When I was a grade school, my teacher took us to the Discovery Center in Boise. It was one of those “hands on” museums where kids get the chance to learn up close and personal that science in not only fun, but potentially messy enough to get you kicked out of a “hands on” museum.
We loved the place. It was a place that naturally led to running and screaming – even ten year old boys' favorite activities – and it gave me a chance to live out some of my early-nerd fantasies of doing what I assumed to be real scientist type activities, stuff like building an arch out of blocks, or knocking down rows of dominoes while blowing giant soap balloons while digging a sandbox for bolted down plastic dinosaur bones.
Scientists live an awesome life.
One of my favorite parts of the “museum” was the “lift simulator” which is a fancy name for a super powerful vacuum set to blow out enough air to hold a ball in midair. We used this highly sensitive scientific device to perform several serious experiments about the effects of highly pressurized air on our faces.
Through an accident that the experts agree was bound to happen at any place that gave kids ready access to science the Discovery Center closed. Well, after 17 years, I've finally found what they did with the lift simulator.
It's in our local Target's mens' room, working as the most incredible hand dryer I've ever seen.
This gave me a welcome distraction because I was at Target to buy my wife a nursing bra.
They say when you become a parent your whole world changes and they couldn't be more correct, or more vague. I really thought they meant that the minute I looked into those black little eyes I'd be a real adult, complete with a hedge fund and a basic knowledge of fuel-injected engines.
In reality I got told to go to the women's underwear section of Target.
Twice.
Because I got the wrong kind the first time.
As a new father I'm doing a lot of things that College Steve would never do, picking little dried flakes of poop of another human being for example. I didn't want to do those things, but I am a daddy, and the thing needed to be done, so I just did it and it wasn't all that bad.
I figured buying a nursing bra would be one of those things.
It was still that bad.
I'm now convinced there will never be a time in my life where I will feel comfortable in the lingerie section of a store. I am even less comfortable asking a real live human female which bra I should get my wife.
To be entirely honest, Target is lucky that I felt more uncomfortable stealing than I did walking back and forth in front of the check stands with my purchase hidden beneath a pack of diapers waiting for the one check stand with a middle aged man (because the middle aged man working at Target can judge no one) to open up.
There are other ways I've changed as well though. For example, I can't listen to country radio anymore.
I've always been a fan of the deep, heart-felt, family oriented lyrics that country music offers. Nowadays however, I can't listen to any song about fathers, children or dogs without tearing up.
Yesterday I heard “Enter Sandman” by Metallica and wept like a child.
It just would have been nice if some one, rather than saying “Your life will change,” had told me “You are going to turn into a giant boob.
Speaking of boobs I'm not even going to get into how those have changed for me.
Lets just say I caught a clip of “The Girls Next Door” and all I could think about was food storage.
So all in all I've been changing in more ways faster than I have since puberty. And just like puberty, I'm tired, cranky and smell bad. But – just to run this analogy into the ground – just like puberty, I'm embarking a fascinating adventure into a new time of my life, complete with new experiences, new heartaches and new pants.
Only this time, I'm losing hair, rather than gaining it.
Steve Shinney is a new dad, which he's learning changes a man more than being a graduate, a missionary and an eagle scout all put together. Comments go below. That hasn't changed.
Leaf me alone
We've truly had a storybook fall here in Utah this year. Full of warm weather, beautiful colors and various little pumpkins on everybody's door step.
Now however, with no more baseball to watch and my mother-in-law in town, I've found myself having been relieved of a lot of my former responsibilities. Basically all I do is sit around getting more and more freaked out by the baby and occasionally raking leaves.
I'm glad for the job. It's good honest work with nothing to show for it after a week. It's like shoveling snow without the half-finished snow fort.
Beyond that, in a way, it feels like raking leaves is a way for me to connect with those who have raked before. There is something about gathering dead plant parts that ties the generations together.
Except the dillhole with the leaf blower. When you use a leaf blower you're not connecting with the past, all your doing is using an over-sized hair drier to put your leaves on someone else's yard and pretending the wind did it.
That's it. Geek on.
Steve Shinney is just happy he wrote something.
Now however, with no more baseball to watch and my mother-in-law in town, I've found myself having been relieved of a lot of my former responsibilities. Basically all I do is sit around getting more and more freaked out by the baby and occasionally raking leaves.
I'm glad for the job. It's good honest work with nothing to show for it after a week. It's like shoveling snow without the half-finished snow fort.
