I assume we all got the email today. Just figured I’d pass along these unpublished changes to Google’s policies: 

1. Google will no longer save camera footage of users typing emails.
2. Google will remove users’ information from company toilet paper.
3. Residents of Xxyzz, California will be returned their American citizenship status.
4. Google Search will no longer deduct 5 cents from the Social Security account of user conducting search.
5. Google will now require passwords to include at least one umlaut or circumflex per 3 characters.
6. Google Water will no longer contain Trimethylamine N-oxide.
7. A mortgage foreclosure by any user with a Google email address is no longer required to forfeit the property to Google.
8. Google will return all missing pets previously held as “collateral.”
9. Google Death will be terminated.
10. Google users will cease and desist all contact and correspondence with users of Yahoo!.

Keep your stick on the ice.

Hey universe, what up? (I’m talking to the entire universe here. I have met all 14 people that exist and seen all 3 rooms.) I’ve been here quite some time now, nearly 4 weeks, so I feel I’ve got it all figured out. Still, there’s some things that are a little silly, aren’t there? Let’s discuss them.

Have you ever noticed that sometimes weird lights appear in that giant dark expanse that exists 6 feet beyond your face? ‘Sup with that? And talk about some big people that wander out of the darkness. This one guy with a deep voice that sometimes smells funny has hands bigger than my whole body. I call him, “Big Voice and Hand Guy Who Isn’t Mom.” He’s cool I guess, but almost never lets me drink milk from his nose or nipples, though I try. Oh, how I try. 

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I’ve had a lot of odd jobs in my life.

I’ve been a caddy, a grocery bagger, a water ski instructor, an assistant tennis pro (only for a week once they realized I’d never played tennis before in my life), a delivery truck worker, a suit salesman, a copy writer, an internet advertising salesman, a waiter, a caterer, a receptionist, an assistant, a voice over artist, a disc jockey, a news anchor, a fur salon clerk, a stockboy, and I once worked at a gas station.

Tomorrow I’ll be a spaceman.

Mother Blogs and the Redhead (also a mother) have escaped the dark, courtyard apartment and re-entered the Earth, leaving Sister Blogs and I alone with the kid and football. Since Sister Blogs is holding the remote, we’re also getting a healthy dose of Improv Ice, featuring Styx.

(On Ice.)

At first it’s curious that Styx would perform a live soundtrack to improvisational figure skating, but then you see it for yourself and realize there’s no better band suited for the task.

It’s a fascinating conundrum. While I’m not really a football fan, I would rather watch football than whatever the hell I’m currently watching. Improv figure skating? It’s basically sashaying around the ice like a goon to “Borrowed Time.” My daughter however, is a girl, and it’s conceivable we’re influencing her. Exposing my daughter to either football or ice skating, both gender schemata according to an old psychology class I half remember, could influence how she see’s her role as a woman in society. Will she want to be a scantily clad princess who’s only job is to smile and throw her legs in the air, or a cheerleader? Will she start liking Styx, or even worse, football?

She’s due for a nap anyway, and I think I am, too. I’ll make her a better person later.

My mom is here. Here in Los Angeles. Here, as in sleeping on my couch a few feet from my daughter. My sister arrives in a few hours.

Let’s sum up: I, Tucker Blogs, Ruler of Australia, will be spending the next week in a one bedroom apartment with my mother, my wife, my sister, and my daughter.

Suddenly, the hammock on the patio looks beautiful. I opened the fridge to grab a beer, and accidentally clanked another bottle. The ripple effect caused by that sound not only woke up the baby, but alerted my mom and my baby mamma that I was drinking (and not including them). I quickly adjourned to the roof. Sometimes a man needs to get away… and given the crowd, I dare you to blame me.

The biggest issue we’re facing however, is what to call my mom. She has gone on record as hating the title, “Grandma.” My dad is ready to go as “Papa,” leaving the obvious partner title of “Nana” to my mom, but she won’t have that either. My dad’s parents were always “Nana and Papa” and my mom’s parents were always “Grandma and Grandpa,” but we pronounced it Nana (Nə-na, as in about). My mom decided after careful thought, that she would prefer Nana (Nă-na, as in and), stating that Peter Pan had a Năna, to which my sister (at a different time) immediately retorted, “yeah, the dog.” Mom later rescinded.

We don’t know what to call her. Dad is Papa, Sister is Aunty Itty (as in itty bitty Liddy), Brother is Nuncle Ned (too much to go into now), but what is to be the title of her father’s mother? Sure, Fyona’s about 18 days old, but we can’t wait for her to sound out some “mee maw goo ma” bunk, as is my mom’s plan. That’s at least 2 years away. I’m pushing Năna, since it seemed to last for awhile, and as of now, anything’s better than the current title, “Cheryl.”

Suggestions?