My spouse and I have developed a system for household management. He does the big stuff, I do the details. This seems like a fair division of labor, although, as he’s pointed out, it’s more noticeable if he doesn’t do his part. No one (except me, he claims), notices if there are fingerprints on the light switches. But, if the lawn isn’t mowed, folks talk. But, as Martha must have said, "The devil is in the details."
Speaking of mowing, here’s how the allocation of labor works in the lawn care department. He mows the lawn. I sweep up the walkways, and then mow the actual edge of the lawn. Occasionally I use the weed wacker to get the bits that can’t be reached with the lawn mower, such as the underside of the swing set. Recently, though, I’ve noticed a disturbing trend, a personality change. I’ve caught him pulling grass out of the cracks in the sidewalk, a task that used to be mine. Maybe landscaping is something that grows on you, appeals to the male need for public acclaim, or something. In any event, I haven’t seen this change when it comes to the interior of the house, where the division of labor is still crystal clear.
Take the kitchen, for example. He will load and unload the dishwasher—no one is faster in the dishwasher derby. I clean the sink, where I find bits of lettuce, strands of spaghetti, remnants of grapes, and stuff best left unidentified(I think he believes that a stainless steel sink does not require cleaning). He takes out the garbage, I wash the garbage container. He wipes the counters, I dust the top of the fridge. He cleans the top of the stove, I polish the exposed disposal parts. He feeds the cats, I wash the hardened milk spots off the floor. I think this is a pretty equitable arrangement, as it leaves me with the energy to do the interesting stuff, like using a toothbrush to clean the infinitesimal space between sink and countertop. He thinks I’m nuts.
Laundry operations work in a similar way. He washes clothes, and even sorts them first. For a long time he added at least a cup of liquid bleach, but recently switched to powder, as he was beginning to notice the massive white stains on his jeans. If I get there in time, I do the spot cleaning, take the money out of the pockets, remove the used Kleenex, and clean out the dryer vent. I wipe the top of the machines. I match the socks. No one irons. We are united in this.
Dusting is very easy—I do it, he doesn’t. He vacuums, and quite well. He washes the cars. I take torn, ragged pillowcases out of service. I sew on buttons, removing the safety pins that appear when his waistband gets a tad snug. I change the towel in the cat bed. He scrubs the tub, I clean the tile. He bakes cookies, I scour the tins. I think you get the picture.
Is this simply a question of Mars and Venus? Or not seeing the details? Or seeing them and not caring? It could be all of these. But my theory is that what folks will tolerate in their environment is fixed at some time in their developmental years. When this happens varies. But my wonderful guy probably reached that point sometime in his first year of graduate school. At that stage, simply having your own apartment was the grand prix. What the inside of that apartment looked like was secondary. And, graduate students are exploring the celestial life of the mind, not worrying about down and dirty dust bunnies. I’ve resigned myself to the existence of a perpetual grad student, even though he’s long been a full professor. It could be so much worse—he could be a neat nut, and then I’d be sunk. I’d have to clean systematically, rather than just doing the fun stuff. Like cleaning the blinds with a large Q-tip.
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