A Division of Labor

Sven and I have a good marriage. We love each other, we get along, we enjoy each other's company, and we have a lot in common. We've been together for 15 years. I'm starting to believe it will last.

When it comes to household chores, neither of us is what you would call "tidy." Or even "bearable." We each have our strengths (ability to ignore messes for a very long time) and our weaknesses (ability to complain about messes we have been ignoring for a very long time).

Sven and I each work, full-time, outside the home. We are both teachers. During the school year very little in the way of home maintenance is done. I keep everyone in clean clothes. Sven keeps the yard in compliance with the homeowner's association rules. We each do our part to make sure there is something to eat, though I confess more often than not that means Sven picks up the take-out and I throw away the containers.

During the summer, though, we "catch up" on a number of pesky chores that we simply don't have time for ordinarily, like sweeping, mopping, organizing, vacuuming, dusting, editing, and conditioning. Sven and I do a fairly good job of sharing the labor equally. There are a few "my" jobs (folding the laundry, tidying the living room) and some "his" jobs (lawn care, carpet cleaning), but dishes, laundry, cooking, and basic cleaning are shared responsibilities.

Which leads me to my question today: if there is a chore that has separate components, is it necessary for the same person to do each part of the chore? If not, should the workers collaborate to make sure the initial part of the chore is complete in a manner acceptable to the person completing subsequent parts of the chore?

Example: Dishes.

Sven and I have different philosophies when it comes to dishes. For instance, I load the silverware tray with the "business ends" poking up, so the part that touches the food gets clean. I also put a variety of utensils in each slot, because they can't stick together if there's only one spoon, one fork, one knife, etc. Sven says he doesn't like that, because it's harder to unload. While I can respect that, I'd rather the dishes get clean. Furthermore, Sven always manages to load the dishwasher in some crazy ninja way that prevents me from unrolling the bottom rack without dragging out the top one, meaning I have to unload the whole darned thing if I want a frying pan from the bottom left. Which I should do anyway. Don't judge me.

So who gets priority? The person who loads, or the person who unloads?

But the more important question: why do I care? In a sound, happy marriage, where I love my husband and he loves me, and we have two beautiful kids and adequate money coming in, two working cars and a nice house, why was I ready to scream at Sven today because he only washed spoons and knives and left all of the forks in the sink?

Is it human nature to look for conflict? Do we naturally look for the problems? Or is it just me?

I didn't mention it to Sven. (Yes, dear, I realize I'm mentioning it now, but only in an abstract, hypothetical way, not a critical one. You do the dishes just fine and I love you very much.) I unloaded the dishes, then loaded the dishwasher my way and started it. But I wondered: is this how those couples end up on Dr. Phil? You know, the ones where the man goes out and has an affair because his wife wouldn't ever let him fold the towels, because he "didn't do it right?" How many ways are there to fold towels?

Princess and Dexy are getting to the point that they are helping around the house. Dexy does it because he loves to help. He understands throwing things in the garbage, and does it so enthusiastically that we have to dig through our garbage to find forks, bowls, bills, and toys before taking it out. Princess is beginning to help because I'm making her. I stand over her for 10 minutes so she can do a job that takes me 30 seconds, but I tell myself I'm building her character.

But, it makes me happy that I really don't care how she puts the toys away, as long as it gets done. Maybe I'm making progress. I'm going to cancel that appointment with Dr. Phil...

Welcome to the Jungle

We have a new favorite place.

The Rainforest Cafe.

Experience what it is like to spend money in an authentic rainforest setting, if rainforests were plastic and full of robots!

Since many of my readers are not blessed to reside in a state containing this amazing dining concept, such as the Great State of Texas ("Waiting for Alaska to Melt"), I should explain.

Imagine, if you will, a fairly expensive casual dining restaurant, combined with a fairly expensive toy store, combined with Chuck-E-Cheese. Then give it all an "environmental" theme, and voila! (French, meaning "poof"): you have the Rainforest Cafe.

Tasteful, no?

We generally eat at the one in Galveston, TX:

We began going when Princess was just a little tot. Now that we have Dexy, going to Rainforest Cafe (what the kids call "The Jungle") is an exciting and costly adventure.

When one enters the Rainforest Cafe, one does not merely enter a "restaurant." One enters a "restaurant with a toy store." Helpfully, the hostess stand is located in the middle of the toy store, for your spending convenience. Heaven help you if there is a wait. I mean it. You could easily spend $100 just waiting to eat, at least at the one in Galveston: they have a special, Rainforest-themed Build-A-Bear Workshop right there!

Thank goodness. I can't tell you how neglectful as I parent I have felt, without a custom-stuffed rhinoceros wearing a safari outfit and combat boots.

One does not get seated at the Rainforest Cafe by a hostess, one has a "tour guide." One is not waited on, one has a "safari guide" to "lead you" through the "adventure" and "refill" your "Sprite."

