I am something of a slob. If left unchecked, I am perfectly happy to leave dishes in the sink for a week. When I am doing research or correcting papers, the stacks around my computer rival the Collier brothers' piles. Back in my single days, I sometimes said no to sex with someone I actually wanted to sleep with because I was embarrassed to have him come up to my apartment. That's why when I tell my best friend, Jenna, some of these stories, I know she doesn't believe me. I will tell her, "I have been very neat," and she will respond, as if there's a bad translation, "Well, if it bothers Steve, he should clean." I repeat, "I know you don't believe me, but I really have been at least as clean as he is." I hear something that sounds suspiciously like her mother's "mmm-hmm" of disbelief. So now I will tell you. I have not been up to my grandmother's or Jenna's mother's standards, but I have been very careful to be neat. I have two warring factions in me---my natural slovenliness and my good-girl desire that I make everyone around me happy. For example, I never litter. Steve will roll down his car window and throw his gum out; I never would. Of course, that means that when I take the gum out of my mouth, I find a receipt or some other piece of paper in my car and then put the gum in the ashtray or something, adding to the horrible mess in my car.
So that's the background. And one of things that really worried me before I moved in with Steve was that I, and Tom (my son), would not be up to Steve's standards. Well, I was right, but that's not because I am a slob. It's because whatever Steve does at any point in time is, in his view, the only right way to do it. Also, he's one of those people like I used to know at work, who manage, almost effortlessly, to tell you every single thing they've done so that it seems like they've done a lot more than you. I'm getting better, but I still don't know how to do it. Here's an example: Now, when I've vacuumed, just so that he notices I've vacuumed, I will say, "I can't believe the electricity in this place; I had to plug the vacuum cleaner in 3 different outlets before it worked (true story)." Or, "I missed Jenna's phone call because I didn't hear the phone while I had the vacuum on."
I probably shouldn't be using vacuuming as my example because I will admit that is one of my weaker areas. It doesn't occur to me to vacuum until I see cobwebs in the corner or food on the floor. The vacuum cleaner is also very, very heavy, so I avoid taking it upstairs, or, when it's up there, I avoid bringing it back down. So, I will admit to everyone, here and now, that Steve vacuums more than I do. But the principle is the same for everything. I'd say we somewhat equally clean the bathroom, probably not as much as we should, but it's not disgusting. When he cleans the bathroom, he manages to tell me in such a way that he is chastising me for my negligence. I just can't figure out how to do the same thing. I cleaned the bathroom before he came back from a business trip yesterday and I couldn't figure out how to tell him that I'd spent a long time on the black mold in the shower. (No, not because we neglect---because no matter how hard you clean, there's black mold there at the bottom of the shower stall again in a week. Bad ventilation.) So here's the rundown: Steve mostly vacuums. I mostly do the dishes. I probably dust more frequently than he does, but when he does it, he makes a big commotion in front of me so I know he's doing it and he does the entire house at once---usually dusting the TV while I'm trying to watch it. I am more likely to see that dusting is needed and do it on a case-by-case basis. And I'm making sure not to get in the way.
Cooking is another subject. Steve is a fabulous cook and he likes cooking. I like cooking, too, and I am a good cook, but he's more adventurous in the kitchen. In comparison, Mark, in fifteen years of marriage, cooked one meal---my first birthday after we were married. I've also limited what I cook over the years because Mark and Tom pretty much liked pasta. And a couple of other things. So I am really, really happy to have a grown-up who likes to eat the same things I like to eat, and is good at cooking them too. And he's amazingly competent in the kitchen. Ask Steve and me each to dice an onion. By the time mine is done, Steve will have diced the onion, gone for a walk, and read the paper. So I really have no complaints here---except... Steve takes over when I cook. He'll throw something he thinks belongs in a sauce I'm making, even if I didn't want it. He'll turn down the heat or start making something to go with whatever I'm cooking, and before I know it, I'm in a small corner of the kitchen, trying to slice and dice and pour, and I spill something and he shakes his head with a little superior smile, because he doesn't spill things the way I do. And...sometimes, when he's in a bad mood, he acts like I'm not pulling my weight in the kitchen, either. Imagine if you loved playing the piano and everybody liked to listen to you, and complimented you on your playing. When a less competent piano player tried to sit down to play, you said, "Here, let me." Would you get mad that no one else was playing?
The problem is there is nothing I can do to feel like Steve thinks I'm doing my fair share. Our incomes are disproportionate. I know there are things that I do more or better than Steve does. The problem is, it is not my nature to be aggrieved and I think it is very much Steve's nature. Or maybe it really is like Steve sees it---I'm not aggrieved because he is perfect, and he just suffers through my incompetence and sloth.