Beyond that, in a way, it feels like raking leaves is a way for me to connect with those who have raked before. There is something about gathering dead plant parts that ties the generations together.
Except the dillhole with the leaf blower. When you use a leaf blower you're not connecting with the past, all your doing is using an over-sized hair drier to put your leaves on someone else's yard and pretending the wind did it.
That's it. Geek on.
Steve Shinney is just happy he wrote something.
I have, however, decided that I'll love him
As a man who could transform from a carefree turd to father at any moment, I'm spending a lot time dealing with stuff I'm not used to: like breast-pumps, onesies and my own feelings.
I've also found myself thinking very seriously about things I never thought about before. Here is just a sampling of the kind of stuff I can't stop obsessing about.
What to call the boy.
I'm not talking about a name. We've been pretty decided on Grant for a while now.
Although now that we're to the point where we're telling random strangers that this is our choice, I'm starting to doubt it. Everyone we've told so far has responded the way: “Oh that's so cute.”
Listen ladies. There is not a man on the planet who wants his firstborn son to have a “cute” name. We want names to be solid, strong, respectable and most importantly, easy to spell.
If one more woman tells me “Grant” is cute, I'm changing it back to my first choice, “Bothor the Destroyer.”
I'd like to get a dude's opinion on the whole subject but no guy has asked yet. Guys just aren't too concerned about this kind of thing.
There are seven-year-olds out there that I still don't know what to call.
Anyway, back to my point, I don't know what to call my son. As in I'm not sure what to refer to him in an offhand remark. Nothing seems right. Buddy, is too common. Boy is too condescending. Buckaroo is too long. Skippy is hopefully going to be his little brother's name. Right now I'm thinking Captain, after two of my greatest heroes: Captain America and Captain Crunch.
Whether or not to fart in front of the child.
This is a big one for me. Before I got married, one of my biggest (as it is for all guys, don't lie to yourselves ladies) concerns was what I would do with all my gut gas after I got hitched.
My wife and I however have a deal about farting. I can do it whenever I need to, and if she ever had to break wind (which of course she hasn't yet, because she's a girl, but you never know) we can make fun of each other as much as we want, but we never speak of it with another soul.
Kids, have no sense of such honorable arrangements.
I don't need the lady at the Best Buy to come up to us as a family and have the following exchange happen.
“Is there anything I can help you with?”
“Thanks ma'am but I think we're alright,”
“Are you sure, you've been playing our display Playstation 4 for six hours.”
“Yeah, I know I'm just testing th–”
“Daddy made a stinky in the car.”
“That's OK Grant, she doesn't need to know this.”
“He made the air taste like meatloaf.”
Can I make up imaginary friends for him?
People always talk about the imagination of a child like it is truly magical, and can give birth to a thousand unique and lively creatures.
Really, kids can't come up with crap.
I remember my imaginary friend. He was a one foot tall boy who looked just like me name Joey. From age 2 to 8 that was seriously the best I could come up with.
Grant needs better than that. I'm thinking a dragon who speaks with a pirate accent and shoots marshmallows out of his nose.
That beats a stupid 1 foot tall kid any day.
What words should I stop using.
Unless Street Fighter or a wireless network is involved, I usually have a pretty clean volcabulary. But still, we live in a different world than the one I grew up in, and my son will not be considered spunky for calling is friend a “frickin' retard” or a “Dirty Scotsman.”
I'm trying to come up with more fatherly phrases to use. So far all I got is “Holy Muffintop.” and “What the soggy burrito?”
As you can see, I have a lot of work in front of me. Fortunately I have a wide selection of multi-sided dice that make most problem solving a lot easier.
Geek on.
Steve Shinney is currently operating on four hours of sleep a night. The rest of the time is spent lying awake, thinking about what action figure he should buy his son first and apologizing to imaginary friends.
I've also found myself thinking very seriously about things I never thought about before. Here is just a sampling of the kind of stuff I can't stop obsessing about.
What to call the boy.
I'm not talking about a name. We've been pretty decided on Grant for a while now.
Although now that we're to the point where we're telling random strangers that this is our choice, I'm starting to doubt it. Everyone we've told so far has responded the way: “Oh that's so cute.”
Listen ladies. There is not a man on the planet who wants his firstborn son to have a “cute” name. We want names to be solid, strong, respectable and most importantly, easy to spell.
If one more woman tells me “Grant” is cute, I'm changing it back to my first choice, “Bothor the Destroyer.”
I'd like to get a dude's opinion on the whole subject but no guy has asked yet. Guys just aren't too concerned about this kind of thing.
