The year my kids were two and seven, my husband, Michael, suggested that I complete the last two years of my bachelor’s degree.

“You’re kidding.” I was holding a lamb chop, chasing the two-year-old across the kitchen floor. Lamb chops were Sara’s favorite, so I broiled a couple for breakfast, my new strategy to tackle her recent hunger strike.

The eleven-foot pole. (Useful in touching things you wouldn’t touch with a ten foot pole)

Beautiful, mid-century modern, daylight basement home built in 1960 for sale in thriving southeast Portland. Sitting on 1/3 of an acre, this property feels like a country oasis in the middle of the city. At just over 2,000 square feet and with room to add an ADU in the future, this can be your forever home as well as your income property. The land is lined with well-manicured arbore vitaes that turn a stunning brown in the summer, and beautiful local trees have been planted within the last two years to help offset the carbon footprint of the newly installed central air conditioning.

Hello, Hells Angels. I know it must be a surprise to see me up here—after all, most of you know me as Demon’s Claw, your New Initiate. But in reality, my name is Chet, and I’m a McKinsey Associate. Your president hired me last month to conduct a full review of the club and identify strategies for modernizing it, so I went undercover. I imagine some of you questioned why the new guy who couldn’t shoot a gun—or even ride a motorcycle—was trying to join Hells Angels, but I hope I won you over with my deep knowledge of the history of this organization and a seemingly endless supply of vulgar T-shirts.

As a renter, you can either surrender to the vermin that eat all your Chips Ahoy but don’t pay their fair share of rent or you can blow them off the face of the fucking earth. When the sticky traps suck ass and the snap traps don’t clap, I opt for the war criminal’s favorite initialism: ICBM.