I've started a new venture over at https://penblanksales.com and I'm excited to see how this works out for fellow pen turners.
ABOUT OUR PEN MAKING SUPPLIES
Pen Blank Sales is here to help you find pen turning supplies, pen blanks, resin and hybrid turning blanks, game calls, ring blanks, and more. If you need something special created for a project, contact us and we will be happy to help!
Sunday, May 31, 2020
Tuesday, January 21, 2020
Sunday, January 19, 2020
I've been working on https://MyWood.Shop
I've started making cool handmade wood pens and gifts at https://MyWood.Shop
Monday, December 10, 2018
Working on an affiliate marketing tools website
I've been working on an affiliate marketing tools website in recent weeks. The focus has been on SEO, affiliate marketing tools, product reviews and articles.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
So...he peed on my hair
My son, who just turned 2 last week, likes to be naked. Keeping a diaper on this beast of a boy is a challenge to say the least. So tonight just before bed he decided it was time for the old diaper to come off. Figuring if he just wet the old diaper, he'd have a while before he had to go again. And besides, it's almost bedtime and he'll get a new fresh diaper anyway.
So as part of the "we're about to go to bed" routine, we play a bit. He likes to stand on my lap on the couch and demand "Up daddy, put me up". This involves me grabbing him around the armpits and raising him above my head. Well tonight I thought it might be fun to use the tips of my index fingers and tickle his armpits as I raised him above my head. As I tickled him, he laughed like crazy and then the little turkey peed a little bit on my hair.
I should have known better than to tickle a naked kid while holding him above my head but that seems to be the story of my daddy life. Do dumb stuff, have something to write about.
So Amazing Father: the blog was born this evening after I got showered with 2-year-old baby pee. We'll see what becomes of this blog. Had I started this blog 7 years ago with my first child (I have 3, 2 girls...a 7 year old and nearly 4 year old) we'd have had countless stories already... But I'm sure there will be plenty more for me to share about the crazy world that is the live of the Amazing Daddy....so stay tuned, subscribe, and share this blog with your friends for more crazy stories of my day-to-day life.
Amazing Dad
So as part of the "we're about to go to bed" routine, we play a bit. He likes to stand on my lap on the couch and demand "Up daddy, put me up". This involves me grabbing him around the armpits and raising him above my head. Well tonight I thought it might be fun to use the tips of my index fingers and tickle his armpits as I raised him above my head. As I tickled him, he laughed like crazy and then the little turkey peed a little bit on my hair.
I should have known better than to tickle a naked kid while holding him above my head but that seems to be the story of my daddy life. Do dumb stuff, have something to write about.
So Amazing Father: the blog was born this evening after I got showered with 2-year-old baby pee. We'll see what becomes of this blog. Had I started this blog 7 years ago with my first child (I have 3, 2 girls...a 7 year old and nearly 4 year old) we'd have had countless stories already... But I'm sure there will be plenty more for me to share about the crazy world that is the live of the Amazing Daddy....so stay tuned, subscribe, and share this blog with your friends for more crazy stories of my day-to-day life.
Amazing Dad
Saturday, January 15, 2011
What kids do with butter
When you have your first child, you are oblivious to the fact that something as ubiquitous as butter can offer so much amazement and amusement as your child gets older. It begins around 2-years-old when the child is inquisitive enough to wonder what you're doing in the kitchen. They look up from the floor seeing you cut brightly colored square hunks to drop into a pan or watch you scrape up some soft tub butter with a knife to apply to a piece of bread. What is this mystery substance that seems to apply to nearly every act of cookery they see you perform?
Their curiosity normally begins with what we refer to in our home as the "exploratory poke". That uncertain, extended finger that slowly approaches something new much like a cheetah on the Serengeti creeping up on their eventual dinner. After getting over the initial shock of the cold, hard, yet wonderfully slippery feel of the substance, it's all down hill from there. The curiosity is now gone, and somehow converts into all out obsession. If given the opportunity, usually behind your back while you're wiping squished bananas out of the other kids' ear holes, your child will take bites out of stick butter like it's a Cadburry egg. They'll dive 3 knuckles deep into your Country Crock any chance they get. And you can forget about bread. Your little one will not be interested in rye or wheat delights, they're only interested in the somewhat yellow, one molecule away from plastic buttery goodness that becomes their Arc of the Covenants. Thus begins their childhood quest to acquire butter in the most inappropriate time and manor humanly possible.
Once your child reaches school age, their desire to make their own sandwiches, pack their own lunches for school, or make their own toast for breakfast "like a big girl", will begin causing as much anxiety in your life as your own teenage years. Every time I go to the refrigerator for butter, I cringe at what I'll find in that tub. Normally upon cracking the lid, I'm met with the familiar smell one would expect. It is often followed by a slight hint of something else, something wrong, out of place.