There are seven-year-olds out there that I still don't know what to call.
Anyway, back to my point, I don't know what to call my son. As in I'm not sure what to refer to him in an offhand remark. Nothing seems right. Buddy, is too common. Boy is too condescending. Buckaroo is too long. Skippy is hopefully going to be his little brother's name. Right now I'm thinking Captain, after two of my greatest heroes: Captain America and Captain Crunch.
Whether or not to fart in front of the child.
This is a big one for me. Before I got married, one of my biggest (as it is for all guys, don't lie to yourselves ladies) concerns was what I would do with all my gut gas after I got hitched.
My wife and I however have a deal about farting. I can do it whenever I need to, and if she ever had to break wind (which of course she hasn't yet, because she's a girl, but you never know) we can make fun of each other as much as we want, but we never speak of it with another soul.
Kids, have no sense of such honorable arrangements.
I don't need the lady at the Best Buy to come up to us as a family and have the following exchange happen.
“Is there anything I can help you with?”
“Thanks ma'am but I think we're alright,”
“Are you sure, you've been playing our display Playstation 4 for six hours.”
“Yeah, I know I'm just testing th–”
“Daddy made a stinky in the car.”
“That's OK Grant, she doesn't need to know this.”
“He made the air taste like meatloaf.”
Can I make up imaginary friends for him?
People always talk about the imagination of a child like it is truly magical, and can give birth to a thousand unique and lively creatures.
Really, kids can't come up with crap.
I remember my imaginary friend. He was a one foot tall boy who looked just like me name Joey. From age 2 to 8 that was seriously the best I could come up with.
Grant needs better than that. I'm thinking a dragon who speaks with a pirate accent and shoots marshmallows out of his nose.
That beats a stupid 1 foot tall kid any day.
What words should I stop using.
Unless Street Fighter or a wireless network is involved, I usually have a pretty clean volcabulary. But still, we live in a different world than the one I grew up in, and my son will not be considered spunky for calling is friend a “frickin' retard” or a “Dirty Scotsman.”
I'm trying to come up with more fatherly phrases to use. So far all I got is “Holy Muffintop.” and “What the soggy burrito?”
As you can see, I have a lot of work in front of me. Fortunately I have a wide selection of multi-sided dice that make most problem solving a lot easier.
Geek on.
Steve Shinney is currently operating on four hours of sleep a night. The rest of the time is spent lying awake, thinking about what action figure he should buy his son first and apologizing to imaginary friends.
I'm sorry I don't update more
Dear Grant,
This is your father. It's about a month before you are born. If we end up changing your name in the next couple of weeks, just stick Joseph or Abel or whatever we went with. Unless it's Dennis. Then I'm just sorry.
It is still weird for me to think of you as real person. Because once you are a real person in my mind, then that means I'm a real father, and I don't think either of us are ready for that.
That's the main purpose of this letter. I want to let you know upfront that I'm sorry.
I'm sorry that I'm going to mess up pretty much everything that I try to do for you.
I'm sorry your first diaper is going to be on backwards, your first bottle will be Oval-tine and that your first bath is going to be the scariest event in either of our lives.
I'm sorry that I won't have an in depth answer for a lot of your questions and will often have to say something broad like “Because the prophet says so,” or “Because your mom's Chinese.”
I'm sorry that you're going to have eat my cooking.
I'm sorry that every embarrassing story about you is going to end up on the Internet.
I'm sorry that you're whole life people will ask you where you're from. If you end up looking totally Asian, except the massive goatee at age ten, I'm doubly sorry.
I'm sorry I'm not cool and won't be able to teach you how to be cool. I'm not good at foot ball or basketball or fixing cars or talking to girls. But if being cool ever requires some one teach you Dungeons and Dragons or how to say dinosaur names, I'm your man.
I'm sorry we can't have a dog. It's your mom's fault, but I'm still sorry.
I'm sorry that sometimes, when I think about you, and all the responsibility and changes that you represent, I get overwhelmed and have to put my head on my desk and just think about pie.
I'm sorry I'm going to mumble a lot and scare your friends. When you guys get older, you'll discover I'm hilarious.
I'm sorry I have to let doctors stab you with big needles and make you cry. I promise that it's for your own good and I'll buy you ice cream if you're a big boy.
I'm sorry I'm just a computer programmer, not what little boys dream their dads are, like a baseball player, an explorer or a robot.
I'm sorry about your Grandma Shinney. She was like that when I met her.
