NEW DISCLAIMER!

It has come to the attention of my son, Squatch, that some of the content on this blog regarding himself is, to be diplomatic, a total ^%$#@! lie.

This came to his attention because one of his friends, we'll call him Freddy Mercury, Googled Squatch, discovered this blog, then read everything I've ever written, including the one where I tried to talk to Connor about sex.

To be clear: as a humorist, I often take broad liberty with reality for the purpose of entertaining my readers. If you are a friend of Sasquatch, and you've Googled his name and discovered this blog, please understand I'm telling tall tales here.

You may be outraged to know neither Slenderman, Paul Bunyan, nor Michael Jackson are real people. They are as mythical as Mickey Mouse and Paris Hilton. My stories rely on crazy exaggeration and an abject abnegation of the laws of physics, chemistry, social norms, truth, grammar, and all forms of reality, both real and imagined.

To be more clear, I type with my nose because I have to finger quote every word.

13 Things on Thursday to be Thankful For

1. My Wife (yes, you should be thankful too)


2. My Son, Sasquatch.


3. My daughter, Rah.


4. My mom.


5. My sister.


6. Dave Haynes


7. Chef Efrain Cuevas


8. Chef Lauren Parton


9. My new skill: making pork rinds from scratch


10. Tits (why lie?)


11. Vincent Price


12. The internet


13. My gay dog Ty.

Monday is Manday: Hot Shave and a Haircut

For weeks I've been impersonating a homeless Ben Franklin, letting my hair grow long and tattered and kicking myself in the arse for not getting  haircut. This weekend, as my hair started to gain classification as its own ecosystem, one of my oldest and dearest friends came to Chicago so I elected to get shorn. I went to my buddy, MJ, who owns Fades R Us by MJ, and he attacked my shaggy dome.

Three minutes into it MJ started grumbling and threw his clippers into the wall. He grabbed a chainsaw and chewed through my eyebrows (which, prior, could only be described as Gandalphian) because they were so big they were trapping my cut hair, making me look like I had a forehead wig.

Then MJ draped my face with a hot towel for my shave and I fell asleep. Look, the review is on Yelp. He's worth every penny. Two weeks from now, I'm going in a for a facial.

Talking to your kids about sex.

All parents dread this moment. You notice the hairy legs (I'm talking about the boy). You hear the voice crack. You race out to buy deodorant. By the gallon. All of a sudden you realize: it's deep in the sticky wicket of puberty. So you, out of duty, out of a misguided sense of tradition, because you think you care, decide to have a talk. The talk.

Let me offer you a word of advice for parents of the Post Google (P.G.) pubescent:

Don't. Talk.  About. Sex.

They know more than you do. They're like obsessed ob/gyn scientists. My 13 year old son's probably seen more pictures of the va jay jay than I have in my entire life. If, like me, you are a highly liberal parent and don't squelch the internet, then  the first time you talk to your kid about sex, you are doomed to feel like a shy Amish farm boy dropped into a pool full of Vaseline and naked Brazilian trannys. To whit:

Dad: Son, I think I need to talk to you about sex.

Son: Cool dad. What do you want to know?

Dad: No, I mean, I'm here to answer any questions you might have.

Son: Oh good, because I was curious about a few things (pulls a ream of paper from his desk drawer). Do you and mom ever [AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!]

Dad: Dear god.

Son: So that's a no. Is it because you're afraid your [AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!] will [AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!] or that your [AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!] isn't [AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!] enough?

Dad: Mother of Christ.

Son: Also, when girls say they're willing to [AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!] do they really mean they'll [AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!] or that they just want to cuddle?

Dad: Didn't I give you a pocket knife when you were ten?

Son: Why?

Dad: I need to cut my throat.

Son: Don't be such a prude. Now, here's a picture of two people [AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!] in a room full of [AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!] in Turkey and what I'm wondering is, in other cultures, is it normal for a spectator at such an event to [AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!] with his [AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!] in a tea pot?

Dad: I'm gonna throw up.

Son: Also, sometimes when I [AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!] I think about [AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!]. Is that normal?

Dad: NO! Oh my GOD! NO! Stop!

