DADDY OF THE YEAR

I have decided in my infinite wisdom, that realtors are fucking scumbags.

There have been two instances now where a realtor calls and says "I'd like to show your house tomorrow. Is that okay?"

And I say "Oh Lawdy, yes! Why, you can show my house any day of the week because it's ALWAYS clean!"

Which it is. I'm proud to say that my house has been spotless now for almost a month. Go me. And my wife. Not go Andrew, because that little bastard doesn't understand what "The house is on the market" means and just drags everything out and doesn't put anything back and yesterday he was sucking on the toilet plunger and that's just gross.

So anyway...

Friday this lady calls "I'd like to show your house blah blah blah" and I'm all like "Oh Lawdy yes blah blah blah".

So Saturday we get up and give the house a sparkly clean look. EVERYTHING gets cleaned.

...And nobody f'n shows up.

Twice now this has happened. If they call first to say they're coming the next day...they don't f'n come.

And I've had it. I've f'n had it.

Same goes for my own realtor, Kelly. She was supposed to come by the house three f'n weeks ago. Haven't seen her. She's "busy".

Yeah right. "Busy" sitting on her ass somewhere eating crackers and watching HGTV or something.

But as Kelly has said...she doesn't make a penny if she doesn't sell our home. Because she makes money off our current home, not our new home, to the best of my knowledge anyway. I dunno. I don't know how real estate agents operate.

I just know they're all a buncha fucking scumbags.

And the next one that calls my house saying they want to come over the next day and show my house, I'm going to say "You can come over NOW and show it. But if you show up tomorrow with a couple, I'm going to be naked with my dick in one hand and a pistol in the other. And SOMEBODY'S either getting fucked in the ass or shot to death. Because I've HAD IT with you g-damned realtors."

Well, I probably won't really say that. But you know. I'll emphasize the fact that I think they're a fucking liar.

I've noticed a trend. When I do manage to update on Sundays before church, I curse like a possessed teenager with Tourette's.

I wonder if that's psychosomatic.

Nah.

I just hate those fucking realtors.

I don't know what level of pervert this finds me at ... but Christ on a stick ... those Olson twins are hotter than hell now.

We were in Walmart Friday night because that's what we do on Friday nights...go out to eat at a deli and then go to Walmart.

And they've got these posters of the Olson twins promoting some product. Clearasil or something. I don't even notice the product name.

But damn.

Damn, damn, damn.

I think I'd risk prison for those two.

What are they now? They've gotta be 16 or so...right?

An old man can dream.

Plus, you know...I bet the Olson twins would get all giddy, knowing that a balding diabetic fat old man like myself was all googly over them.

They'd be all "Mary Kate, should we do him?"

"I dunno Ashley...he's not cute at all. But he does like us"

"I wanna do him! I wanna do him! You come with me!"

"Okay! We'll do him together. But you owe me! Tee hee!"

Kerrrist.

I've lost it.

I've truly lost it.

I'm sorry God. I'll try to be better.

So I did a shitload of yard work yesterday. Everything that could have been done in my yard was done.

With the exception of taking a chainsaw to this one pitiful tree in my backyard. It just refuses to grow and has been that way for about 7 years.

I really just want to go out there and have a talk with this tree.

"Sooo...you don't wanna grow huh? That's fine, don't sweat it. Really, it's fine. I planted you the same day as that other tree over there. You're sapling siblings. Ha! Get it?? And the other tree has grown to be a huge, mighty whatever kind of tree it is while you're a pathetic little weakling with pitiful looking branches and a trunk I could snap with my bare hands. Sooo, here's what we're gonna do. I'm gonna....BYAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH (sound of chainsaw surprising the tree and sawing into it hard) MWAHAHAHAHAHA! DIE TREE! DIIIIIIIE!!"

But other than that, the yard looks nice.

Last night, I thought I'd be a good husband and daddy.

I was going to take the family out to eat and then let Mama go to JC Penney for their big one day sale and let her go wild. She's been whining about needing some new clothes and since she's not a material girl, she doesn't mind buying clothes at Penney's like so many materialistic bitches do.

Yes, I'm talking about you.

Well, maybe not you. But I'm sure there's at least one female reading this saying "Ewwww...she buys her clothes at Penney's????"