Mostly I'm sorry that you and I are both flawed human beings and as such will never be able to truly see eye to eye. I'm sorry that this, combined with the pride and stupidity our gender endows us with will keep us from having the relationship that we really want to have with each other.
I'm sorry that we'll both feel like there's nothing we can do about it.
I'm sorry for every awkward silence that may be endured.
I'm sorry for any angry words that may be said.
When we do finally get past all of this dumbness, I'll be sorry we didn't do it earlier.
And I'm sorry about any scares on your head that you're mother won't explain but just glares at me when you mention. You're probably going to be very slippery.
I'm sorry I always end my letters to you with my college catch phrase.
Geek On.
Steve Shinney is your father. He really does try heard, even if you can't tell. He hopes people will leave comments below.
This is your father. It's about a month before you are born. If we end up changing your name in the next couple of weeks, just stick Joseph or Abel or whatever we went with. Unless it's Dennis. Then I'm just sorry.
It is still weird for me to think of you as real person. Because once you are a real person in my mind, then that means I'm a real father, and I don't think either of us are ready for that.
That's the main purpose of this letter. I want to let you know upfront that I'm sorry.
I'm sorry that I'm going to mess up pretty much everything that I try to do for you.
I'm sorry your first diaper is going to be on backwards, your first bottle will be Oval-tine and that your first bath is going to be the scariest event in either of our lives.
I'm sorry that I won't have an in depth answer for a lot of your questions and will often have to say something broad like “Because the prophet says so,” or “Because your mom's Chinese.”
I'm sorry that you're going to have eat my cooking.
I'm sorry that every embarrassing story about you is going to end up on the Internet.
I'm sorry that you're whole life people will ask you where you're from. If you end up looking totally Asian, except the massive goatee at age ten, I'm doubly sorry.
I'm sorry I'm not cool and won't be able to teach you how to be cool. I'm not good at foot ball or basketball or fixing cars or talking to girls. But if being cool ever requires some one teach you Dungeons and Dragons or how to say dinosaur names, I'm your man.
I'm sorry we can't have a dog. It's your mom's fault, but I'm still sorry.
I'm sorry that sometimes, when I think about you, and all the responsibility and changes that you represent, I get overwhelmed and have to put my head on my desk and just think about pie.
I'm sorry I'm going to mumble a lot and scare your friends. When you guys get older, you'll discover I'm hilarious.
I'm sorry I have to let doctors stab you with big needles and make you cry. I promise that it's for your own good and I'll buy you ice cream if you're a big boy.
I'm sorry I'm just a computer programmer, not what little boys dream their dads are, like a baseball player, an explorer or a robot.
I'm sorry about your Grandma Shinney. She was like that when I met her.
Mostly I'm sorry that you and I are both flawed human beings and as such will never be able to truly see eye to eye. I'm sorry that this, combined with the pride and stupidity our gender endows us with will keep us from having the relationship that we really want to have with each other.
I'm sorry that we'll both feel like there's nothing we can do about it.
I'm sorry for every awkward silence that may be endured.
I'm sorry for any angry words that may be said.
When we do finally get past all of this dumbness, I'll be sorry we didn't do it earlier.
And I'm sorry about any scares on your head that you're mother won't explain but just glares at me when you mention. You're probably going to be very slippery.
I'm sorry I always end my letters to you with my college catch phrase.
Geek On.
Steve Shinney is your father. He really does try heard, even if you can't tell. He hopes people will leave comments below.
Doe, a deer, a visiable deer
I've been super stressed lately, not just about work, church and my broken xBox, I been largely consumed by the fear that I won't be a good father.
I mean, I've failed every fish I've had to take care or and kids need a lot more than flakes of food (although maybe fish do too and that was my problem all along).
Then suddenly, in a moment of clarity that brought the deep joy only an ice cream man can bring, I realized that I'll do just fine.
I'm ready to be a dad, have been for years.
I can see deer while I drive.
That may not sound like much to some of you but if you think about it, I'm spotting brown animals in a brown field that are only alive because they're good at hiding from a vehicle doing 65. I think that makes me pretty freakin' awesome.
Growing up, I was in awe of my father and his ability to see deer while he was driving. He could be working his way through bad traffic, on a rainy day, with four kids in the back seat fighting over the rules of punch bug (and for the record there are no punch backs, ever) and he could still see and point out every deer along the way as well as get a count of the points on the antlers.
