I should have mentioned this earlier

I'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.

So...

Update those bookmarks!

http://shankrabbit.com

I'll see you over there!

What would you say you do here?

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.

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.

So what's wrong with being marginally good at most things?


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]".

So which one do you think is better? To be an expert at one thing, or to be mediocre at most things?

I know exactly where my problems is.


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.

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?

My attention span is like that of lar... uh... huh?


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.

Maybe I'm just not cut out to be an expert.


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?

What are you an expert of?

I 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.

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.

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?

What the hell am I even talking about right now? (like I said... vomit.)

---

So - what's new (I ask as though we're having a two sided conversation)?

---

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.

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".

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.

Oh wait... I am.

I asked, "Honey... are these pecks or man boobs"?

...

... (this is her long pause)

" uh.... pe... well they're like... they're pecks..."

"you sure? they look like tits to me."


"Well yeah... uh... squishy pecks"

I have titties.


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.


That day we signed up for memberships at Golds Gym.

---

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?

After a nice warm up of running at the blazing 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?

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 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...

Whatever... on to me and un-man-titting myself. 80lbs - here we go.

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.

That's when the internal meat-head took over.

"Well, sissy boy - everyone in the gym already saw you lighten the load by 170lbs... what are you going to do? Give up? Hhahahahaha"


"Screw you, internal meat-head. This hurts."

"Yeah, but everyone's watching. You already have tits, if you give up now they'll think you have tits and a vagoo."


"But I don't! I'm all man!"

"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."


"No! I'm huge! Look at me... I can do this! This is easy!"

Which is why I proceeded to do one rep... then two... then ... (oh god this is stupid and this hurts)... three...

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.

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.

"Sissy."


"Shut up."

70lbs, here we go. I slowly grabbed the bars, slow breath in, and extenHNNNNNNNNNGGGGGGGGGG (huff huff) HNNNNNGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG ONE!

"Hahahahaha! Giving second thoughts to the girls only room?"


"Mayb... NO! Shut Up! I was only kidding around - only making it look like that was difficult"

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.

---

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.

250lbs... honestly...

Not a Common Situation

Happy 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.

I never give my wife enough praise.
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.

I'm not overly concerned about it, but I know that any parent who works has that healthy fear.

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.

Sometimes she need the late night too.
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.

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.

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.

Last night she went clubbing.


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.

Check out this hot outfit-

Yeah - I got skill.

I haven't heard the stories yet...

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. 

1. Because I know she's hot and really can't blame the other guy.
2. 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)

I'll get up early every weekend morning!
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!

I'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.

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.

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.

---

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.

My insecurities

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.

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.

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.

So what sparked the thought for this post

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.

...which also means not spending lots of time with my family.

...which also means that I suck as a dad and husband.

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.

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...

...she laughed

That's not funny.

"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."

That's still really not funny and thank you for further rubbing in why I hated telling you to begin with.

---

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.

But are you doing it "right" when you know there are so many things you do "wrong"?

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?

---

Oh... happy Fatherhood Friday! Haven't badged this is a while. This is a community of a bunch of great dads. Go check them out! 

This post is not for the squeamish. It's a poo post.

Disclaimer:

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.

"But why?"

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.

Curious?

Then let's continue.

---

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.

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 Isabella's blog if you're actually interested in the creation part of it.).

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.

Pooping on public potties does not and will not EVER happen. 
("you're kidding, right?")


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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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!!!

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)

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.]

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."

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.

As if that wasn't bad enough - I now have to wipe. Which brings me to another point of why I hate public restrooms.

The toilet paper. 


See, at home - we have quad-layered, double quilted, fuzzy comfy bears who LOVE to caress my ass clean.

Public restrooms have this:

1/2 ply, diamond encrusted, dagger paper - now with NO ABSORBING power.

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.

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...

And the bowl fills... and fills... and... oh shit.

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.

This is a perfect example of why I NEVER poop in public restrooms. EVER!
(and to that little kid... I hope karma pays you a visit someday)

---

("shank... wasn't this about your daughter")


No. Get off my back. It was about pooping. But let's bring it full circle anyway.

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.

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"

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.

Art Swap 2010

So 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.

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.

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).

So here was the painting I did (please excuse the HORRIBLE lighting and cell phone camera shot):

Today I just got my art and holy man was I excited... BEHOLD! A BOX!

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...)

HOLY SHIT, THAT'S SWITZERLAND! WHOO HOO! INTERNATIONAL ART!

Let's get down to getting this open. Cut a little tape here, a little tape there...

Oooooh! Bubbly!

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.)

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.)

So, to my overseas art buddy - you're an awesome artist. Thank you for my new wall art which I will display proudly.