Son: Finally, have you ever [HOLY JESUS MOTHER OF ALL THINGS HOLY THAT IS NOT AN ACCEPTABLE THING TO HEAR, EVER, NOT EVEN IN A MERCHANT MARINE SHIP'S BRIG AFTER A FIGHT. MY GOD; FURTHER: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!] and did you get a rash?

Dad: Please stop talking. Please—

Son: Is this normal? (Shows photograph of AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!]

Dad: I'll do anything. Anything.

Son: Can I get a new game dedicated desktop with nine terabytes of ram and an oil cooled hard drive?

Dad: Here's my credit card.

As I leave the room, he calls his friend and I hear:

Son: Misson accomplished.

Monday is Manday: Smoke 'em if you Got 'em.

Saturday. A sacred day for men. We cut the grass. We work on our car. We drink beer.

We also smoke cigars. I spent Saturday sunk into my favorite fleet of leather armchairs with my knuckles wrapped around an Uzi.

In this specific incident, that Uzi is a cigar named after the Public Enemy song, is the private blend of Drew Estate owner and cigar hero, Jonathan Drew.



If you smoke, you know Drew Estate. They're bringing swagger back to cigars the Goorin (more on them later) is bringing some panache back to fedoras. Here's how the Stogie Guys describe the guts of an Uzi:

Uzi (or MUWAT, as Jonathan Drew of Drew Estate calls it) is made at the Joya de Nicaragua factory with leaf mostly from Drew Estate, including a San Andreas maduro capa wrapper, Connecticut capote binder, and Brazillian mata fina filler. Also used as filler is Nicaraguan leaf from Joya de Nicaragua’s tobacco stocks.

I know this: the guys around me were sort of jealous and all walked into the humidor and bought their own.

 

Go the F*ck to this page and read my article on Go the F*ck to Sleep!

As I ramp up to dominating the North California parent blog landscape, I've been summoned to review Adam Mansbach's seminal title, Go the F*uck to Sleep.

 

Please visit the link to read my review and please comment. Thanks.

13 Things about Sasquatch I Wish Were Myths

 

1. Aspires to be as swift as a three-toed tree sloth

2. Poops footballs

3. Openly asscrackian

4. Constantly under attack from his own hair

5. Parks his shoes in the foyer instead of the garage where they would fit

6. Watches Intervention and Hoarders like he's taking notes

7. Say what?—chicken butt! joke is turning me psychotic

8. Thinks vegetarianism is all grilled cheese sandwiches and pizza-not actual vegetables

9. Believes the internet is an encyclopedia

10. Thinks he's irish

11. Accomplished Loomer

12. The farting. Must. Stop.

13. Keeps patting me on the head, saying: "you're adorable"

 

Halloween Post Mortem

As always, word of our neighborhood's candycentricness on Halloween has spread to the far boroughs. Swarms of children and their parents thronged our sidewalks and scaled our porches to get candy and we obliged. [My Attorney] actually went into Candy Panic when we looked out our front door and realized there was a line. 

She shot out to the store to front load a metric ton of Mars Bars into the trunk and race back in time to find out the mass candygank had crested and we were left with only our darkened doorsteps and a buttload of candy.

Until 10pm.

Then three kids hit the bell. The dogs go ape. Tweens and their keeper, a kid with hair on his hands and a watch. Barely even in costume. I tried to deny but he already had a fist full of Reeses and was backing away laughing.

A word to future Trick-or-Treaters (TOTs). The following rules will heretofore apply to the House of G:

• If you're texting while I'm putting candy in your bag, bear in mind I keep a secret stash of dog-licked all-natural black licorice under the regular candy and while you're LOLling I'll be putting it into your bag.


• If you ask for candy and you're still wearing your school uniform you get Ramen.


• If you have body hair, you get Ramen.


• Mr. "I'm a werewolf"/"You're not even dressed up."/"Full moon is next week," you get Ramen


• The Papa Joe's pizza delivery guy is not in costume, he's bringing me dinner. Get out of his way.


• "I'm a Republican/Democrat/Occupy Wall Streeter" is not a costume. Ramen.


