs.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;">I used to be a dog lover. When Isabella and I started get serious she had a wonderful dog named Aria. She was a beautiful Great Dane, German Shepherd mix. Oh yeah... big doggy. I became very fond of this dog while Isabella and I were dating. ( I almost wrote, "while we were dating" except that sounded like Ari and I were dating...) Ari became very fond of me as well. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUUvhyphenhyphenTf0f0zA-ORjabZm9L3M2ASR4vHWmYczHeIlw04oCJYZewWiw46vRLP_CKZ_keFLKTR7MQM4YrfC46QwgYveI1rflEMrU-rNT-MSjA9T8LSlEtG8fIMsZuPriSNUxMk4VogUDWq4/s1600-h/ariJen.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin-right:10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUUvhyphenhyphenTf0f0zA-ORjabZm9L3M2ASR4vHWmYczHeIlw04oCJYZewWiw46vRLP_CKZ_keFLKTR7MQM4YrfC46QwgYveI1rflEMrU-rNT-MSjA9T8LSlEtG8fIMsZuPriSNUxMk4VogUDWq4/s200/ariJen.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5342199022605841010" /></a><div style="text-align: left;">Well... Isabella and I were still finding ourselves and becoming little professionals and were about to get married. Our lifestyle just didn't support having a big giant dog. Especially a dog that needed big open spaces and all we could afford her was a small apartment. We loved her so much that we realized we had to do what was best for her, so we put her up for adoption. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">One. of the. Hardest. Days. Ever. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">There are still days I miss Ari. I know my missing Ari will never come to that of Jen's.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">However, that's not the point of this section. The real point is: <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">We just aren't a dog family anymore.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;">My brother (the middle one, not the one with the blog... he's the eldest... I'm the baby.), married a woman from the Czech Republic. (no... not Czechoslovakia... that's long gone and you'll piss off any Czech native if you say that... trust me, I've had a bruised arm from it). Her brother got married last week and they went to her home to be with him for it. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="float:right;width:201px;margin-left:10px;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj49kV0itvgIwOUkWfAsbIE5vmML9FUeRWrTutso8JYfo_frga0ab8-b_iotZiWVOxMg1TMkdKBmRkyjEECsp9R6CUmDmPpXWnsKkS2FqgCVnvTyfUnXwSNzeligqVn6jvGbzcgR4YCkkQ/s1600-h/dante.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj49kV0itvgIwOUkWfAsbIE5vmML9FUeRWrTutso8JYfo_frga0ab8-b_iotZiWVOxMg1TMkdKBmRkyjEECsp9R6CUmDmPpXWnsKkS2FqgCVnvTyfUnXwSNzeligqVn6jvGbzcgR4YCkkQ/s200/dante.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5342205300728901666" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjJioWwZsLKWLjhJOg191piFttClb2Bhiss-q3FPa-lzKSo308RW2N-Egag30FddDYukh1fl2-PjksY4Md1qD-PJXgFAyeO7OcRQUyZ7HIkNxlD5U4TMmT-vkdwWkPEv_FYoLqZorSFwE/s1600-h/capri.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjJioWwZsLKWLjhJOg191piFttClb2Bhiss-q3FPa-lzKSo308RW2N-Egag30FddDYukh1fl2-PjksY4Md1qD-PJXgFAyeO7OcRQUyZ7HIkNxlD5U4TMmT-vkdwWkPEv_FYoLqZorSFwE/s200/capri.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5342205295668173714" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">They have two dogs, Dante and Capri. Both English Cocker-Spaniels. You can imagine what it would cost to kennel 2 dogs for 8 days. ~$25 a day x 2 dogs x 8 days and you've got about $400. Well, given the times with the economy and the availability of us, they asked if we could dog sit for those days instead. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Sure. Why not?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I like dogs, right? </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">It's been interesting. I feel bad cause my voice has been raised a few more times then I would have liked it. I don't yell, but it is louder. And I feel terrible because Niamonster is so not used to hearing my louder stern voice unless she is doing something drunken monkey like. It's also been interesting because the dogs pee more the Niamonster does, which means getting up at 4am again. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Then there are the hardwood floors and the barking while Niamonster is trying to sleep. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I wish we would have had a video tape running the other night. Jen and I were eating upstairs and Niamonster was acting like a complete numbnuts and crawling all over everything. So the dogs are trying to snatch food away from us, Niamonster is crawling behind the couch, then knocking lamps over, then the dogs are chasing her, Isabella and I were trying to get a hold of everyone with bar-b-que sauce dripping down our hands.... oiy... it was a mess.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">It's been fun being able to help my brother and sister out and fun watching the dogs... but man... we just aren't dog people anymore.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><hr /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">I can't begin to tell you how many times I wrote "dong" while writing this. Heh... dong watching.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>ShankRabbithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07108050453756230647noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6052225881269935527.post-1539276923205772182009-05-22T11:26:00.003-05:002009-05-22T14:33:05.376-05:00Fatherhood Friday - Parents are helpless.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwmpBecqdBZxRivkLmzAcYI3eKI_fu7KnLi2S0ATH5RX-FdUcOpclhPgiSoTrEZxIr8yczxOsiaA5S7cNQgRTpOYJIYgll2aeyRnMGjg_NIlpTVyshFjNsEGZG9BC5qLEQxpdgR-CzwYU/s1600-h/ff.gif"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 124px; height: 125px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwmpBecqdBZxRivkLmzAcYI3eKI_fu7KnLi2S0ATH5RX-FdUcOpclhPgiSoTrEZxIr8yczxOsiaA5S7cNQgRTpOYJIYgll2aeyRnMGjg_NIlpTVyshFjNsEGZG9BC5qLEQxpdgR-CzwYU/s200/ff.gif" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338685721354549538" /></a>Happy Fatherhood Friday all my fellow dads and mom. Let us raise our hands in the air and let the world smell our pits because we all know we shower less now that we have kids. <div><br /></div><div>What's that? You don't know what Fatherhood Friday is all about? Then head your butt over to <a href="http://www.blogger.com/www.dad-blogs.com" target="_blank">Dad-Blogs</a> and check it out. (Girls are allowed in this fort.)