If you are a savvy and frugal individual, like myself, you will fork over the $15 to join the Rainforest Club (but I confess I got the membership for $10 because it was "on special."). This membership card gets you a free appetizer (or 10% off adult entrees), 10% off in the toy store, and preferred seating. Our cheese sticks are now free. Nothing else is.

Kids' entrees are $5.99. That is huge, comparatively. The only other place I can think of where we spend that much is Outback Steakhouse, when Princess wants a steak. (Steak and calamari are her two faves.) Soft drinks are $2.50. The adult hamburger plate is $8.99, cheese $.50 extra, french fries $.99 extra. Really. So, doing the math, our meal yesterday:

Cheese sticks: free

Dexy's Jurassic Chicken Bites: $5.99

Princess' Sliders: $5.99

Sven's Burger: $8.99

Cheese: $.50

Fries: $.99

Deb's Burger: $8.99

Cheese: $.50

Drinks: $5.00

Really, $37.45 isn't that bad, right? For a nice meal out at a fun place? Right?

I didn't tell you about dessert.

The Volcano.

Topped with a sparkler, this mountain of brownie, ice cream, whipped cream, fudge, and caramel sauce is a $12.99 flaming mountain of fun. We must get the volcano whenever we go to the jungle. There is no hope of Princess (or now, Dexy) forgetting about it, because the servers (excuse me, "Safari Guides") parade each one through the restaurant bellowing, "VOL-CA-NOOOOO!"

It also doesn't help that now, whenever we go to any restaurant, Princess plaintively asks for the Volcano. She had the waitress at Applebee's in tears with her trembling lower lip and orphaned-waif eyes.

With the addition of the dessert and tax, our bill came to $54 and change. Before we hit the toy store.

Ah, summer.

Cereal Killer

I had a startling realization (i.e. "antiphony") at Sam's club a few weeks ago.

We were in the cereal aisle. In front of us was an array of well-known breakfast cereals packaged in truly offensive quantities. This was a serious decision. Whichever cereal we chose to buy would be with us for a while. I scanned the aisle, and saw it:

Frosted Mini-Wheats. My favorite cereal.

"Let's get the Frosted Mini-Wheats," I said to Sven.

"Frosted Mini-Wheats?" he asked, the expression on his face indicating I had actually suggested Crunchy Grit -n- Paste. "What about Froot Loops?"

You see, Sven and I have very different attitudes about cereal. As children of the '70's (and in my case, '80's), we understand that, after our choice of Saturday morning television, nothing says more about a person than the brand of breakfast cereal they endorse. You could be Wheaties (Bruce Jenner, Mary Lou Retton), or you could be Trix (Silly Rabbit). These were important decisions, in those days.

My cereal identity was determined by my mother. A child of the '50's, my mother took the 1970's and '80's health revolution very seriously. (From everything I understand, in the 1950's a fistful of Oreos crumbled into heavy cream was an acceptable "breakfast." They didn't really start to figure out that might not be good for you until my childhood. Thanks, science.)

Our pantry contained an assortment of rock-and-twig cereals such as Shredded Wheat and Grape Nuts. When she was feeling "kooky" we'd get Corn Flakes, Rice Krispies, or Cheerios. (Rice Krispies were our favorite because the commercials featured Snap, Crackle, and Pop, the Keebler Elf's ne'er-do-well nephews.) Our "treat" cereal was Raisin Bran. My mom wouldn't buy anything containing artificial colors or flavors, or any added sugar. She did, however, allow us to add our own sugar, so when she wasn't looking we would heap sugar on our bowl of Shredded Wheat until the cereal was no longer visible. I think she knew.

Eventually, Mom softened her stance on cereals enough to allow Honey-Nut Cheerios and Frosted Flakes. There was much rejoicing.

My point is not to point out how my mother deprived me of a childhood by refusing to buy Cookie Crisp, it is to explain why I never developed a taste for "kid" cereals. I didn't taste Froot Loops until I was married, as I'm sure the Lord inended. I have never eaten a Coco Puff. I have only ever eaten one freeze-dried marshmallow, and I only did that after I learned Sven's passionate feelings toward them.

Sven's cereal background is vastly different from mine. His father worked in the food service industry, helping to develop new recipes and foods to market. He was instrumental in the creation of "Chex Mix." He also developed the freeze-dried marshmallow, which led to Lucky Charms cereal, Sven's favorite cereal. Sven vastly prefers kid cereals to any of the grown-up varieties. Some of his favorites are Froot Loops, Count Chocula, Fruity Pebbles, and Hershey's Bowl of Miniature Candy Bars That You Just Eat.

