Homemaking: Mr. Clean Strikes Back
I'm usually not a big fan of book burning, but an incident this week
made me start to look at this issue in a new light. My wife came
home and plopped a book on my chest, "Clean Like a Man" by
Tom McNulty.
I flipped through it, hoping it was one of those joke books with all
blank pages. No such luck. On page after page, there were helpful
hints, stuff like the best way to wash second-story windows and
detailed instructions on how to get the most out of your vacuum
cleaner. One suggestion was for guys to put together a serving cart
on wheels with supplies to make whole-house cleaning more
efficient.
The advice in this book, if followed carefully, would turn any man
into a self-sufficient cleaning machine. I shuddered in horror.
My wife has told me many times over the years that she's glad I'm
a '60s baby, born in an era when men and women were reexamining
traditional roles. Friends of ours are completely
different. The man expects his wife to do all the housework. When
he gets home, he expects a hot dinner on the table and kids ready
for bed, and doesn't want to hear anything about the troubles of the
day at home. His wife complies, making sure that her husband
never lifts a finger, or has a care, around the house.
My wife used to constantly berate this neighbor (who was,
coincidently, born just a year earlier than I, in 1959) as an example
of the Neanderthal man of the past, a reprehensible '50s baby.
I had a different view. To me, he was my Yoda, my Mr. Miyagi, a
spiritual master from whom I could learn much. Unfortunately, he
and his wife moved away, to a far-off city where, I presume, he
rules over his kingdom in peace and prosperity. Before he
departed, he left behind tips that have helped me through some
tough times. (For his own protection, I will call him "Yoda.")
The Tao of Male Housekeeping by Yoda
When asked to do something, do it badly and angrily. When
Yoda's wife went out for dinner with a co-worker, leaving him to
make the kids dinner, Yoda made a terrific mess in the kitchen and
burned the food so badly that the smell lingered for weeks. When
he couldn't find the right pot, he tossed all the pots and pans onto
the kitchen floor. After that, she always left money for takeout
pizza when she went out.
Brag, brag and then brag a little more. If Yoda ever did have to
do something around the house, he'd marvel at his own handiwork
so loudly and so often that his wife would get the shakes: "Wow!
That kitchen floor never looked so good!" "You know, it's a good
idea to give the kitchen a real washdown every once in a while!"
"Next time you want to wash the kitchen floor, let me know, and
I'll show you how I did it, so you can learn the right way!" See, I
can tell you're getting annoyed just reading this.
Stall and moan, stall and moan. If you follow this tip carefully,
you can make even the simplest of chores seem like a major
concession. Yoda used to complain, like Scotty from the original
"Star Trek," that whatever was being asked of him was simply
impossible. Then, when and if he did something, it looked like a
miracle. (Using this tip, I was able to successfully put off moving
around our bedroom furniture for five months. When I finally
agreed to do it, it seemed like such a big concession that my wife
acted as though I had donated a kidney.)
Right of appeal. Whenever he was asked to do something by his
wife, Yoda would casually mention to his mother-in-law that he'd
been busy with a chore historically done by women. For example,
Yoda deftly pointed out at one dinner at the in-laws that he had
burned himself ironing his own shirt. This little maneuver killed
two birds with one stone: His wife was ashamed, and his motherin-
law did his shirts for years afterward. (Because of the degree of
difficulty involved, this one is not for beginners. If you really want
to complain about your wife's housekeeping skills, start by
preaching to the choir -- your own mom.)
I finished flipping through "Clean Like a Man," shaking my head
in revulsion. As soon as my wife left the room, I reached down and
stuffed the book under the couch, back behind a sock, a forgotten
remote control and a family of dust bunnies. If she wants it back,
she'll have to clean under the couch to get it, 'cause I don't plan on
doing it any time soon.
Yoda would be proud.
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(Homemaking is a column about the people, projects and pride
that make a house a home. Peter McKay, a Ben Avon resident, is a
nationally syndicated columnist with Creators Syndicate. To see
more of his columns, go to www.post-gazette.com/homes.)