Danny

Once every ten months or so, we undergo a major condo reorganization project. Maybe, the reasoning goes, if we just use our space more efficiently, if we just rearrange this furniture, buy this shelf, we’ll feel like we have more room than we do. The planning phases of these projects all end in the same way: a trip to Ikea for organizational supplies.

Our latest endeavor, Project Kitchen Cabinets, brought us to a new place: The Container Store. Armed with schematic drawings and measurements, we were on a mission. Our mission: eradicate free-wheeling, pot-lid ridden, it’s-always-in-the-back cabinet conditions that often led to Angry Megan stomping around the kitchen and cursing.

I knew exactly what I was looking for: those platforms on wheely tracks that are installed on the bottom of a cabinet shelf. Charles didn’t know what I was talking about; so, naturally, he thought they didn’t exist. But, he decided to humor me and look for them in The Container Store. I believe the reasoning was that once I discovered that the magical organization tool was all in my head, we would be able to find something to meet our needs in this mecca of all things organization.

Only they did exist. Once we walked in the store, it wasn’t too long before someone asked if they could help us. I explained what we were looking for and we were directed to an entire aisle in the store full of nothing but the sliding cabinet organizers. To my credit, I didn’t gloat much beyond the indignant exclamation of, “I told you!”

We started in on deciding which of the options before us to buy. And then. Then. We spotted it. A shiny chrome organizer to hold nothing more or less than all of your pot lids, in ascending size order. The curves of this organizer gleamed under the fluorescent lights of the store. When we pulled on the front, it rolled smoothly and stealthily on its tracks. It was a thing of beauty. There were not two ways about it. I was in love.

Then, on the other side of the aisle, Charles found an alternative to the chrome organizer called the Lid Maid. This plastic system for organizing lids was narrower, so would possibly be more versatile in its cabinet placement. The big advantage, which appealed greatly to Charles’s man-logic, was the fact that it was about one third the price of the beautiful chrome organizer. But, it was made of dirty-white plastic. When you pulled on it, it moved haltingly and squeaked. Charles was pushing the Lid Maid option in its cheap plastic glory.

Was he kidding?

It was during this argument (“Function over form, Megan!” “But it squeaks!”) that Danny found us. Danny, the Container Store employee who may have been better served skipping over us in favor of customers with a little less baggage. Instead, he heard the distress call of a stalemate between mates.

“Can I help you two with anything?”

Could anyone help us?

With the last flicker of hope we had for our lives together, and a happy medium in the kitchen, we explained what we were trying to do.

Danny, in turn, listened to both sides of our lid organizer argument. “That certainly is the more economical option,” he agreed with Charles. “It should hold just as many lids, and it takes up almost no space.”

Then he found my side, “You know, you’re right. It does squeak. I guess that could be a little like fingernails down a chalkboard.”

In a flash of inspiration, Danny brought us to the aisle full of racks. Perhaps a compromise could be met? We could mount a rack on the wall to hold our lids. After all, how many lids could we have? Sweet, naïve Danny. If only he knew that we mysteriously have more lids than pots.

We debated the merits of these lid-storage alternatives, only to find we were firmly rooted in one of those first two alternatives: the Lid Maid, or the right choice.

Finally, Danny, our dear friend, stood by with a bemused smile as he witnessed our back and forth. After a well-placed argument on my part, “Who, exactly, spends more time cooking in the kitchen?” we arrived (begrudgingly, for one of us) at an agreement. We were taking home the gleaming chrome. (Megan: 1, Lid Maid: 0)

Danny breathed a sigh of relief as the lid organizer went into the cart, and we turned our attention to the remaining sliding organizers to fill out the cabinets. Why did I feel that we owed Danny a drink?

When in the throes of shopping that affects both of us, both Charles and I can each get very passionate and very attached to our own ideas. We honestly consider each other’s point of view, and we come to the same conclusion: our own idea is better than the other guy’s. Unless a magical compromise option comes into play, we can go back and forth on what each one of us is convinced is the only real option. Danny helped us focus, gave legitimacy to both our arguments, and kept things light and friendly.