• Any adult dressed as Wilford Brimley gets beer.


• All of my candy is unwrapped then pre-licked by the dogs.


• Ramen.

Please see my first post as Kitchen Bitch

Go here and like it on Facebook like your life depends on it!

The Long Con

Sasquatch: Dad, can I have $20?

Dad: I gave you money this morning.

Squatch: Dad, that was yesterday.

Dad: Oh. Yeah. Wow. Summer, right?

Squatch: It's cool. You've been working a lot.

Dad: Yeah, thanks. . .wait a minute.

Squatch: Working on . . . on getting old.

Dad: Gimme a second (dials mom).

[My Attorney] What?

Squatch: EVERYTHING HE SAYS IS A LIE!

Dad: never mind (click).

Squatch: Ten bucks for trying?

Dad: Seriously?

Squatch: Five for bravery?

Dad: You've got balls, kid (hands him a fiver).

Squatch opens his wallet to put in the five bucks–it's full of money.

Dad: What the hell?!

Squatch: What?

Dad: How much money is that?

Squatch: A buck twenty.

Dad: WHY ARE YOU HITTING ME UP FOR CASH?

Squatch: I need it for lunch!

Dad: [cursing]

Squatch: Dad, I'm not spending MY money on food.

Dad: [cursing]

Squatch: I mean, you guys are my providers, right?

Dad: What the hell am I going to eat?

Squatch: (pulls a 20 out of his billfold) Here, buy yourself something nice.

Dad: [explodes]

That little ^%$#%#$%!

He got me:

Son: Dad, did you see that evil clown that hides from ugly people?

Me: No . . .

Son: [Grin.]

Dad: [Facepalm.]

Cause waking up is hard to do.

I woke up this morning at the crack of 8:30 because my dog is a passive aggressive  ninja.

Normally, I'm up pretty early in the morning, poking my son with a stick and trying to protect vital body parts from his flailing hands and feet, to wake him up for school. Why he can't wake up by himself remains a mystery. It is, however, some kind of tradition in our house that even the dogs and the cat can get behind: I am the house alarm clock.

[My Attorney] will crash into our bedroom like a one-woman-band, with an open laptop, a blackberry, her iPhone, her iPad, a book, a notebook, post-it notes, pens and highlighters, and a metric ton of diet coke. Even though I was lying there in the dark, snoring, she will click on the light, drop her cargo, and open the nuclear bomb loud diet coke can while talking to me as if we've been awake and in a conversation for the last 20 minutes.

[My Attorney]: "Don't forget, I have to get up early tomorrow."

Me: "Brm vrl grlgqk mammpr"

[My Attorney]: "6:30 I guess?"

Me: "Vlm gragg poopy knob creature"

[My Attorney]: "6:35 then, bu be sure I get up."

At 6:35 am the next day my phone's alarm explodes into the theme from Hawaii 5-0 and vibrates itself through the mattress and the floor and the kitchen into the basement. I lean over and gently shake [My Attorney's] shoulder.

[My Attorney]: "No the 9-36 has to be filed in the state's office."

Me: "It's 6:35, dear, you told me to—"

[My Attorney]: "Because we have a deposition with an expert in Ohio."

Me: "Honey, you're talking in your—"

[My Attorney]: (Furious hand waving in a curt manner clearly employing the universal sign for 'shut up drooly, I'm on the phone!')

Waking the girl requires a hazmat suit and a stun stick. I won't even go into it.

This morning I had planned to sleep in. No alarms were set. The kids and [My Attorney] were up until 2am—garunteed to sleep till noon. I was ready to loll.

At 7am, I startled awake by a wet nose in my armpit. I grab a crowbar from the nightstand and pry open my eyes.

My dog, Whiskey, is staring at me.

Whiskey: "Oh, are you up?"

Me: "What the %$#@ &^%$?!, Whiskey?!"

Whiskey: "Nothing. Nothing. But seriously, since you're up, I could use your thumbmanship in opening that back door and letting me out."

Me: "%$#@!#$%"

Whiskey: "That's cool, I totally understand. I can pee in your shoes again."

