folding clothes, drinking coffee, listening to thursday, and thinking about bloggin

we heard ian curtis kill himself again in your bed...

so, because my manager is a lazy idiot, i should suffer? apparently so. even though it was slow last night, i got home late. fuckers.

m, my buddy from work, is leaving. the traitorous motherfucker. all the people i like either get better jobs, move, or get fired. m is the last of the ones that were here when i hired on. my oldest friend. the only one from work i have invited over for dinner and had drinks with. gone. this officially makes me the grandpa of the workplace. i actually told the two sisters i like that work there that they are not allowed to quit or move to a different store for a few years.

yesterday i had to take no. 1 to get some shots that the school said he needed.

there was alot of prep-work involved with this. constant reminders that he was getting shots. promises of blankie, binkie, and candy with compliance and cooperation.

no. 1 took it like a trooper. at first, as we were leaving, he had this "remove this cup" moment:

"no, no shot daddy. hurt. shot hurts, daddy. i don' want shot daddy."

"i know buddy, i know. but we hafta, and you will get a sucker when it's all done."

the rebellion was short-lived. as we waited to be called back, he rubbed my arm with a balled-up fist and said, "i give you shot, you hold still."

"ok, buddy, very good. now you practice." and i rubbed his arm with a carefully-held imaginary swab, and then pressed an imaginary butterfly kiss of a shot onto his arm while saying softly, "hold still, buddy."

then they called us to the desk. a brief consultation with the receptionist and her computer showed that no shots were necessary. the school simply had a slightly outdated copy of his shot record.

she printed me a new one, and i looked at no. 1, mouth plugged with an otherwise-illegal binkie, his soft and worn blankie rubbed against his cheek linus-style, and said, "you don't need any shots buddy. yay!!"

he looked puzzled, and pointed to the door behind which he had imagined god knows what torture devices and evil-eyed nurses. "i go back here for shot daddy."

"no, you don't need any. it's all good."

he almost cries, having gotten himself so amped-up about this situation that has now been magically removed.

i produce the promised lollipop, and convince him it is ok for us to leave.

i've been really worried about no. 1 lately. his temper. his penchant for guns. his tendency to throw punches when angry.

but yesterday, the sun seemed to shine brighter. he smiled bigger. i was proud.

today, i go to the thrift store while the kids are at school, and find the holy grail of all-time bad-ass toys: an immense bag of legos, for a mere $4. i am so stunned that it is sitting there before me, that i actually look over my shoulder for some crazy housewife with wild hair and a shrieking voice to swoop past me and shout "mine", snagging it indiana jones-like as she hurtles past, before snatching it like an prison inmate who has found an extra roll unattended.

the kids get off the bus, and creativity commences. we built houses and spaceships and cars and all kinds of things that can't even be imagined. and no. 1 is smiling brighter, and listening better, and all seems well.

and i am the coolest dad in the world.

darth sardonic