Love and Lysol: Are the times a’changin?

The domestic arts remain mostly woman’s work as far as I can tell, though we ladies are making some progress in soliciting help with housework from our male counterparts.

In my little house, a majority of the cleaning and cooking falls to me. But I don’t mind too much.

Caring for one’s spouse or family is a beautiful thing, a higher calling that rarely receives the credit it deserves. And yet, women today comprise at least half of the workforce outside of the home as well.

My husband and I both work full-time jobs — minus the year’s inevitable furlough days — and he is good about taking out the garbage when I ask him. For several years before we met, he lived the bachelor life in our little house, becoming quite adept at the domestic arts, so I know he knows how to do it.

But once I became woman of the house, the role of housekeeper/cook, more and more, fell to me. I took on the responsibility independently because I love him, so one could say that I contributed to the current situation that’s become a bit unbalanced.

In my husband’s defense, he 1) regularly changes the oil in our vehicles 2) carts the garbage to the green dumpster every week 3) does all the grilling 4) does his own laundry and 5) loads the dishwasher from time to time. He never cleans out the sink, though, and his socks and underwear are always lying beside our bed.

Oh, which reminds me, he also changes the sheets sometimes.

He does not, however, dust, vacuum, clean the bathrooms, sweep and/or wash floors or any other involved project like cleaning out closets or under the bed.

And he never grocery shops, a chore which a male coworker of mine, admirably, does every week. This coworker says, in fact, that he cleans too, and so do all of his male friends.

A good friend of mine is in a similar boat as me. Her husband requires a clean towel after each day’s shower and yet he never does a stitch of laundry. They live in a big old house where she does most of the housework, waiting on him like a 1950s housewife — which is not necessarily a bad thing — and yet they both work full-time jobs.

My maternal grandmother, especially, had the 1950s housewife thing down and was always the hostess with mostess — cocktails and cocktail weenies poolside were mandatory.

So was Perry Como.

My paternal grandmother, who is still living, had 12 kids and so childrearing was more of her focus, though when her kids started having kids there were always big backyard cookouts. No one stretches a sheet cake like she can.

Conversely, my mother is master of intense, down and dirty cleaning. Growing up, we’d spend entire weeks in the summer trapped in the attic sorting boxes or scrubbing woodwork.

The toilet could never be clean enough by her standards and there was no cutting of corners when it came to housecleaning. Often, it induced weeping and gnashing of teeth among we eight siblings, boys included, and there was no escaping it.

I always saw my dad tidying up as well, clearing plates or doing dishes, vacuuming every five minutes. Garbage was strictly man’s work in our house as was push mowing the lawn and grilling.

All-in-all, I don’t mind waiting on my husband. It gives me joy to brew fresh iced tea every couple days or to peel and cut tiny potatoes for homemade au gratin. I’ll clean the food from the drains and pick up his dirty clothes.

But sometimes, after a long day interacting with the public, I get tired. So tired. Housework is the last thing I want to do. Most weekends, I spend three or more hours catching up while he’s still asleep in bed. Okay, sometimes he has to work weekends and then I don’t mind at all.

Months ago, I asked him, “Honey, can you help me keep the bathroom where the littler box is clean?” He said he would.

But he hasn’t, and it’s the worst chore.

When I slack off on it, the bathroom, attached to our bedroom, gets really nasty. He seems not to notice even though it’s where his shower is.

I’m going to keep on him.

Meanwhile, men, here’s some food for thought: this very week in 1928, Alexander Fleming made a very important discovery after sorting through and cleaning up some old Petri dishes pushed aside in his laboratory. They had been left so long mold was growing (sounds like my refrigerator when I go away).

In the mold, Fleming discovered penicillin, the miracle drug of the 20th century.

So dig into the domestic arts my brothers — herein lies the potential for great treasure.