Ty walks into the room and shoves his nose into my crotch.

Ty: "Hey man."

Me: "Jesus, Ty!"

Ty: "I tried to tell him not to wake you up. But since you are up, you think you might let me out also?"

Me: "&^%$$#@!"

Ty: "Can I smell your butt?"

We're All Peons Until we Pee On Something We All Pee On

Just a quick note to dog owners out there. Really, a plea. A cry for help.

These qudrepeds I suffer, they are developing a habit I cannot explain. Though they spend a considerable portion of each day barking in the backyard out by the fence where my poor neighbor is just trying to plant some flowers with their snarling biters inches from his face, even though they are coddled and cared for as if they were my own children (maybe better), they still take it upon themselves to make water on my stuff.

It's as if it is a competition for canine promotional items. Like they are going to get a prize, like a customized notepad, for whomever sprinkles my trinkets last and longest.

Last week they peed on a bankers box full of old bills and files. We had to go through the whole thing and salvage what we could (including one of my personalized notepads, drawings and all).

So [My Attorney] decided to buy a carpet cleaner, an upright totally tight version of those retarded red plastic Daleks they rent in the grocery store. She's wanted one forever, thumbing through catalogs, looking them up online, and standing in awe at Bed Bath & Beyond at the rack of highly customized carpet cleaners and steambots that will suck your carpet clean of urine.

She used it while I was at fishcamp and actually called me, she was so excited. "It's so awesome!"

Today [My attorney] jetted off to work and the kids trudged off to school and I walked upstairs to this desk right here where I sit, surrounded by all my paper clips and office supply promotional items and banged my head repeatedly on the wall because the dogs, the stupid, disgusting, hateful, regrettable canines have peed on our carpet cleaner.

13 Things on Thursday my Kids Will Never Think About in Their Future

1. Atlases.


2. Faxes.


3. Pay Phones.


4. Film.


5. Walkie Talkies.


6. Libraries.


7. Newspapers.


8. Mail.


9. Catalogues.


10. Being lost.


11. Cheap gas.


12. Hippies.


13. Osama Bin Laden.

Jasminedirectory.com's business listing let you command the web

Do not look for clutter or confusion on Jasmine Business Web Directory. There simply is not any to be seen. Jasminedirectory.com business listing is bright looking and concise, and is almost completely without those buttons that populate so many other web pages and sites. Nor is the home page clogged with those large photographs, which seem to have become ubiquitous on web pages these days.

Jasmine's links are listed plainly, and its info paragraphs are short and to the point. All of the site's features are pointed out in an organized manner which prevents busy people from wasting precious time. The web designer is skilled in the art of whittling and has pared the home page down to the degree where all users can locate exactly what they are looking for, in the shortest possible amount of time. Jasminedirectory.com is W3 css and HTML valid, generates automatic thumbnails for illustrated posts, and offers 5 deep URLs.



From Arts to Health to Family to Recreation to Shopping and E-commerce, the site's categories are laid out clearly in a two column list at the center right, along with the number of entries in each category. Surrounding the categories are 100% SEO friendly brief paragraphs of information pertaining to what other areas of interest business people can expect to find.

The site's motto is "Don't surf the web. Command it." Having your business listed in a site like Jasminedirectory.com shows that you are in command, and like the site itself, you have zero interest in wasting time or money. Submitting a business or a website to a web directory, to be reviewed by editors and experts, is an emerging aspect of the online world. When deciding to go that route, why bother wasting time looking elsewhere? Jasminedirectory.com business web directory is already "state of the art".

My Dogs Can Spell.

We have a fence. So walking our dogs is as easy as opening our back door.

Based on the way we all avoid it, however, you'd think the door was two feet thick and made out of pure Unobtainium.

Nobody wants to get up out of their wallow and haul their magnificent corpus thirty one arduous feet to the back door and, using our last remaining ounce of strength, push it open so the dogs can race out the doggy door and pee on my grill.