As an example, I just grabbed the tub of butter from my refrigerator. Upon opening it, I clearly smell toast, burnt toast. A quick glance and I see toast shrapnel littering the sea of butter, each crumb mocking me, taunting me. "Hey fat guy, go ahead and try, try your hardest, to get a clean swipe of this luscious butter. You know you can't. You know you're going to get me or one of my crusty brothers upon your knife, and yes, we will get stuck in your teeth and make you look like a dirty hillbilly all day."
As thought the minefield of toast crumbs isn't bad enough, there appears to be a plethora of other out of place substances that have made their way into the tub, no doubt by the hands of my 6-year-old daughter. There's a smear of mustard camouflaging itself as best it can. I see two types of peanut butter. On the left, creamy, directly in the center, a hunk of chunky with a few lovely peanuts looking like they're singing in quicksand. I see what I hope is red-ish jelly but it very well could be catsup or Kool-Aid. There is a spot that looks like it could be honey but in a house where the little people seldom cover their mouths when sneezing, I'm not taking any chances. Oh, and there's a damn penny in here. Who puts a god damn penny in the butter?
The best advise I have regarding butter is to have two tubs. One up high for the adults, and one down below that your children can reach and gross up all they want. And when it comes to stick butter, just resign to the fact that there will be times you grab a disfigured stick from the refrigerator only to discover large, very deep teeth marks in the wrapper.
Their curiosity normally begins with what we refer to in our home as the "exploratory poke". That uncertain, extended finger that slowly approaches something new much like a cheetah on the Serengeti creeping up on their eventual dinner. After getting over the initial shock of the cold, hard, yet wonderfully slippery feel of the substance, it's all down hill from there. The curiosity is now gone, and somehow converts into all out obsession. If given the opportunity, usually behind your back while you're wiping squished bananas out of the other kids' ear holes, your child will take bites out of stick butter like it's a Cadburry egg. They'll dive 3 knuckles deep into your Country Crock any chance they get. And you can forget about bread. Your little one will not be interested in rye or wheat delights, they're only interested in the somewhat yellow, one molecule away from plastic buttery goodness that becomes their Arc of the Covenants. Thus begins their childhood quest to acquire butter in the most inappropriate time and manor humanly possible.
Once your child reaches school age, their desire to make their own sandwiches, pack their own lunches for school, or make their own toast for breakfast "like a big girl", will begin causing as much anxiety in your life as your own teenage years. Every time I go to the refrigerator for butter, I cringe at what I'll find in that tub. Normally upon cracking the lid, I'm met with the familiar smell one would expect. It is often followed by a slight hint of something else, something wrong, out of place.
As an example, I just grabbed the tub of butter from my refrigerator. Upon opening it, I clearly smell toast, burnt toast. A quick glance and I see toast shrapnel littering the sea of butter, each crumb mocking me, taunting me. "Hey fat guy, go ahead and try, try your hardest, to get a clean swipe of this luscious butter. You know you can't. You know you're going to get me or one of my crusty brothers upon your knife, and yes, we will get stuck in your teeth and make you look like a dirty hillbilly all day."
As thought the minefield of toast crumbs isn't bad enough, there appears to be a plethora of other out of place substances that have made their way into the tub, no doubt by the hands of my 6-year-old daughter. There's a smear of mustard camouflaging itself as best it can. I see two types of peanut butter. On the left, creamy, directly in the center, a hunk of chunky with a few lovely peanuts looking like they're singing in quicksand. I see what I hope is red-ish jelly but it very well could be catsup or Kool-Aid. There is a spot that looks like it could be honey but in a house where the little people seldom cover their mouths when sneezing, I'm not taking any chances. Oh, and there's a damn penny in here. Who puts a god damn penny in the butter?
The best advise I have regarding butter is to have two tubs. One up high for the adults, and one down below that your children can reach and gross up all they want. And when it comes to stick butter, just resign to the fact that there will be times you grab a disfigured stick from the refrigerator only to discover large, very deep teeth marks in the wrapper.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
It always comes in 3s
"It always comes in 3s", an attage we apply to celebrities when buckets are kicked. Who knows why the universe does what it does, but we all know it to be true. When a celeb passes on to the big casting call in the sky, B-list actors and has been child stars everywhere lock themselves up in an attempt to avoid being one of the three for this go-around.
In my house, the number 3 holds a different mystical quality and it relates to weirdness. When something odd happens in the house, you can be sure that 2 more strange things are about to occur or already have and are awaiting discovery. Instances like this happen all the time here. For example, there was the time I found an unopened can of soup in the toilet shortly after discovering poopy underwear on the fence post and then opening the refrigerator to see one shelf completely covered in unwrapped squares of cheese "singles" slices. The underwear, mind you, did not belong to anyone in my house.
