Houseguest Rules

Domestic Engineer Guys get to establish most of the houseguest rules (after attaining sign-off from their live-in ATM). So, if you ever pass our way, here are the houseguest rules* for the Frohreich Funhouse.

—Arrival gifts are always a nice touch. Here are several suggestions:
A really good bottle of Syrah
A really good bottle of red wine (not pinot noir)
Belgium chocolate, unopened
An R-rated cook’s apron—full length
—The first morning here, guests will have to sit through a TV operations class.
—Changing the channel while the cook is in the kitchen and the football game is in his line of sight makes the cook cranky.
—The recliner in the family (TV) room is off-limits—always—unless PJ is in it.
—Guests must pat the dog at least twice a day, and once a day play fetch with his spittle-soaked toys. Walking him once a day with the pooper-scooper earns future invites. Guests with allergies are not excused. Tyveks, gloves, and masks will be provided. Any guest Dutch does not approve of doesn’t get invited back.
—If the stay is longer than a couple of days, the washer and dryer are available, but Domestic Engineer Guy, aka Laundry Man, is not.
—Anything in the refrigerator or pantry is fair game, except for leftover filet-of-beef or rack-of-lamb. Open bar is a 24/7 policy, though 5 PM is the preferred start of social hour.
—Interrupting Domestic Engineer Guy in the morning with trivial pursuits while he is engrossed in the daily crossword puzzle makes him cranky.
—Special diet or food and beverage preferences must be emailed to Domestic Engineer Guy at least three days prior to arrival. If your face looks like the Pillsbury Doughboy (only blushing), after you consume salmon, it would be good for the cook to know.
—The cook is an adequate mixologist (except for Mai Tais and Cosmopolitans). Special requests will be stocked with advance notice.
—Guests staying a week or more are expected to toss some jack into the kitty. It is the gesture, not the amount that matters.
—Guests are not expected to participate in any of the household duties. Helping clear the dinner table and stacking the dishwasher is fine. Unloading the dishwasher is a no-no.
—Domestic Engineer Guy is not a barista. But his coffee is better than Starbucks.
—Guest don’t have to love everything the cook prepares, but if it wasn’t on your this-makes-me-vomit list, then you are expected to eat at least half a portion. Moans and accolades are permitted. Trust me, you will eat better than at most restaurants.
—Offers to help in the kitchen will be rebuffed. But it’s okay to ask. The cook has enough trouble organizing himself. The cook usually does not need a sous chef. Besides, he is more of a shoo chef—as in get out of his kitchen.
—Chauffeur duties are free and available, though not unlimited. But you have to humble yourself and be seen in a 12-year old, bottom-of-the-line Saturn.
—Sitting at the kitchen dinette with an adult beverage, regaling the cook with stories is expected.
—You don’t have to make your bed each morning, unless Domestic Engineer Guy has let you sleep in his office, but at least keep the door closed.
—The kitchen is open for lunch, but the cook is not on duty. Provisions will be provided.
—Showing up for dinner five minutes before it is served makes the cook cranky, and not a good way to begin an evening. The cook is flexible. He just needs advance notice about the day’s plans.
—Sleep in as long as you like, but Domestic Engineer Guy is not a cook-on-call in the morning.
—Departure gifts are not necessary but adding us to your will, will earn future invites, access to filet-of-beef and rack-of-lamb leftovers, and passes on doggie duty and wine gifts.
—The number one rule is to enjoy yourself. You are our guest.

Y’all come.

* None of these rules apply to PJ’s nephew. He keeps the computers humming and shoots and produces Domestic Engineer Guy’s YouTube videos. He can do any damn thing he pleases.

Dressing for Success

I’m proud to say that I no longer own a suit, and I can’t remember the last time I wore a tie. Still, I usually make an effort to look presentable, something without holes, or food stains, and color coordination on even days.

The other day I grabbed a sweatshirt out of my closet. I thought it was our daughter’s commemorative college sweatshirt that reads: “Dad, UC Santa Cruz Banana Slug”. (UC Santa Cruz is not big on college sports - too slimy.)

After chatting with PJ in the kitchen (where my sweatshirt’s front was in full view), I dashed out for a few errands. At Trader Joes while checking out, the cashier commented that her sister had matriculated from UC Santa Cruz. (She didn’t say matriculated, but being the sister of a UCSC grad, I like to think that some of it rubbed off.) We exchanged a few pleasantries and I headed to the car, noting that this sweatshirt was often a conversation-starter.

Something made me look down. I had donned PJ’s sweatshirt that reads, “Mom, UC Santa Cruz Banana Slug”. The Trader Joes’ cashier deserves an award from the political correctness police. Fortunately, the fashion police were not patrolling.

This was not a Freudian slip waiting for a slip-up. Being a Domestic Engineer Guy is not another term for Mr. Mom. And no, I’m not sensitive about it! Besides, I’ve never worn a slip, Freudian or otherwise.

I had four options: return home and re-attire, take off the sweatshirt, accessorize with a purse and scarf, or turn it inside out. I chose the fourth option. Option one wastes gas, option two is not a pretty sight, and I don’t stock my car with female accessories.

I finished my errands, frequently assuming the pledge-of-allegiance position whenever someone was close enough to notice my attire aberration.

Returning home I confronted PJ over her wively duty failure. After so many years of marriage (guys never ask our wives how we look – we’re not metrosexuals), she rarely comments. Conversely, nary a day passes where she doesn’t ask, “How does this look on me?” – close cousins of another entrapping question, “Does this make my butt look too big?”

The more relevant question is, “What was her sweatshirt doing in my closet”? Fair question. In case you were wondering, I am not accustomed to choosing my clothes from her closet. Because I am Laundry Man, the fault is mine. Since our sweatshirts matched in every way but one word, I inadvertently hung her sweatshirt to dry on my laundry line section, which then ended up in my closet. I’m a guy who considers clothing options for about three seconds. Without access to a queer eye for the straight guy, this was a faux pas just waiting to happen.

Maybe I’ll dye her sweatshirt another color. I may not always be color-coordinated, but I’m not colorblind.