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.