He had been through the wringer with us, and had somehow managed to garner peace.

Here’s to you, Danny!

Puppy Hydration

One of our strengths, and also one continual topic of conversation for us is the division of labor for household chores. If I walk the dog in the morning, Charles walks the dog at night. If I’ve done dishes the last few times, Charles pitches in with a load or two. However, our finely tuned system is never impervious to renegotiation. Both of us are overly concerned with fairness, a concept that poses an ever-moving target. Each of us, it would seem, has the better end of the deal, according to the other's judgement. And each of us has the worst end of the deal, according to our own.

Consider the distribution of food and water for our dog’s needs. Poor Roxy has been at the center of many a disagreement, with regards to who has to feed or water her. Charles contends that, were it not for him, our dog would die of thirst. This isn’t true. When Charles is out of town, Roxy never wants for water. But the way I look at it, when Charles is so good at giving her water on a daily basis, who am I to interrupt a perfectly good routine?

This arrangement was not born out of mutual agreement, a fact that became quite apparent when years of resentment came to fruition. Charles’s complaint: How come we split the feeding duties, when Charles was the only one providing water?

Here is the true sign of my growth as part of a couple, as a wife, as a human being. I heard Charles’s argument on this point, and I agreed with him. Clearly, the system was only working for one of us. I certainly had no complaints. But, to make it work for both, I proposed an alternate plan. How about one of us feeds the dog and one of us takes care of her water? Done. So now, the hydration of little Roxy Puppyton lies solely in my capable hands. And you know what? She hasn’t gone thirsty yet.

Even if Charles has to remind me every now and again.

When Always ain't Always good.

Always seems such a simple word. Forever, constant, continual: these are the meanings most of us consider. In a relationship what's more comforting or romantic than Whitney's "Iiiiiiiiiiii will always loooooove youuuuu?" Take a moment to consider some other meanings of the word: never-ending, ceaseless, feminine hygeine products. The danger of always nearly caught me this weekend and I don't mean an embarrassing trip to Walgreens for my wife.

Always catches us off-guard. The day will be bright with the tranquil twitter-chirp of birds lingering on the afternoon breeze. We'll be having a good time throwing some good-natured barbs at each other about one foible or other. Then suddenly one of us will do it.

"Well, I'd be more inclined to fill up the tank if you didn't always have the car on your days off."

A crackle of thunder pierces the air, a once-twittering bird flops mid twitter-chirp dead upon the ground nearby.

"What do you mean, Always? I spent all week cooped up here so you could have the stinkin' car and you still left me whiffin' fumes to make it to the 'burbs for gas this week."

Always brings the storm from there, a maelstrom of vitriol and hatred carries us away for the next however many hours. In the end, we're spent, a day is lost and there's a dead bird out there somewhere. Sorry, Tweety.

This Sunday I averted a misadventure of the Always kind. Because of my screwball work schedule, Sunday is our Date-night, Shopping day, Hang with Friends day, Relax together day, and Dinner-out night all in one. Due to our various self-inflicted dietary restrictions (Megan, a Vegetarian and me a Pickytarian), dinner-out choices for Sunday usually go something like this:

"What do you want for dinner, Megan?"

"I don't know, what do you want?"

"How about Melvin's House of Meat?"

"How about Tong's Temple of Southeast Asian Food that involves no Meat?"

Sometimes, however, one of us will toss out the other's favorite, or one of the few compromise places we both enjoy. Megan started off the game with that play.

"How about Cheesecake Factory?"

I don't know why, but I have a mental block against the Cheesecake Factory. I enjoy a number of dishes there. They have gratis bread (60% of my reason for liking a restaurant, by the way). They even are a place we both enjoy. For some reason I always do want to say no thanks. This week, however, always did not win. I stopped myself, considered the free bread, and went with my lady to a nice meal out that we both enjoyed. I wish everyone their level best to avoid the always trap too. After all, always left Whitney Houston a domestically abused crack-whore to Bobby Brown.