</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">You. As a Parent. Are helpless. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div><div>And I think it's why we panic so much about our children. Apparently panic is an appropriate replacement for not being able to control our little beings. Try as we might to be the "cool and laid back" parents that you see in the movies, every little step in the wrong direction, or bonk on the heads leaves our little hearts to go, "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">OHAGHNODON'TGETHURT</span>!".</div><div><br /></div><div>It's the heart strings that are fused to that little <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">miniature</span> flesh-bag. No matter what goes on in life you never want them to feel pain, never want them to struggle, never want them to fail. But of course the only way to learn and get better at something IS by failing. </div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Some people take it way too far.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div><div>You know those people - the "build a fence around my kid" kind of parents. They're usually really judgemental too. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Niamonster</span> was toddling around Target the other day. She slipped and landed on her butt, let out a little cry of frustration, and got back up. I looked up and saw a lady glaring at me like, "how could you let your child fall?".</div><div><br /></div><div>Really lady? Really? Pecker off.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">I can only imagine it gets worse.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Niamonster</span> is only 1 right now so what do I have to worry about? Her falling on her butt... bonking the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">enormously</span> large <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">bobbly</span> head into things... falling down stairs... etc.</div><div><br /></div><div>But what about when she's a teenager? Creepy guys on the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">internet</span>? Creepy guys on the streets? Stupid boyfriends trying to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">smooze</span> her pants off? Broken hearts? Good grades? Personal image?</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Oiy</span>... I'm worried about how much I'm going to worry.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">How do I relax?</span></div><div><br /></div><div>Well... my faith helps. Raising her to make smart decisions will help. I want to be able to trust her 100% as she grows up. That's easier said then done because I'm not going to be with her all the time as she gets older. Where do I draw the line between trust and smart parenting? Can you full trust a 14 year old?</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">For now... she can bump.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div><div>I'll let her fall. I'll let her bump her fat little melon. When she gets older will I still allow her to get bumps and bruises so she can grow and learn? </div><div><br /></div><div><hr /></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Is it just me or is parenthood just filled with hypothetical questions that can't be answered until the situation happens?</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">(</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small; font-style: italic;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">jesus</span> being a parent is so damn fun)</span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>ShankRabbithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07108050453756230647noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6052225881269935527.post-83481959963121381942009-05-21T10:04:00.004-05:002009-05-21T10:09:57.371-05:00Introducing BabyK<div>This is a special Thursday post. <div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center; ">I'd like you all to meet:</div><div style="text-align: center; "><br /></div><div style="text-align: center; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold; ">BabyK</span></div><div style="text-align: center; ">Born May19th.</div><div style="text-align: center; ">7lbs. 4oz.</div><div style="text-align: center; ">22in long.</div><div style="text-align: center; "><br /></div></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgySp3-JgkdR2-8wfnBl6lzDvL8W5r1jVFCqcyZXOSGdoOxShvTMJZxDRf6MWHLQJLRnKrITRXWCsKR9vzhmGgPlj-W0d5VNU0EKIEFLyh5ygxf6KyHsOKKwy9gQ6mkhyS6sKOQLjIwBB4/s1600-h/kena1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgySp3-JgkdR2-8wfnBl6lzDvL8W5r1jVFCqcyZXOSGdoOxShvTMJZxDRf6MWHLQJLRnKrITRXWCsKR9vzhmGgPlj-W0d5VNU0EKIEFLyh5ygxf6KyHsOKKwy9gQ6mkhyS6sKOQLjIwBB4/s320/kena1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338293777380768098" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">Is a perfect mash of her dad and mom.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7039nWi4ZloMuHRxVOcEA6qXMupTiMgNSVMonWEmSX048KNB_kwM_Oqi9JFMatWioU7rjfvLR6TJpbu9tLbq_0HnglSb_5asgdObm2U9AUdHs8woYUfdeGrZmG4ZHqowG9u_aAJQu6Sw/s1600-h/kena2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7039nWi4ZloMuHRxVOcEA6qXMupTiMgNSVMonWEmSX048KNB_kwM_Oqi9JFMatWioU7rjfvLR6TJpbu9tLbq_0HnglSb_5asgdObm2U9AUdHs8woYUfdeGrZmG4ZHqowG9u_aAJQu6Sw/s320/kena2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338293775377204562" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">That bink-bink is normal size. She's that small.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgURZELobGyIUFUNHHNl9B8SBq6PJmQc8r0zE9ZLuvOf3Q9YXCrCtLc96rnxmtE6Db9fiH0o2WlWYL-h02-u0_2dsxPR4dNJGq81_OUvaBtQGBljftkDZ9XZia9DDjUStnbv2mmevzNSY8/s1600-h/kena3.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgURZELobGyIUFUNHHNl9B8SBq6PJmQc8r0zE9ZLuvOf3Q9YXCrCtLc96rnxmtE6Db9fiH0o2WlWYL-h02-u0_2dsxPR4dNJGq81_OUvaBtQGBljftkDZ9XZia9DDjUStnbv2mmevzNSY8/s320/kena3.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338293755618378818" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">Isabella holding BabyK</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>That is all.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>ShankRabbithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07108050453756230647noreply@blogger.com4