The early days of our marriage Sven bought his and I bought mine. That meant Sven bought a box of Lucky Charms and I bought a box each of Raisin Bran, Grape Nuts, Shredded Wheat, and Honey-Nut Cheerios. I would eat a bowl of each, then wait the required 12 months to throw the opened boxes away before I bought more.

Is it any wonder that I'm not allowed to pick the cereal anymore?

Still, I couldn't have the only cereal in our house to be Froot Loops.

"What about Rice Krispies?" I offered to Sven.

"That's not a food, it's an ingredient," he snapped. What about Cookie Crunch?"

We got Cheerios. To date, I am the only person in the house who has eaten any cereal.

Good thing we didn't get something no one else likes...

Reflections on Michael Jackson's Memorial Service

I watched the service yesterday, and I have some observations:

1. The opening of the service bordered on the sacrilegious. (For those who didn't watch, Michael's golden casket was brought into the Staples Center as a choir sang, "Soon and very soon, we are going to see the King." It was unclear whether they meant God or the King of Pop.)

2. I enjoyed the performances, particularly John Mayer, which surprised me, as he is generally the sort of behatted hipster I avoid. However, his guitar-solo rendition of Human Nature was tasteful and beautiful. Jennifer Hudson's performance was also stellar. Lionel Richie, Mariah Carey, Stevie Wonder, and Usher also performed.

3. Of the speakers, most struck me as self-serving and sycophantic. Being from where I'm from, I'm accustomed to Sheila Jackson Lee's style of rhetoric, but I thought it was inappropriate. Al Sharpton and Martin Luther King III's speeches seemed out of place, somehow- they seemed more suited to a political rally than a remembrance.

4. Brooke Shields, by contrast, told of the personal, human side of Michael Jackson. The stories about their exploits as children and her sincere emotion was very moving.

5. Paris Jackson, in my opinion, provided the true memorial. She was in the spotlight for a few seconds, but it wasn't until she spoke that Michael Jackson was really, truly human. She didn't say anything about his fame, or the controversy, or his music...she just talked about her daddy. Despite myself, I cried. Also, despite myself, as I watched her being cradled by her aunt and her brother, I hoped that the kids will be allowed to stay with the only family they know.

So, really, for me the whole memorial could have been 30 seconds long. Just a little girl saying that she loved her daddy. There is some controversy today: some people saying it was staged, others insisting that it was bad for Paris to allow her to speak. That will be hashed out, I suppose, as people try to squeeze another couple of days' worth of headlines out of this.

I'm just going to listen to some music.

Quirks II: Sven's Mom

I never had a great relationship with my mother-in-law. I don't mind saying it, it's just a fact of life. But, she had one little "quirk" that never failed to amuse me:

She always completely butchered names and titles, but in a way that made them easily recognizable.

I was thinking about this when I saw this recent SNL sketch: (Note: the commercial may not load, but watch the bottom bar, after 30 seconds you should get the sketch.)

We had certain things we had to translate for others.

In her language:

"Fluton" = futon ("I don't know where you want me to sleep, but I can't sleep on that fluton.")

"Siskel & Eggbert" = Sigfried and Roy ("I don't want to go to a magic show. I went to Las Vegas and saw Siskel and Eggbert and they put on the best show you ever saw.")

Celebrity names were a trial. Usually she wouldn't even attempt them. She'd say things like "That pretty blond actress" (Jessica Lange, or perhaps Reese Witherspoon. Who knows?). But our friends' names were also a problem, and she was much more descriptive there.

"You know that friend of yours? Who I thought was a woman? You know? Because his hair is so long? And I didn't notice the beard right away? You'd think he could cut his hair so people wouldn't be embarrassed when they didn't notice he was a man right away." Sven, tears streaming down his face, would repeat his friend's name every time she took a breath, but it did no good. Our good friend would forever be the one she thought was a woman at first, and she made sure to tell him every time she saw him. ("You know, I thought you were a woman. Because your hair's so long.")

She had dozens of home-dubbed videotapes of movies. Some of the titles were entertaining:

"The Truth About the Dogs and the Cats"

"How's the Air Up There?"

Others were just incomprehensible:

"Dead Man Walking Tall." I never knew if that one was "Dead Man Walking," or "Walking Tall," or perhaps "A Walk In the Clouds." It could have been anything. That was part of the fun of watching movies at Sven's house when we begain dating.

Sven: What would you like to watch? "Bridges of the Fall" or "Dangerous Learning?"

Deb: Let's be romantic.

Sven: {sitting down} I wonder if it will be "Bridges of Madison County" or "Legends of the Fall?"

Deb: Either one is fine.

It was "Grumpier Old Men." Huh.

A Muppet Celebration of Independence

Happy 4th of July!!

-Deb

Happy Birthday!

This weekend is one of the most important for our family. It is only fitting that the entire country celebrate as well.

Of course, I'm talking about the 5th of July.

