STRANGER THAN FICTION: DIVISION OF HOUSEWORK DUTIES DOESN'T ALWAYS SEEM EQUITABLE

The problem arose when The Other Half and I discovered we define a "clean toilet" much differently.

I'm not sure how the division of housework duties is decided in other marriages.

In ours, it started out pretty simple. I did all the cooking, cleaning and laundry. The Other Half was in charge of alphabetizing his CD collection and waxing his car.

That was OK at first, when I was convinced Mr. Half was far too good for me and I had to do everything possible to hang on to him. But, after years of therapy, it dawned on me that I was actually too good for HIM.

In therapy, that's what we call "empowerment."

It became clear that something had to change. So we struck a deal. I'd do all the cooking, laundry and yard work. We'd split the dishes. And he'd be in charge of the housecleaning and cat litter box.

Between you and me, I'd do everything in exchange for avoiding litter box duty. Yuck!)

That sounds pretty good, until you realize Mr. Half has a unique idea of what constitutes a clean house.

Take the toilet, for instance. My mother is a hearty woman, half Eastern European. She isn't afraid to get down on her hands and knees and, without wearing plastic gloves, scrub the inside of the toilet bowl using a scrub pad and powdered cleanser. That's how she taught her daughters to do it.

I witnessed Mr. Half's three-step toilet cleaning method the other day.

1. Sprinkle or spray some kind of assorted cleaning product in the toilet, anything from Tilex to Pine Sol to Comet.

2. Swish the toilet brush around like you'd do a swizzle stick in a cocktail.

3. Paying no mind to the urine sprinkles under the seat, put the lid down and go on with your life.

I thought that was bad, until I decided to use the vacuum.

It was making a funny sound, so I opened the outer bag. The inner bag, the one that holds the dirt, literally was about to explode. That bag hadn't been changed since I did it about eight months ago.

What's more, the beater bar wasn't spinning. Who knows how long THAT had been going on. Which means The Other Half basically was dragging the vacuum around the house with no effect whatsoever.

Thank heavens our carpet is the same color as dirt.

I started to notice other things. The bottom of the tub was becoming increasingly discolored. The mildew around the bathroom sink had developed to the point where it would talk to me in the mornings. And I almost suffocated when I stirred up dust by taking a photo down from the top of our entertainment center.

But the last straw was the kitchen floor.

"Sweetie," I said. "Why isn't the kitchen floor ever shiny anymore?"

He looked embarrassed. "I don't know how to mop."

That's when I just about lost it. No disrespect to my friends in the custodial industry, but mopping cheap linoleum floors isn't rocket science! Fill a bucket with water, add a little of your favorite floor-cleaning substance, dip a mop in there and go!

It's then I realized that Mr. Half was employing the age old, male technique of selective incompetence. He knew that I'd eventually run across the vacuum cleaner bag and change it. I'd eventually get so disgusted by the toilet that I'd scrub it. And I'd get so tired of my feet sticking to the kitchen floor that I'd mop it.

So now I face a dilemma. Allergies prevent him from doing yard work, so we can't switch. And I don't even want to think about the financial cost of having him do the laundry. (More selective incompetence has been manifest in that area.)

It's not that I don't love Mr. Half dearly. He's just male, with all the downfalls that go along with possessing that kind of machinery.

Any advice, ladies? E-mail me at newsduo@gulfsurf.infi.net.