Today I arrived home from work and found a dog kennel sitting in my driveway against the wall adjacent to my garage door. Upon the kennel sat a large cardboard box, three of the four flaps folded in on themselves. When I got out of the car, I peaked into the box to see a dead chicken. At that very moment, I knew I could expect two more oddities in a very short time. The universe was kind to me and I didn't have to wait long. After getting the kids out of the car and into the house, my 2-year-old daughter shot out of the bathroom naked, ran across the kitchen, and out the sliding glass door to the back yard. I went into the bathroom to retrieve the clothes she had stripped off (yes, she is one of those children who feel compelled to be completely naked in order to go potty) and stepped into the world's largest puddle of urine I'd ever seen. If you didn't know any better, you'd have thought Ogre from "Revenge of the Nerds" had just had a mishap in there. After cleaning up the mess, and on my way to the laundry room, I spotted sitting on the keyboard of my laptop, a letter to Santa Clause. Please note, it's June. But my 6-year-old daughter felt it necessary to pen her most recent "want" list to the jolly fat man, despite it being 80 degrees outside.
Unlike celebrity deaths, which seem to have some sort of reprieve lasting weeks, sometimes months, before another round strikes, the weirdness in 3s thing at my house can strike at any time. Just now, in fact, my daughters, one still naked from her bathroom catastrophy, both with faces full of melted ice cream bars they snuck outside about 10 minutes ago, just popped into the house and simultaniously said "Dad, one of the chickens died." Then my 6-year-old followed that up with the first few bars of death march music from "Star Wars". As I laughed at her song, consoled the 2-year-old, and walked them both to the sliding glass door to push their filthy, dripping ice cream bars and faces out to the back yard, I spotted a banana floating in our fish tank. The fish did not seem at all interested in the floating fruit but my cat, whom is usually an emotionless ice queen, was sitting on the couch staring into the fish tank at that banana as though it was a carrot on a stick.
After having just won, barely, an argument with my 6-year-old about why it's no okay to lock her now diapered, still ice cream covered 2-year-old sister inside the dog kennel with the dead chicken on top of it in my driveway, I now sit in my living room watching my 10-month-old baby boy walk around dragging a power strip that has had the tail of a sock monkey tied to it, sock monkey in tow. I await the final in this series of 3 to strike at any moment. And there it is! My dog has just come up from the basement, torso entangled by an old purse filled with what appears to be dried, crumbly, discolored Playdoh balls.
In my house, the number 3 holds a different mystical quality and it relates to weirdness. When something odd happens in the house, you can be sure that 2 more strange things are about to occur or already have and are awaiting discovery. Instances like this happen all the time here. For example, there was the time I found an unopened can of soup in the toilet shortly after discovering poopy underwear on the fence post and then opening the refrigerator to see one shelf completely covered in unwrapped squares of cheese "singles" slices. The underwear, mind you, did not belong to anyone in my house.
Today I arrived home from work and found a dog kennel sitting in my driveway against the wall adjacent to my garage door. Upon the kennel sat a large cardboard box, three of the four flaps folded in on themselves. When I got out of the car, I peaked into the box to see a dead chicken. At that very moment, I knew I could expect two more oddities in a very short time. The universe was kind to me and I didn't have to wait long. After getting the kids out of the car and into the house, my 2-year-old daughter shot out of the bathroom naked, ran across the kitchen, and out the sliding glass door to the back yard. I went into the bathroom to retrieve the clothes she had stripped off (yes, she is one of those children who feel compelled to be completely naked in order to go potty) and stepped into the world's largest puddle of urine I'd ever seen. If you didn't know any better, you'd have thought Ogre from "Revenge of the Nerds" had just had a mishap in there. After cleaning up the mess, and on my way to the laundry room, I spotted sitting on the keyboard of my laptop, a letter to Santa Clause. Please note, it's June. But my 6-year-old daughter felt it necessary to pen her most recent "want" list to the jolly fat man, despite it being 80 degrees outside.
Unlike celebrity deaths, which seem to have some sort of reprieve lasting weeks, sometimes months, before another round strikes, the weirdness in 3s thing at my house can strike at any time. Just now, in fact, my daughters, one still naked from her bathroom catastrophy, both with faces full of melted ice cream bars they snuck outside about 10 minutes ago, just popped into the house and simultaniously said "Dad, one of the chickens died." Then my 6-year-old followed that up with the first few bars of death march music from "Star Wars". As I laughed at her song, consoled the 2-year-old, and walked them both to the sliding glass door to push their filthy, dripping ice cream bars and faces out to the back yard, I spotted a banana floating in our fish tank. The fish did not seem at all interested in the floating fruit but my cat, whom is usually an emotionless ice queen, was sitting on the couch staring into the fish tank at that banana as though it was a carrot on a stick.
After having just won, barely, an argument with my 6-year-old about why it's no okay to lock her now diapered, still ice cream covered 2-year-old sister inside the dog kennel with the dead chicken on top of it in my driveway, I now sit in my living room watching my 10-month-old baby boy walk around dragging a power strip that has had the tail of a sock monkey tied to it, sock monkey in tow. I await the final in this series of 3 to strike at any moment. And there it is! My dog has just come up from the basement, torso entangled by an old purse filled with what appears to be dried, crumbly, discolored Playdoh balls.
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