Yeah. Her.

So anyway, while Mama shopped, I thought that I would take Andrew and we would cruise the mall for a few hours ... see what father and son could get into.

Holy shit.

First we go out to eat. Longhorn Steakhouse.

Andrew has reached his "Terrible Twos" six months early.

He didn't want to sit in his high chair.

He wanted to sit on Daddy's lap.

He wanted every cracker packet opened and he wanted to hold every single cracker in his hands so he could crush them and make a mess.

He would burst into tearful screams every 3-4 minutes. Just out of the blue. He'd be coloring or something and then just let out a blood-curdling scream, scaring the living shit out of the other patrons.

The waitress, bless her heart, was TRYING to do everything she could to calm him down. She brought everything she could to the table...more crackers, Teddy grahams, more things to color...nothing worked.

So we ate in shifts. Susie would eat a little while I walked around the restaraunt with him in my arms. Then we'd switch off.

We tried ignoring him first. God. I know that's what you're supposed to do. But he was screaming the screams of the damned.

We ate as fast as we could and got out of there. As soon as we got out, he was perfect. The perfect child.

So we go to the mall. It's 7:00. Mama has two hours to shop til she drops.

I put Andrew in his stroller and we're going to do a brisk mall walk first.

Cheah. Right.

About 30 feet into the mall walk, he wants out of the stroller. He's contorting his body like Harry Houdini, trying to worm out of the restraining straps holding his 24 lb. body in the stroller.

Finally, because he's squealing like a pig, I let him out and carry him while pushing his stroller.

Another 30 feet and he wants down.

Fine. The mall's not too crowded. He can get down and toddle around.

My son is no longer a toddler. Fuck toddling, Daddy. I'm past toddling.

...I'm a RUNNER now.

For the next hour and 55 minutes, I chased that little bastard all over the mall.

Here was my modus operendi ... I wanted to:

A) Ride the Carousel in the food court.

B) Ride some of those 50 cent rides they have in the food court.

C) Go to the Disney Store.

D) Go to the book store.

E) Go to the Dollar Tree.

F) Go to the toy store.

As long as he hung out in each store for a while and enjoyed the rides, that would fill about two hours of time.

First we rode the carousel. He was PETRIFIED. He soon got into it, grinning as we went around in circles and his horsie went up and down while he held onto me for dear life. But the kid was trembling. Scared SHITLESS at first.

...Which...in my eyes, was his punishment for acting like an evil kid at the restaurant.

He liked it but was ready to get off by the end of the ride.

We then went to the other small rides.

He was bored with those. He wanted the balloons that were tied to the carousel's entrance. There is nothing more fascinating in his world then a balloon. The kid is a balloon slut. He'd sell his dirty diapers to any pervert over the 'net for a balloon.

The balloons weren't for sale. Yes, I asked. They were for decoration.

Andrew doesn't understand decorations. All he understands is that when he sees a balloon, there's absolutely no reason that balloon shouldn't be tied around his wrist where he can try and pop the damned thing.

So he wants to get fussy about this. I walk away quickly from the balloons and hope his wandering attention span forgets all about the balloons. And it did.

We get to the toy store. I let him out of his stroller, where his main goal is to pull every single Winnie the Pooh box off of its shelf and onto the floor. I don't understand the logic of it either. But I found it my job to keep putting the boxes back on the shelf. Which frustrated the kid.

So we found one of those Fisher Price corn poppers. The things you push and the little balls in the clear dome at the end of the stick pop around and make noise.

My God.

We have found something to replace the balloon in this kid's life. He LOVED this corn popper.

Fifteen bucks.

Shit.

Don't get too attached to it, kiddo. Daddy's not paying fifteen bucks for your temporary joy.

...which isn't really fair since I had just paid fifteen bucks 30 minutes earlier for a slab of prime rib that I ate without even chewing in my attempt to get my child out of a restaurant.

He keeps trying to push the corn popper out into the mall and the sales clerk is keeping a close eye on him like the kid's really itching to steal the thing.

He finally puts it down and jets out into the mall with Daddy close behind.

He then wants to push his stroller around. Fine. Do that.

Except. Quit. Running. Into. The. Gang. Members. With. It.

