Twist & Shout. Or Croak.

Two microphone Karaoke Revolution is the biggest pile of fun I’ve had with my kids all month. It’s true that not a one of us would make it through the first turnstile at American Idol. It’s also true that my pathetically obstructed larynx is hardly a pleasure to listen to. But I can consistently hit and sustain pitches, and frankly, that’s all the game really cares about.

True enough though, that the girls squeak by me in the “Oops I did it again” sing off, but don’t even try to outdo me when I’m being a Mama in “California Dreaming,” or blowing Sonny out of the water in “I Got You Babe.”

But they’re not impressed. They know they need only fire up the B-52’s “Love Shack,” and those notes will be like wet soap in my grip.

Efficiency?

I’m working on Gabe’s room.

I don’t know whether he’s accrued the average amount of clutter for a boy of almost thirteen, but a quick survey of his belongings suggests his thoughts are rarely organized.

I’m determined that the next time it falls to me to distill 2 gallons of Bionicles, a quart of army men, and a pint of marbles from 3 gallons of magic tricks and random flotsam...my default action will be to sweep them all into a bag bound for the curb.

The people I live with aren’t the tidiest, and sometimes I tell myself that the right application of efficient planning will encourage even these trogs, who seem to believe that all floors should be evenly fertilized with dirty socks, to put their stuff away.

So I have, all ready to assemble, a mondo-sized IKEA wardrobe, with doors--(doors that close)--behind which can be stashed baskets which’ll work like this:
One basket will hold underwear, another socks, another school uniform shirts...etc...and these items can all be thrown, into the baskets, with relatively careless abandon.

He has a dresser, but the drawers are small and hard to close. He has a closet, but there are multiple psycho-motor steps involved in using hangers. The purpose of the wardrobe will be to both organize and hide items of clothing which belong to someone with minimal neatness skills.

The minute I moved out of my mother’s house, I adopted a similar approach to most housekeeping chores. It is true that I knew how to make beds with hospital corners, but it was equally true that it seemed a pointless exercise in tedium. So I thought ahead, and the minute I had only myself to please, I bought a poofy comforter which, when spread out, handily camouflaged the hastily yanked up sheets below it. That’s still what I do.

Several years ago, I turned the kids loose with their own laundry. While the girls’ rooms may look disastrous, they appear to know which garments lie in balls beneath which dust bunnies. It seems they do laundry more out of desperation than a sense of order...but the girls keep smelling ok, so I don’t worry about it.

I confess that I help Gabe with laundry. Partly because his early efforts involved generous experimentation with liquid bleach, and partly because by the time I pin him to his homework chores, he’s used up the quotient of energy I have available for him. Oh, and partly because he wouldn’t care if he did stink. But the rest of us would.