Chris Erskine does some household chores
The thing about men doing chores around the house is that when we are done, a simple “thank you” will not suffice. What we really want — and expect — are a parade and ceremony involving government dignitaries, beauty queens and an F-16 flyover.
After that, a catered lunch is in order, some short speeches about the man’s selflessness and dedication, and a modest cash grant. That’s about it. Maybe they could name a school after him, but that’s only for really special chores — like laundry or bathing the kids.
We men are simple creatures. There is dinosaur DNA in our blood, which explains why we don’t get as cold as you women. When the temperature drops below 70, most women in L.A. wrap themselves in scarves, don ear muffs and hug giant vats of steaming coffee.
On the other hand, men sweat profusely till the temperature drops below 32. We are happiest when we haven’t shaved or showered in a couple of days.
When a women hasn’t shaved for a couple of days, she usually checks herself into the nearest hospital. For a woman, not shaving is like getting your appendix out.
Doc: What seems to be the problem?
Patient: Did you not see my legs? They’re like pine needles!
But back to the chores for a moment. The other day, my wife, Posh, was tired. Thirty years with me will do that to someone. I am not as easy as I look — bouncing funny lines off of her all the time or trying to get bets down on that day’s NBA games. She doesn’t know the NBA like she really should, so after a while it takes a toll on her self-esteem.
Anyway, she was off with the Cub Scouts on a whale-watching expedition — or having brunch with her friend Debbie, I’m not sure — so I was left alone in the house for several hours. You know what men do when they’re left alone, right?
They clean.
I don’t know what got into me, whether it was the seductive effects of a sweater she’d left near the bed, or maybe the dust bunnies attacking the antique desk. Perhaps it was the cumulative guilt of not doing enough around the house for 30 years. Whatever it was, I sprang into action.
The idea, of course, is that you dust first so that when you knock dust to the floor, you can vacuum it up later, but what I did was create some sort of sand storm of dust. The stereo was on, and I think it might have electro-magnified the particles of dust. Electrons, as you know, follow the path of least resistance. In this case, our living room.
Once I charted the polarity of the room, I got that all cleaned up, with the help of the little red vacuum Posh likes. She’s actually got two of these vacuums, one for each hand. She’s like Annie Oakley shaking her six-guns at cattle thieves.
I remember as a seventh-grader, trying to join the Irish Republican Army on a lark, a decision made mainly because:
1. My parents were Republican.
2. I was born in a pub.
3. I never forgave the Brits for what Cornwallis did to us at the Battle of Camden.
The IRA didn’t so much need me, but I think the same impulsive/obsession reflex was at work this day, for after I finished the floors, I took on the granite countertops.
Now, our countertops are pretty much the nicest things we own. Both our cars rattle like lawn tractors, and our modest ‘50s-era house was constructed of trout bones and Elmer’s glue. We may have hollow doors and two-inch baseboards, but we’ll put our countertops up against almost anyone’s.
Unfortunately, to clean the countertops, you must first remove all the things that reside there: power bills, sand dollars, candle wax that spilled on Christmas Eve, guitar picks, shamrocks, dry cleaning stubs, $1-off coupons from Blockbuster.
There are phones and calendars and one of those little brass rings that hold on a Cub Scout’s neckerchief. It’s like an archeological dig. I move it all carefully, so as not to damage any of it.
Then I scrub the countertops, stopping to do things like clean the coffeemaker and polish the stainless-steel cooktop. Everything we own is stainless steel, including the two youngest kids.
Let me just note that for Americans, stainless steel is the biggest lie since Vietnam. It may not stain, but it smudges like a clammy glass of milk.
So, this is how I spent last Saturday morning by myself: dusting, vacuuming, cleaning, polishing and cussing at stainless steel. Took a good 40 minutes too.
When Posh returned from whale watching with the scouts (or having brunch with her friend Debbie), she didn’t even notice. It was outrageous. I had to call her attention to every little thing, chores she’s been doing for 30 years routinely and without parades.
Why, I’ll never know.
