I have been called Mr. Mom, a Stay-at-home Dad or a House Husband for years. What I have never been called is Mr. Clean. Since I work nights and weekends and am home during the day, I am happy to clean, shop, do laundry and cook during the week. Okay, maybe “Happy’ is not the proper word but I do it anyway. Why is it then, that on the weekends I am gone, The Wife spends Saturdays cleaning the house? I took it personally till I realized that “cleaning” is a sexist word. Not sexist as in discriminatory, but sexist as in “having a different meaning to each sex.”
Vacuuming Sucks
I have been told some people vacuum their homes several times a week. I once told the Wife and Kid I vacuumed all the time and was soon busted when they whipped out the new vacuum and told me to turn it on. After several minutes of looking for the on switch, and snickering from the peanut gallery, I admitted defeat. In my defense it was a new vacuum cleaner; we’d only had it for six months or so. The Wife broke me of this fault by now making me steam clean the carpets and seeing the dirt it picks up. Now she’s bugging me to steam clean again and I just did it a couple months ago.
Moving Furniture is only for Moving Day
Now, I don’t move the furniture around when I vacuum. Before the emails start up you have to understand the male thought process here. If I can’t see it, it doesn’t exist. I’ve watched her move the couch, the steamer trunk we used as a TV stand, and even the refrigerator while cleaning. Okay I didn’t just stand there and watch her like I was some shmuck, I was playing golf at the time; but I know she did it. To a man, and I would think to any reasonably sane person, there is no way dust can get under a three hundred pound steamer trunk; and if it can, it deserves to stay there. I don’t even move her plants she has on stands by the window. I did once (and only once) and happened to spill a tiny amount of dirt and slightly damaged one or two plants. I refuse to mention the words that flew in my direction, plus my keyboard refuses to type such language.
Do You Understand What Happens in that Bathroom?
Not only do I spit in that sink but I do other things in that room that I don’t even want to get into. It’s a bathroom for goodness sake and things happen. Sure I’ll wipe off the counter and maybe even scrub the tub once in a while but that other thing, that’s a toilet and it doesn’t really need to shine. Now, that’s my take on it; her take? If we have company coming, you should be able to drink out of that toilet. What company is coming–a pack of dogs? I don’t know how many times I’ve cleaned the bathroom just to have her follow me immediately after (okay sometimes a week later) and do it again. I’m sorry but if the toothpaste spit is out of the sink and off the faucet, the mirror is reasonably cleared of splatter and the tub no longer has that brown ring around it, the bathroom is clean.
If Your Kitchen is Spotless, You Eat Out Too Much
I’m a pretty good cook. I can whip up a mean Hamburger Helper and my Pizza is to die for (there was that one time I left the pepperonis out for too long, but everyone recovered nicely…). Anyway, when I cook I do make a mess but I clean after myself. Well, I man-clean after myself. If there are no dishes in the sink, no dishes on the counter, and no dishes on the floor, the kitchen is Man-clean. The Wife on the other hand, starts with that “moving stuff” routine again and moves the canisters, the toaster, even the salt and pepper shaker for Pete’s sake. Heck, I’ll even clean the floor of the grease splatter from my bacon but “If I can’t see it, it doesn’t exist.”
You Made Your Bed, Now Nap In It
Why is she so obsessed with making the bed? Just because I’m the last one up, the Wife expects–no, demands–that I make the bed. Then she wants it done EVERY day. I never know when to do it because there is always the possibility of a nap sneaking into my afternoon and I sure would hate to make the dang thing up twice. Of course I never do it right because when she does it, there’s way more pillows on top. Then there’s the way you tuck in the sheets; I don’t, they’re just getting pulled out tonight anyway. And don’t get me started on how the heck you fold a fitted sheet, because I simply man-fold them.