Or at least, that's how it seemed to us in the back. I was pretty busy back where I was sitting. I had sisters to bother, books to read, barf to hold in. I didn't have time to be looking out every time my dad said he saw something. If I did that, believe me, no one would have gotten punched.
So rather than look up from my work, I would humor my old man and give him a sincere, “Oh yeah, I can see them too.”
Of course, this could only last for so long. Even at the age of seven, I felt the need to compete with my father, so I would start looking for deer myself, hoping to point them out to him, before he had the chance to do so. The problem I couldn't see the deer when my dad was pointing at them. I didn't have a chance on my own.
Not to be discourage, I tried a new tactic: lying. I would say that I saw deer when really all I saw was a long and boring stretch of road separating me from the cable at my grandma's house. I figured the worst that could happen would be my dad would tell me that those weren't deer, but rather rocks. Instead however, he'd nod and say, “Oh yeah, I see them too.”
Once I realized I could say there were deer where there weren't I started “seeing” more and more exotic animals. Elk, bears, zebras and giant sloths became common sights between our house and the grocery store.
This went on for years, me blatantly lying through my teeth and my dad dutifully saying “Oh yeah, I see it too.”
It was a good system. I liked it I still remember the day all this changed.
We were driving to grandma's and as we were cresting a hill halfway between home and the Idaho border. It was just about sunset, as we were just cresting a hill and heading down into a small gulley, when my dad pointed off into the sunset and said “there's a herd of seven deer over by those rocks.”
I don't know what possessed me to look when by these time I had been just faking it for years. But for some reason, I looked where my father had motioned and what I saw rocked my world forever.
Deer.
Holy crap, I thought to myself. There really are deer. Dad hasn't been lying all these years. He really can see animals from the car. He's like some kind shaman or deer-related Jedi.
It was officially on now. I had a teenage ego to maintain. I couldn't be worse than my dad at something. He was old. I dedicated every car ride through the wild expanses between Idaho town to scouring the country side for deer.
Still despite having the advantages of younger eyes, not being distracted by driving and being hyped up on Slurpee syrup, I never saw anything until my dad pointed it out. Everyone once in a while we'd see something at the same time, but those were always stupid things like rail road crossing, so it didn't really count.
Even after I started driving myself, I kept my eyes peeled for deer. It wasn't until years of living on my own and driving for hours to visit family that I got to the point where seeing deer became a common place occurrence.
I hardly ever ride in the same car as my father anymore. I've never really had the chance to show him that I have followed in his strange, slightly OCD footsteps. I don't know, but I like to tell myself that he knows anyway, and that he's proud of me.
I'm looking forward to the time, only a few years away now, when I'll be riding with my son somewhere, and off in the distance I'll notice a deer drinking from a shallow stream.
I'll point, and with wisdom passed down from generations in my voice, I'll say “There's a deer.”
And he'll respond. “Oh yeah, I see it.”
Geek on.
Steve Shinney is a full fledged deer related Jedi. Deer related comments can be left below.
I mean, I've failed every fish I've had to take care or and kids need a lot more than flakes of food (although maybe fish do too and that was my problem all along).
Then suddenly, in a moment of clarity that brought the deep joy only an ice cream man can bring, I realized that I'll do just fine.
I'm ready to be a dad, have been for years.
I can see deer while I drive.
That may not sound like much to some of you but if you think about it, I'm spotting brown animals in a brown field that are only alive because they're good at hiding from a vehicle doing 65. I think that makes me pretty freakin' awesome.
Growing up, I was in awe of my father and his ability to see deer while he was driving. He could be working his way through bad traffic, on a rainy day, with four kids in the back seat fighting over the rules of punch bug (and for the record there are no punch backs, ever) and he could still see and point out every deer along the way as well as get a count of the points on the antlers.
Or at least, that's how it seemed to us in the back. I was pretty busy back where I was sitting. I had sisters to bother, books to read, barf to hold in. I didn't have time to be looking out every time my dad said he saw something. If I did that, believe me, no one would have gotten punched.
So rather than look up from my work, I would humor my old man and give him a sincere, “Oh yeah, I can see them too.”
Of course, this could only last for so long. Even at the age of seven, I felt the need to compete with my father, so I would start looking for deer myself, hoping to point them out to him, before he had the chance to do so. The problem I couldn't see the deer when my dad was pointing at them. I didn't have a chance on my own.
Not to be discourage, I tried a new tactic: lying. I would say that I saw deer when really all I saw was a long and boring stretch of road separating me from the cable at my grandma's house. I figured the worst that could happen would be my dad would tell me that those weren't deer, but rather rocks. Instead however, he'd nod and say, “Oh yeah, I see them too.”