Here's how it goes down: we'll all be sunk down into our easy-couch, eyes over the tops of our knees so we won't miss a minute of "Hoarders," and the dogs will actually lean against the front door and stare at me with their doggy eyebrows arched and their skinny little legs enpretzellated, whining through their ears. One of us will notice and quickly rebury our head into our iPad/laptop/game console/tacos and pretend we didn't see them. Then someone else will raise their head and shrug and ahem and relent and say the dogs need to go out and world war nine ensues.

By World War Nine, I mean an It's Your Turn fusillade of titanic proportions. No one wants to do it. No one will do it. Eventually, the dogs will give up and pee in my shoes.

For awhile, the dogs would keep staring at us until we got up and said out. Then they'd explode and hit the back door.

Apparently, dogs are trainable. They quickly associated out utterance of out with peeing and as soon as we'd say it, they'd bolt. So we got wise and started spelling it.

They had it down in a week. Then I started spelling slower and the poor little bastids would hang on every letter.

I am writer. Me spell gud. Look:

http://www.chicagoparent.com/magazines/chicago-parent/2011-april/garlington-keep-your-pause-away-from-me

13 Things you don't want to hear while teaching your kid how to drive.

1. I learned this in BurnOut 4 . . .


2. I learned this in Grand Theft Auto . . .


3. I saw this in the Fast ad the Furious . . .


4. I learned this from mom . . .


5. What does this do?


6. &^%$#@!


7. I filled up with Diesel cause it's good for the environment.


8. I learned this from Wile E. Coyote . . .


9. How soon can I drift?


10. How many points for a dentist?


11. God, I'm so sleepy . . .


12. I could fit like seven girls in this car.


13. I could fit like seven boys in this car.

Shameless Plea

People: Several of my short stories are now available for the Kindle on Amazon dot com. And they're CHEAP! Check it out!

Picture Day: Family Photos

[caption id="attachment_1230" align="alignleft" width="300" caption="On vacation in Mexico . . ."][/caption]

We're going to Ireland this summer and I want to get a family photo while we're there. We have zero family photos since we can't all sit together without screaming long enough to take a picture. Hopefully, we'll get her done. But I'm hoping, also, to avoid the classic awkward family photo curse that dominates the Internet meme pool (see left). I'm taking suggestions.

Driving miss crazy

Once again I ventured out into the wild to teach my daughter how to drive. I love her and I have massive respect for her ability as an artist and muffin cook but as a driver, she is OH MY GOD LOOK OUT!

How bad? First words out of her mouth: This is the brake? Sooooo, this is the gas?

It did not inspire confidence.

But I know it's not always as bad as it seems to the parent desperately trying to shove their brake foot through the passenger side floorboard.

But my job is to inspire confidence and bring her to a level of pilotus automobilius that will allow me to send her on important errands like getting me an emergency Partagas Maduro. We need her to go get McDonald's, gas, drive her brother to school, and pick up another metric ton of Diet Coke.

So I swallowed my fear and kept a calm exterior as she braked at green lights, changed lanes without looking, drove over a curb and generally left a wake of destruction and terror from Cicero and Elston all the way to Costco in Skokie.

And the confidence trick is working. She's already dismissing poorly parked cars with a roll of her eyes and she's beginning to curse with genuine aplomb. But I am perhaps providing a disservice as her skills don't quite match her game face. I want her to be confident, I do, but I also want her to quit asking, this way is right, right?

13 Literary Masterpieces Rewritten by Dr. Suess

1. To Think that I Saw it on The Bridge Over San Luis Rey!


2. Horton Hears a Mockingjay


3. One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Ironweed


4. 100 Years of the 500 Hats of Bartholomew Cubbins


5. If I Ran Focault's Pendulum


6. The Bronte Sisters Hop on Pop


7. A Tale of Two Sneetches


8. The Tropic of Green Eggs & Ham


9. A Good Scent from a Strange Lorax


10. The Amazing Adventures of Cavalier and Fox in Socks


11. Marvin K. Mooney: Interpreter of Maladies


12. No Country for the Cat in the Hat


13. The Optimist's Daughter, the Old Man, and the Sea.

10 Snappy Questions for Douchey Realtors

1. What's the public nudity policy around here?


2. How many bodies do you think we could fit in this yard? I mean if we stack 'em.


3. No [insert current oppressed ethnicity here] people around here, right?


4. (To wife) Man, we're going to need SO much tinfoil to cover these windows.