Yes, you read that right. The 5th of July is Sven's birthday. This year he turns 36, the sexiest age a man can be.

Sven is a wonderful husband, but he is very difficult to shop for. This year, in honor of Billy Mays, I plan to give him many useful products As Seen on TV. I have chosen these products for their usefulness, but also for the message they send:

1. A Big City Slider station. Nothing says "I love you" like a tiny hamburger. Now, we can have our own restaurant-style sliders every day of the year! Or, once, and then never wash it!

2. The Awesome Auger. Nothing says "I love you" like a hole in the ground. Now, Sven can indulge his great love of digging. Then he can build a big fire in one of the new holes and grill sliders. It's a win-win.

3. Mighty Putty. Nothing says "I love you" like a wad of clay-like substance. Now Sven can stop all of those leaks! And I can indulge my love for hammering nails through PVC pipe!

4. The Water Jet pressure washer. Nothing says "I love you" like a tool designed to dislodge dirt, mold, and bird feces from your house. This has the added bonus of being a chore waiting to be done! Happy birthday, honey! Now get to work.

5. What Odor? odor-removal product. Nothing says "I love you" like a product designed to remove odors so offensive you previously considered throwing away/selling/euthanizing the source of the odor. I love you dear. What odor?

I love you, honey. Happy birthday.

You know this blog entry is your present, right?

Jon & Kate: Not My Type

It has recently come to my attention that there is a show on TV called "Jon & Kate Plus 8." This show centers around the family of Jon and Kate Gosselin. Jon and Kate had fertility problems, but they a successful pregnancy which resulted in twins, then decided they wanted more children, so they had another try and had sextuplets. Someone thought it would be interesting to watch these "regular people" try to make such an unconventional family work.

Who? Why, the good people at TLC. No, not Tender Loving Care: The Learning Channel. Yes, my friends, there is a channel on TV that claims to be teaching us something! Dreadful. As though I watch television to be edified. In the past, though, TLC stuck to obviously educational fare with programming such as "Salt Water Taffy: The Mystery Revealed" and the landmark 10-part series "All About Glue."

TLC, in their crafty way, realized that no one really cared about salt water taffy's mysteries, so they decided to add "reality" programming to their lineup. This "reality" programming invariably focused on people who are just like "you and me" except for some crucial difference. Perhaps, like Jon and Kate, they have a huge number of children. Perhaps they are struggling with a genetic condition, such as dwarfism (The Little Couple). The point of these shows seems to be, "Look at these ordinary people, dealing with their extraordinary situations in completely ordinary ways."

Except they can't. They can't deal with their problems in ordinary ways, because there are cameras in their homes and faces 24 hours a day. They have producers. They have handlers. They have bodyguards and press agents and hairdressers and makeup artists. But, most of all, they have sponsors. These folks, no matter how "real" they are in the beginning, eventually devolve into the same tired "celebrity" that most successful reality shows produce. Omorosa. Adrienne Curry. Sanjaya. Tiffany "New York" Pollard. If you don't know who any of these people are, you clearly need a refresher course on what makes REAL "reality" TV.

If you are watching a show that contains the following, you are watching REAL "reality" TV:

1. People eating bugs for money.

2. Women fighting each other for the chance to "date" a has-been/never-was celebrity.

3. Attractive yet stupid people sipping champagne in a hot tub and/or chewing at a trendy restaurant, making conversation so boring you want to leap into the TV and take someone's pulse.

4. Accomplished chefs forced to make gourmet cuisine out of cigarette butts and Spam.

5. Donald Trump.

6. A homosexual fashion designer so flaming one can't look at him directly openly weeping because the skirt he designed was to be cut on the bias and he didn't buy enough fabric. If Tim Gunn is holding him gently and murmuring words like "consternation" or "egregious," count it twice.

7. Dancing, with or without celebrities.

8. Singing, with or without talent.

9. People who have no obvious source of income but spend thousands, if not tens of thousands of dollars on hats.

10. Tyra Banks demonstrating how to look happy/sad/playful/sexy/constipated using only your eyes.

What do all of the above shows have in common? They may be unscripted, they may star "real" people as opposed to professional actors, but there is nothing "real" about them. They are as contrived and fake as any scripted television. You can cheerfully root for your hero or root against your villain with a happy heart and clear conscience: this is all in good fun.

Jon and Kate, and other shows of that ilk, are outside what I consider "fun." It came out very recently that Jon allegedly had an affair. Then, Kate allegedly had an affair. Now, they are getting a divorce. They seem to have forgotten that we don't like them because they're celebrities; in fact, most of us don't even like them. People who were following their story were doing it for the kids, rooting for their family. Now, instead of turning off the cameras and attempting to return to some sort of normal life, their family is broken, and every moment is documented so those kids can see it someday.

I wonder what they'll think? I bet they change the channel.