Once I realized I could say there were deer where there weren't I started “seeing” more and more exotic animals. Elk, bears, zebras and giant sloths became common sights between our house and the grocery store.
This went on for years, me blatantly lying through my teeth and my dad dutifully saying “Oh yeah, I see it too.”
It was a good system. I liked it I still remember the day all this changed.
We were driving to grandma's and as we were cresting a hill halfway between home and the Idaho border. It was just about sunset, as we were just cresting a hill and heading down into a small gulley, when my dad pointed off into the sunset and said “there's a herd of seven deer over by those rocks.”
I don't know what possessed me to look when by these time I had been just faking it for years. But for some reason, I looked where my father had motioned and what I saw rocked my world forever.
Deer.
Holy crap, I thought to myself. There really are deer. Dad hasn't been lying all these years. He really can see animals from the car. He's like some kind shaman or deer-related Jedi.
It was officially on now. I had a teenage ego to maintain. I couldn't be worse than my dad at something. He was old. I dedicated every car ride through the wild expanses between Idaho town to scouring the country side for deer.
Still despite having the advantages of younger eyes, not being distracted by driving and being hyped up on Slurpee syrup, I never saw anything until my dad pointed it out. Everyone once in a while we'd see something at the same time, but those were always stupid things like rail road crossing, so it didn't really count.
Even after I started driving myself, I kept my eyes peeled for deer. It wasn't until years of living on my own and driving for hours to visit family that I got to the point where seeing deer became a common place occurrence.
I hardly ever ride in the same car as my father anymore. I've never really had the chance to show him that I have followed in his strange, slightly OCD footsteps. I don't know, but I like to tell myself that he knows anyway, and that he's proud of me.
I'm looking forward to the time, only a few years away now, when I'll be riding with my son somewhere, and off in the distance I'll notice a deer drinking from a shallow stream.
I'll point, and with wisdom passed down from generations in my voice, I'll say “There's a deer.”
And he'll respond. “Oh yeah, I see it.”
Geek on.
Steve Shinney is a full fledged deer related Jedi. Deer related comments can be left below.
I also suck at badmitton.
Rather than go on and on about how awesome I am at stuff, I figured I should come clean and let you guys know that there are a few things that I'm not so good at. Some may say, that I may even suck.
The plan is to get all this crap out of the way in one shot. Next time I'll get back to talking about how I could totally punch a camel in the face if I had the chance.
Thinking of myself as an adult: I'm 27. I've lived on my own for nine years. I've voted in three presidential elections. I've graduated from college, gotten married and am currently sitting less than three months away from being a father. I have met every requirement for being a real adult that this country has ever come up with and done so with style.
And yet, when I look in the mirror, I don't see a paunchy guy with a receding hair line. I see a dude who, with a couple months hard training, could still have a career as a professional wrestler.
There is something in the back of my head that says “Anyone who checks all the stalls for Captain Hook, before he can do his business, is not a grown-up.”
I don't like working adult jobs, I don't like paying adult mortgages, I even buy cereal without a toy inside, therefore, according to how I remember the Pythagorean Theorem, I cannot be an adult.
QE-freakin'-D.
Gardening: I always figured I'd be really good at gardening. It is, after all, nothing more than, playing in the dirt, then waiting followed by eating. All three activities that I excel at. The problem is gardening also requires getting plants to grow, something I apparently suck at.
It's not all my fault. I do everything I'm suppose to. Plants just hate me. I think it all goes back to second grade when I tried to grow a seed in a paper cup. Instead of water I would pour orange juice on mine.
I guess that's some kind of cannibalism to them.
Making the decision of when to go to the bathroom: I honestly cannot count the number of important life events that I've only half paid attention to, because I really had to pee. I still have no idea what my doctor said I should do about this rash I got for this very reason, and it's been four months.
Savoring: I'm really bad a slowing down and enjoying my food. I don't know what it is, but I have some primal need to eat my food before anyone takes it. I wasn't raised by wolves, but I would go over there for dinner sometimes, so I guess I may have picked it up there. I don't know.
Taking medicine: I don't mean I'm like a little kid or a pet or my sister in that I have physical difficulty swallowing pills. Ever since the day I accidentally wolfed down a whole Jolly Rancher, getting an aspirin has been easy peasy. I just never think to take them.
I'll be laying there with a major headache, wishing that I lived in a video game where there where magic substances that I could take and my pains would just go away.
