The Male Domestic Engineer

Someone asked me the other day what kinds of “housekeepers” the men in my life have been. I laughed. Oh.... sorry.... that was a serious question? My opinions on most men’s domestic engineering abilities have likely been formed by earlier generations. From our grandfather’s “I’m goin’ fishin’. I’ll be back when you’ve cleaned the house, plowed the back 40 and hunted down dinner” to our father’s “What do you MEAN dinner isn’t on the table? It’s 4:30 and I’m two steps INSIDE the front door. I can see the dinner table so why am I not seeing food?” Gotta love ‘em.... our founding mothers were either blessed with the patience of saints or tongues as tough as shoe leather so biting them off would have been damn near impossible. So, fine, we’ll give the question its due. Let’s ponder for a moment what men consider an acceptably clean house. I know, I know... stay with me ladies... tissues and Depends will be handed out shortly. We’ll start with my favorite.... the bathroom. Listen carefully. Did you hear it? Legions upon legions of men just screamed, “I do NOT clean toilets”. Well darlings, it’s time to face the fact that the bathroom IS your toilet. Is it really so hard to aim that thing? I mean ... jeez ... after all these years of handling, you would THINK you would have gotten some directional control. The last time a guy actually attempted to clean a bathroom for me, preparation appeared to be the key element. Surgical scrubs, rubber boots, nose plugs, rubber gloves and – judging by the huge puddles of water left on the floor – I would wager, a garden hose. Thinking back, popping in the plug and letting the tub overflow probably would have accomplished just as much. Oh, and don’t expect the mirror to be cleaned. How on earth a man can get toothpaste splatters all over a mirror will remain a closely guarded secret of the male domain but it seems that, as long as you can still see any part of your face between the fragrant, ice mint, tri-colored, crusted-over blobs, then the mirror does not NEED to be cleaned. I invested in cases of paper toilet seat covers and hand sanitizer and gave up the fight. Men have a different general philosophy about “clean” than women. We see things lying around and ask ourselves where they belong. They see things lying around and rejoice at still being able to see the floor. This was proven to me when I came into the house the other day, carrying a few bags of groceries, and unwittingly entered my first Indoor Iron Woman Competition. Using my foot, the SLAM! of the door signalled the start of the race. Step over the shoes in the middle of the floor, around the jacket that fell off the doorknob, surf through the rain puddle inching its way from the entrance to the kitchen (YES folks!!! She remains upright and didn’t drop those eggs!), complete the hurdles: briefcase, lunch box, golf clubs AND, wooooooo!, the cat, spin quickly to the left to avoid Miss Nose coming into contact with Mr. Coat Rack, suffer a small set back as right foot unwittingly tries to punt a new case of beer through the kitchen door, only to recover with a brilliant, one-footed long jump, landing on an empty pizza box and “boarding” across to the kitchen counter. I believe I broke a world record and, quite possibly, a rib. It was at this time that I heard the ol’ “yawn, stretch and fart” come from the living room, somewhere in the vicinity of the recliner, and a feeble voice calling out from under a flurry of potato chip bags and newspapers. “Hey honey? Watch you don’t put those bags down on my sunglasses there on the counter and fix me a snack when you have a chance, k?” Yeah… sure… one tongue sandwich coming right up, my love... and expect it to taste like shoe leather.