Alan May, Coldwell Banker Evanston Realtor, North Shore Realtor

Friday and Saturday I hosted a relocation client, and we toured the entire Chicago Suburban area. My client felt bad, making me drive all over... but I rather liked it. She was concerned that I was spending too much on gas, all because of her. Hey, it's the cost of doing business... I'm happy to do it.

Okay, we didn't tour ALL of it, it only felt like it. We looked at Sleepy Hollow, Cary, Fox River Grove, Gurnee, Wadsworth, Zion, and Beach Park. We saw a total of over 18 properties, all within a $50,000 range. Due to the diversity of the areas, we saw everything from a home built over 100 years ago to new construction, not yet complete... and 1,700 square feet, to a giant at 4,800 square feet (at least that's what they listed it at... but there's no way it was really 4,800 square unless they were counting the area of the roof!).

It was a marathon weekend, that included a lunch break each day... we went non-stop from 10:00 a.m. - 4:00 p.m. Friday & Saturday, but the good news is we'll probably have a decision on one of the 18 properties by Monday. We did see homes that work for this client.

I also have showings this afternoon with a different client. The last couple of weeks have been non-stop, and it's nice to be busy again.

My wife and I went to a Vietnamese restaurant last night (for those in the area... it was Tank Noodle on Argyle and Broadway). As we were perusing the menu, she seemed somewhat amused, and said to me... "look at #50 on the menu". The waiter overheard her and said "You want number FIFTY??? Whoaa!!", clearly impressed with her choice.

"No, I DON'T want number fifty" she replied... I looked at the item on the menu... it was a common Vietnamese-style dish... a large bowl of soup, with many ingredients and many spices... but one of the ingredients had struck her funny-bone. Cow Penis. Yep, that's right, you heard me "Cow Penis".

Now we asked the waiter (whose English was only so-so)...

"Do many people order number fifty?" He admited, "no, not many".

Before all of you get all caught up in the "ewwwwwwwww" factor... I want you to think about it for a moment... have you thought about it yet... no? give it another minute. Okay, now!

As I said to the waiter... I have a little problem with this dish.... he looked at me quizically.... A cow is a female.... she doesn't HAVE a penis. He responded "right.... not anymore!!!".

hmmmmmm

My daughter, Elizabeth (Liz) raised a concern, the other day, that she was getting "short shrift" on my blog, and her sister Sarah was getting more coverage. I looked through my blog posts, and dang if she wasn't right. Sarah had way more coverage, since she had recently been married, and then taken an extended trip to Bangkok. But wait, I'm talking about Sarah again.

In an effort to ameliorate that inequity, I posted Equal Time. The daughter in question has not yet commented. In fairness, it's highly likely that the "daughter in question" hasn't even SEEN the post yet, since she only tends to read my blog, when she's here, and using my computer. She can just click on my "active rain" link, and doesn't have to remember any fancy URL (yes, daughter, that's right... your ancient daddy knows what a URL is and can use it in a sentence).

As you can see from the photo... Liz is cute as a bug in a rug, and plenty o' smart to boot. Just in case Equal Time wasn't enough to bring us to equal, I thought I'd write another post, and include this photo of Liz. Okay, okay... the photo was taken at Sarah's rehearsal dinner (dang, i keep bringing up Sarah)... but it's a darn cute photo of Liz, so...I'm leaving it up.

Liz has recently begun her fieldwork, in pursuit of the completion of her master's degree in occupational therapy, and is less than 6 months away from graduation. I promise to blog about her gradumacation. (of course that means, I'll have to fit 15 more posts about her sister... but I think I can manage.)

Liz is currently living with her pet cat, Bailey, who is the devil incarnate. The cat is mean, mean, mean. His latest trick is to sit ON the mouse, while you're using it... and if you try to pull the mouse out, he'll bite you on the hand. Nice. But she loves this evil cat, and she claims that he loves her... and by LOVES, I mean TOLERATES... and by TOLERATE, I mean he "bites her less than others".

I'm sure that Liz will enjoy the fact that I'm "featuring" her in this post. (not)... but hey... equity is an important factor, and since you pointed it out, I want to make sure you get equal... or maybe MORE than equal coverage!! And besides, the more I post about her, the more opportunity it gives her to correct my grammar, spelling and/or punctuation!

So... here's to you, Lizzie-Occupational-Therapy-Student-Mean Cat-Whisperer, and tamer of the Bailey, Lady! Here's to you!

btw... thanks to Kristin Moran for the idea for the title of this post.

There's a local show, here in Chicago, that's kinda taken public television by storm. It's called "Check Please", and it began quite unnoticed in 2001, but soon took off. I blogged about it before, noting that in 2001, as they just began, they had a State Senator from Ilinois on the show. That show never aired... for many reasons... but due to Barack Obama's newfound fame, they decided to air it on this past Friday, as their 100th episode!

I watched the show (here's a clip). There were three normal Chicagoans (well, two and senator Obama) who'd recommended their favourite restaurants, sitting 'round a table, in an information discussion setting, as though they were eating dinner at a restaurant. Amanda Puck, the hostess, would ask questions as they described their restaurants and experiences, and reviewed the others suggestions.

As you can imagine... Barack was well spoken, and charming. (D'uh!).. he quickly took center stage, not because he was trying to steal the limelight, simply because his personality is larger than life. The hostess seemed a little uncomfortable with this new name "Braack", but he spoke so eloquently that she asked him many of the questions. Each answer, as we've learned from watching him carefully for the last two years, was tightly crafted, and went on for minutes. No "one word" answers from "Braaack". His smile was infectious, as he spoke about the need for time out with the girls, and the difficulty of planning his schedule for dinners out.