Man...this kid was like a gang member magnet. Anytime we saw some young punks with red bandannas around their heads and waistbands around their thighs with their hands concealing their guns or their penises, Andrew headed straight for them with his stroller, trying to mow them down.

Some found it amusing.

Others felt like he deserved a baby cap popped in his baby ass.

I finally grabbed him and took the stroller from him.

More crying.

Then...he saw some steps.

Five steps in the middle of the mall.

He wanted to show Daddy how he has mastered the steps. We don't have steps at our house, but there are some at daycare. So by God, here Daddy. Watch this. You'll be proud. I can do steps.

So he did the steps.

Down. Back up. Down. Back up.

I held his hand as he went down them, and he would crawl back up them.

Yes, he was getting in people's way.

No, I didn't care. He was happy, nobody was horribly inconvenienced, so get over it, Crips.

About the fifth time or so, he was courageous enough to think that he could go down the stairs without holding my hand. He kept shaking his hand free of my hand to let me know "I can do this without you. Let me try."

Fine, kid. Knock yourself out.

Okay....NOT LITERALLY.

The first step he lost his balance and tumbled.

I tried to grab him. But I was moving in slow motion.

I saw his forehead hit the step and heard the smack.

Hi. I'm the world's worst daddy. I take my kid to the mall and let him play on the steps until he's exhausted and knocks himself unconscious. Where's my award?

He cried for a bit. There was no blood. He did manage to get plenty of snot on my shirt, but that's a given with a child. I'm past the point where I'm trying to impress chicks in malls now. It's pretty tough to strut your stuff with dried mucus stains all over your shoulders and chest.

We then go to the Disney Store.

He squealed with delight. Everybody from the Disney channel was there. He pulled several toys off the shelves, sat down and played with them to his heart's content while Daddy got a breather.

He grabbed a Bear in the Big Blue House book and toddled away. In my head, I figured that I could put these four toys that he left on the floor back on the shelf, catch up to him, take the book away from him, put THAT back on the shelf and we could start to leave.

I put the toys back on the shelf and said "Andrew?"

A guy pointed and said "I think he just left the store."

Oh thanks pal.

I panic.

I run. I had no idea I could still run, but I bolted out of the Disney Store like an olympic track star.

Andrew was walking down the corridors of the mall at a brisk pace, Bear book in his hands, babbling to anybody who'd listen that he was now officially a big boy.

I swooped him up, took him back inside, put the book back on the shelves, much to his dismay and took him to the book store.

He plopped down on the floor, I pulled about ten books off the shelves and he just quietly leafed through them all. The kid loves books. They're one of the few things that can calm him down. Normally anyway.

We spent about five minutes in the book store before he became antsy and wanted to see what else the mall had to offer. That was it really. We'd seen everything he'd be interested in and then some.

We rode the carousel again. This time he would NOT release his grip on me. I got the feeling he didn't really want to ride it. The high-pitched screaming kinda tipped me off.

We then went to the Dollar Tree. I've never been a big fan of the Dollar Tree, but with a kid who is a conniseur of crap, the Dollar Tree is a blessing.

Andrew fell in love with a wiffle ball bat. He pushed it around like a broom. He likes anything shaped like a broom. Or a baseball bat. Anything long and stiff. Alright fine...I think my kid might be exhibiting gay tendencies at 18 months. There's nothing wrong with that. I love him just as much. Quit yer damned snickering.

So I try to take the bat away from him.

Foolish move, Meester Bond.

He screamed louder than he had all night. To say he made a scene in the Dollar Tree is an understatement. He had people threatening to turn me into the authorities because I MUST be a horrible father if the kid's screaming like that.

I caved. I threw the girl at the counter a dollar and a dime and we left the store with his bat.

...That he promptly got bored with 11 seconds later.

We found Mama and I told her through gritted teeth that she had "better" be finished shopping.

Luckily for her physical safety, she was.

We left, Andrew was a quiet, subdued child all the way home. He got a bath which gave him time to tell his Mama all the fun and interesting things that we did.

Which came out "Ba ba ba ba ba ba ba ba ba". But he was very animated as he told her.

He's been asleep now for nine hours straight. Susie's gotten a good night's sleep as well.

They both have me to thank.

I wore the little tyke OUT.

I'm such a good Daddy.