Then my wife will offer me an Ibuprofen and I'll be confused what the gross piece of candy if for.
Finishing columns: You have no idea how many columns I've got half written on my hard drive. I have column ranging in topics from String Theory to my very strong opinion on butt-lint. And yet I never seem to fin–
Geek on.
Steve Shinney apologizes for ending with metahumor. It's the Internet, which means I have a meta quota to fill. Comments can be left below.
The plan is to get all this crap out of the way in one shot. Next time I'll get back to talking about how I could totally punch a camel in the face if I had the chance.
Thinking of myself as an adult: I'm 27. I've lived on my own for nine years. I've voted in three presidential elections. I've graduated from college, gotten married and am currently sitting less than three months away from being a father. I have met every requirement for being a real adult that this country has ever come up with and done so with style.
And yet, when I look in the mirror, I don't see a paunchy guy with a receding hair line. I see a dude who, with a couple months hard training, could still have a career as a professional wrestler.
There is something in the back of my head that says “Anyone who checks all the stalls for Captain Hook, before he can do his business, is not a grown-up.”
I don't like working adult jobs, I don't like paying adult mortgages, I even buy cereal without a toy inside, therefore, according to how I remember the Pythagorean Theorem, I cannot be an adult.
QE-freakin'-D.
Gardening: I always figured I'd be really good at gardening. It is, after all, nothing more than, playing in the dirt, then waiting followed by eating. All three activities that I excel at. The problem is gardening also requires getting plants to grow, something I apparently suck at.
It's not all my fault. I do everything I'm suppose to. Plants just hate me. I think it all goes back to second grade when I tried to grow a seed in a paper cup. Instead of water I would pour orange juice on mine.
I guess that's some kind of cannibalism to them.
Making the decision of when to go to the bathroom: I honestly cannot count the number of important life events that I've only half paid attention to, because I really had to pee. I still have no idea what my doctor said I should do about this rash I got for this very reason, and it's been four months.
Savoring: I'm really bad a slowing down and enjoying my food. I don't know what it is, but I have some primal need to eat my food before anyone takes it. I wasn't raised by wolves, but I would go over there for dinner sometimes, so I guess I may have picked it up there. I don't know.
Taking medicine: I don't mean I'm like a little kid or a pet or my sister in that I have physical difficulty swallowing pills. Ever since the day I accidentally wolfed down a whole Jolly Rancher, getting an aspirin has been easy peasy. I just never think to take them.
I'll be laying there with a major headache, wishing that I lived in a video game where there where magic substances that I could take and my pains would just go away.
Then my wife will offer me an Ibuprofen and I'll be confused what the gross piece of candy if for.
Finishing columns: You have no idea how many columns I've got half written on my hard drive. I have column ranging in topics from String Theory to my very strong opinion on butt-lint. And yet I never seem to fin–
Geek on.
Steve Shinney apologizes for ending with metahumor. It's the Internet, which means I have a meta quota to fill. Comments can be left below.
Real Men Don't Rant, They Blog
We got the ultrasound done a few weeks ago. I was never so excited to stare at a fuzzy screen and try to pick out body parts since I was a kid and we'd try to watch late-night premium television.
Ever since we found out we found out we were having a boy everyone has assumed that I'm more excited than I would have been if we had a girl. “Yeah, I'm thrilled that my first born is someone I can torment with sports equipment until he's 8 after which we'll begin competing at various things until he turns 27 at which point he'll have beaten me at everything. That's way better than a girl who will love me unconditionally forever in exchange for playing barbies with her.”
I know parents-to-be always say they don't care about the gender of their soon-to-exist spawn. I always figured it was another wad of parental crap like “Changing diapers is a rewarding experience.” When it came to be my turn to wonder if I would be able to take my kid to a public restroom or not in five years, I really didn't care.
Mostly because I'm pretty sure any kid with a mobile made out of special edition Lord of the Rings action figures is going to turn out pretty cool.
Now that I know there will be at least one more generation correcting teachers on how to say “Shinney” I will admit that I am pretty excited to have a son. It means that I'll have the chance to teach him what it means to be a “real man.”
There is a lot of confusion in the world today about what it means to be a real man. Some say only those with power and wealth are real men. Others think only the physically strong qualify for the title.
The problem is most of these people don't know anything about being a real man, and so, for the the convenience of my son-to-be, I'm now going to lay down some of what I'm sure could turn into a Master's Thesis on what in means to be a real man.