At one point, during a break in the shooting... He calmed one of the other attendees (A Chicago fireman), and said... "this is a perfect example... don't worry... producers are never satisfied".

The three guest reviewers were poorly matched. The fireman was inarticulate, and even explained that the French restaurant that the first guest had recommended was a bit over his head, and it made him uncomfortable. He had ordered something he was unfamiar with, and it didn't "appeal" to him... (soft shell crab) and didn't know how to eat it properly... "Maybe it just wasn't for me".. he suggested. Brrraaaack interjected, and tried to put him at ease, saying "maybe the shell was too hard".... "no the shell was fine, it was me".

Honestly, Barack Obama even outcharmed the hostess, who seemed highly enamoured of the state senator... and why not? He was talkative, put his companions at ease, smiled a lot, talked about his family...Everything a host should do... oh, wait... he's not the host!!! he recommended a restaurant within his district (Dixie Kitchen and Bait Shop)... a southern cooking restaurant in Hyde Park who's prices are reasonable, and even the firefighter enjoyed the food.

Oh, and Barack's a fan of the "peach cobbler".

We have it on DVR... I'm sure we'll watch it at least one more time. Maybe just before the inauguration.

Barbara Duncan's recent post, reminded me of our experience (many years ago) with a neighbourhood skunk, I thought I'd relate.

Over a period of several months, we'd been smelling skunks in our area... the weather had been hot, we'd been sleeping with the windows open, and each evening, without fail, came the strong smell wafting through our 2nd floor bedroom windows... it was noxious.

So... we contacted a local pest control, who recommended calling the city of Evanston, who had a nuisance-pest-removal program... which was free. Sure enough Evanston said they'd send out a guy right away. The trapper said they would use a "friendly trap" (which traps the animal without harming them), and that we should check it daily, and once we had trapped a skunk, they would come out the following day and relocate him.

On the first night (Monday), we trapped a squirrel. The squirrel was clearly pissed-off, as he did laps around the cage, chattering all the time... we were afraid to even approach the trap, as we didn't want to upset him further. Evanston's animal control came out Tuesday, released the frenzied squirrel, and reset the trap.

On Wednesday night, we trapped another squirrel. The procedure was the same... Animal control released him on Thursday, and reset the trap. On Thursday night.... finally, success! When we looked at the trap on Friday morning, and there, sitting quietly was a lovely specimen of Pepe LePew. He (or she?) had two lovely white stripes down her back, and sat low in the cage, carefully ignoring us. We called the city right away, and they said "We'll be out on Monday to pick him up"... MONDAY??? "Oh, we don't pick up trapped animals on the weekend?"

But, But, But... it's 90 degrees out... the poor thing will die in the heat? "Sorry... we'll see you Monday". Okay, we can't allow the animal to suffer, can we... he's so cute... (can we keep him, ask my little girls???) almost looks cuddley... he'd make a cute pet (if he didn't stink to high-heaven). Okay... I went online and did some quick research, which showed me that a skunk can spray as far as 40 feet away (OMG... 40 FEET?? Really?).

Okay, determined as we are, to make sure the Skunk lives all the way to Monday without any suffering we develop a plan. My wife goes out on the roof of our den, with a box of Cheerios... and carefully drops handsful of Cheerios into the cage... so the poor thing will have something to eat, and won't starve to death. (I hope Cheerios are okay... maybe he'd prefer Raisin Bran, or Rice Chex?). And from a safe distance, I take the garden hose, and try to spray a cooling mist over the cage every couple of hours... We manage this routine, on a regular basis over the long, hot weekend... and we arrive at Monday morning... with a happy, well-fed, cool skunk.

Monday mid-morning, city Animal Control arrives, the pick up truck pulls up, and my wife and daughters both run out to watch how they'll transfer our new friend. My daughter's faces suddenly turn ashen, as the Animal Control Feller (and yes, I did just call him a feller) with half a mouthful of teeth, wearing coveralls (and no shirt) steps out of the pick up, totin' a rifle. My wife asks... what're you going to do with that rifle?, as she attempts to turn the girls back toward the house.

Well, it turns out that Evanston Animal Control didn't have a "friendly relocation program" for skunks... (as Barbara's does)... just for other critters. And he perfunctorily walks into the back yard (as my daughters eyes fill with tears, waiting in the front yard), and the bang echoes through the neighborhood.

[insert dead silence here... around distance echo of a gun shot... and then crows rising into the sky.... cawing]

Now, I'm sure many of you can guess, that when the guy from Deliverance walked up to the trap, pointing a rifle, that the poor beleaguered animal released a full dose of odor. It released yet another dose when the bullet pierced it's scent sac and in the throes of death, sprayed it's little heart out. The odor spread out in waves, like atomic fallout.

It took weeks for the smell to leave our house (and I don't mean our yard... I mean it permeated the INSIDE of the house... it smelled as though they had shot that poor animal IN the center of our living room)! And then it took a couple more weeks for the smell in the yard to dissipate.

Needless to say, we have NEVER called animal control again. The soft scent of a wafting skunk in the yard is almost nostalgic these days. We would never think of putting ourselves through that again, and of course, our children would never forgive us... I'm not confident that they've forgiven us for the first time, yet