Do we need a formal study to tell us wives do more housework than their husbands? Research conducted in 28 countries found married men do less housework than unmarried men who live alone or cohabitate. This jibed with the findings of Stephanie Coontz, author of Marriage, a History. Coontz says the word "marriage" has a strong association with the premise of men doing less housework than their wives.
     I polled some women in my email address book. All but one said they do the majority of the housework. One said her husband is willing, but she has to point things out because, "Generally, he doesn’t see what needs to be done." Some of the women responded they do it all—outside labor, too.
     We live in an association-maintained neighborhood. I was led to believe there wouldn’t be any outside work, so it amazes me how much my husband finds. He pushes garage dirt around, waters the plants, weeds and deadheads flowers, and feeds the birds. He doesn’t understand the manly jobs are inside—tough tasks that require elbow grease and strong cleansers. If only he could remember the inside how-tos like he does when he is Mr. Outside.
     My house seems to be like most. I am in charge because dirt and clutter bother me. My husband is happy to be of service but the only hours he’s available are the crack of dawn and after the sun sets. Times of day I think should be commotion-free. But, as he always says, "I offered."
     I’ve been cleaning one house or another for over 40 years. Not to mention, childhood chores. Occasionally, I even tidied up my high school dormitory room. In all those years, I’ve perfected techniques that make the drudgery fast and efficient. But I’m tired of it and would like to retire.
     I’ve tried. Twelve years ago, I hired a two-woman team that was so fast and furious, I would return home to find pictures and mementos thrown willy-nilly in the vicinity of where they’d been displayed when I left for work. Particular about how bric-a-brac should be arranged, I spent a good hour putting everything back the way it had been before the tornado team touched down. When they complained my vacuum cleaner was too heavy, we parted ways. I was back to where I started—chief cook and bottle washer, as Mom used to say.
     A few years ago, I tried again. The woman was a go-getter, but older than I am. When she climbed on the stepstool, I cringed with guilt, feeling I should be shoulder-to-shoulder with her. But my work waited. "I’ll be in the den, writing," I said one day. She proclaimed it a nice hobby. Alas, we parted ways, also.
     Two months ago, I hired someone once again. It was wonderful. I worked at the computer and when the young woman left, the smell of vinegar and 409 was everywhere. Every knickknack was in place, too. But whenever I told my husband the cleaning person would be coming the next day, he got that hang-dog look and said, "I can clean the house, you know." The thing he wasn’t saying rang loud and clear: this is getting expensive.
     So, we’ve come up with a plan. My "commotion allowed" hours have been extended and he’s in training. I feel like I’m back in time when my children were young and I had to teach and reteach every cleaning assignment. The kids were quick studies, though. My husband is an old dog and you know what they say about old dogs . . .