5. Can we get all the knobs reversed?


6. I like it, but my spirit guide says it's full of snakes.


7. Is there a waffle maker? (ask in every room)


8. (Grab wife's dumper) Are these walls soundproof? Heh heh.


9. (Shutting Master bedroom door on Realtor) Can you give us a few minutes . . .


10. Where's the fartorium?

Death by Radio

 

I have one of those rigs that plays my iTunes through my car radio. It only hooks up to my iPhone so iI  have  the iOnly iPhone that iWorks on iIt. I thought this would ensure I don't have to suffer through my kids' play lists when I'm driving and could, instead, listen to real music like Creedence Clearwater Revival and Capt. Beefheart. On repeat.

I was wrong. Naturally.

My kids just get in, swipe my rig and plug a new station into Pandora and there I am stuck in traffic listening to Neutral Milk Hotel or something I can only describe as incidental music for a vampire's wake.

I endure it. It's part of being a parent. I tortured my dad with Queen and AC/DC and he tortured me with George Jones and the Lettermen so I know where they're coming from.

Pandora has been my constant companion since I got my phone. In case you've never used it, Pandora creates an online radio station based on a song or band you like. It names the station after that song. Ergo: I have a station called "Born on the Bayou" and "Psycho Killer".

But I was giving a friend a ride yesterday and he was digging my music so he opened Pandora on my iPhone to iCheck it out and started laughing.

Dude: Dude, are all of these your playlists?

Me: Yep.

Dude: They're . . . eclectic.

Me: Well, I used to run a record store so I—wait, which ones?

Dude: Well, "Enormous Penis radio" sounds good. "Sex with ducks radio" would go over well on Belmont & Western . . .

Me: [French].

Lesson, never give up your death like grip o your iPhone.

Meet Hazel Helga Olgavycz

[caption id="attachment_1177" align="alignleft" width="183" caption="Hazel Helga Olgavycz"][/caption]

The Last Load of Laundry is Done.

Recently, my attorney made a life changing decision that affected our marriage and the lives of our children. A decision I have mixed feelings about; one I am reluctant to discuss for fear of revealing too much about me, our house, and our marriage. My attorney hired a housekeeper.

I never thought in a million years I'd grow up and live in the big city in a house with a maid. But here I am, sprawled on the couch in my fourth hour of bad television with the hardest part of my day—lifting my feet so [the housekeeper] can vacuum under the couch. I'm exhausted.

This comes at a great time in both our careers as My Attorney is poised to move forward into some new professional tier I barely comprehend but translates into "more time at the office," and my second career is finally crawling out from under its rock and showing its face.

It's almost silly for us to have a housekeeper as our house is so small you could keep it in a bedroom drawer and still have room for socks and loose change. But contained within the basement is the eighth wonder of the world, a challenge to mountaineers everywhere, Everest's sister peak: Mt. Laundry.

Or it used to be. For as long as we've been here, our laundry room has been anywhere from hip to shoulder deep in dirty clothes. Although we tried, we could never get that last mound of moldy duds into the washing machine before the kids turned their closet inside out down the basement steps to fill up all available space.

But today, today is historical. Today, our housekeeper, this magical whirlwind of industry, this woman composed, apparently, of a secret cabal of elves, just did the last load.

I can see floor.

I'm wearing a shirt I haven't seen since Roon was a boy. We have ALL OF OUR SOCKS. It's a miracle.

And I need to name it. As I suddenly have more time on my hands which, to my dismay, My Attorney has refused to allow me to dedicate to video games and porn, I will be writing more. Here. In this here space. For you. And I owe it to my sexy successful Attorney—and her maid.
Since I'll likely be mentioning this person, and since I value people's privacy, and since I don't want to get sued, I'll need to provide this person with a nom de blog and I look to you, gentle reader, to assist.

Please name my maid in the comments section below. The winning name's author will receive a free copy of my co-authored book, The Beat Cop's Guide to Chicago Eats.