Real men kill bugs. With their hands. Real men like the popping sound just a little.
If you want to be a real man, you have to be able to rock a really sweet beard.
A real man never admits the weather is too cold, the food is too spicy or that he is the reason the whole basement smells like burnt carpet and cheese.
If you're a real man, you don't wait around for someone else to solve your problems. If. however, during the process of trying to do something on your own some one more experienced offers help, a real man will graciously accept.
Being a real man requires driving all the way home, no matter how tired you yourself are, if your wife needs to sleep.
Real men root for the good guys, even when the bad guys are actually quite a bit cooler.
Sometimes being a real man means spending your day off digging through rocky soil to bury a random stranger's dog.
A real man, never drinks diet. If a real man gets too fat, he gives up soda.
A real man doesn't let anyone else define what “too fat” is.
Being a real man means running out into pouring rain/snow/hail to help your neighbors bail out their storm windows. They also pull over in a snow storm to push out slid off cars and help people they hardly know move.
Real men protect their little sisters. If they ever make friends with a girl who doesn't have an older brother, real men fill in.
Real men don't litter.
A real man is allowed to cry at a wedding or when Old Yeller gets shot, he's just not allowed to let anyone see.
If real men are going to write something on a bathroom wall, they make it clever and keep it clean. They don't just draw a wang.
Real men can drive stick shift.
Real men wear hats, shorts and Hawaiian shirts because real men decide when their going to grow up.
And they also decide what that means.
This is probably the most important part; real men geek on.
Steve Shinney is a real man, or at least, he's trying really hard to be, for his son. You may add to the definition that proves him as such in the comments below.
Ever since we found out we found out we were having a boy everyone has assumed that I'm more excited than I would have been if we had a girl. “Yeah, I'm thrilled that my first born is someone I can torment with sports equipment until he's 8 after which we'll begin competing at various things until he turns 27 at which point he'll have beaten me at everything. That's way better than a girl who will love me unconditionally forever in exchange for playing barbies with her.”
I know parents-to-be always say they don't care about the gender of their soon-to-exist spawn. I always figured it was another wad of parental crap like “Changing diapers is a rewarding experience.” When it came to be my turn to wonder if I would be able to take my kid to a public restroom or not in five years, I really didn't care.
Mostly because I'm pretty sure any kid with a mobile made out of special edition Lord of the Rings action figures is going to turn out pretty cool.
Now that I know there will be at least one more generation correcting teachers on how to say “Shinney” I will admit that I am pretty excited to have a son. It means that I'll have the chance to teach him what it means to be a “real man.”
There is a lot of confusion in the world today about what it means to be a real man. Some say only those with power and wealth are real men. Others think only the physically strong qualify for the title.
The problem is most of these people don't know anything about being a real man, and so, for the the convenience of my son-to-be, I'm now going to lay down some of what I'm sure could turn into a Master's Thesis on what in means to be a real man.
Real men kill bugs. With their hands. Real men like the popping sound just a little.
If you want to be a real man, you have to be able to rock a really sweet beard.
A real man never admits the weather is too cold, the food is too spicy or that he is the reason the whole basement smells like burnt carpet and cheese.
If you're a real man, you don't wait around for someone else to solve your problems. If. however, during the process of trying to do something on your own some one more experienced offers help, a real man will graciously accept.
Being a real man requires driving all the way home, no matter how tired you yourself are, if your wife needs to sleep.
Real men root for the good guys, even when the bad guys are actually quite a bit cooler.
Sometimes being a real man means spending your day off digging through rocky soil to bury a random stranger's dog.
A real man, never drinks diet. If a real man gets too fat, he gives up soda.
A real man doesn't let anyone else define what “too fat” is.
Being a real man means running out into pouring rain/snow/hail to help your neighbors bail out their storm windows. They also pull over in a snow storm to push out slid off cars and help people they hardly know move.
Real men protect their little sisters. If they ever make friends with a girl who doesn't have an older brother, real men fill in.
Real men don't litter.
A real man is allowed to cry at a wedding or when Old Yeller gets shot, he's just not allowed to let anyone see.
If real men are going to write something on a bathroom wall, they make it clever and keep it clean. They don't just draw a wang.
Real men can drive stick shift.
Real men wear hats, shorts and Hawaiian shirts because real men decide when their going to grow up.
And they also decide what that means.
This is probably the most important part; real men geek on.
Steve Shinney is a real man, or at least, he's trying really hard to be, for his son. You may add to the definition that proves him as such in the comments below.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
