A CLEANER FREAK

Dear Spike:

The kitchen is a mess again. Really, it looks like the laboratory of a mad scientist who has decided to meld cloned human embryos with various species of mold. And he's really messy about it. And the San Francisco 49ers' entire starting offensive line is staying over at his place. And there was just a nuclear holocaust. And a fraternity party.

Your mom does the laundry. I clean the kitchen. That's the arrangement we have — a deal to which she has faithfully honored and to which I have honored about once a week, usually when we've run out of silverware.

Everything else in the house is pretty much fair game — which generally means she does all that stuff, too. She's not a clean freak, just a cleaner freak than I am. Sometimes I feel bad about this and I move about the house urgently picking up toys and books and piles of clothing. And then, usually right about the time that I find the most recent edition of Newsweek under the week-old stack of junk mail by the front door, I get distracted.

I'm a pretty good guy with really good intentions — and I've got plenty of good excuses. It's not so easy juggling daddy daycare with mild-mannered reporting. There are so many projects in this old house I don't even know where to start. And at the end of the day, you know, I'd just rather spend time with you and your mother than sweeping the hardwood or mopping the tiles.

Truth is, though, that your mom has been extremely tolerant with my inability to focus on any one task for longer that a few minutes at a time. She'd be justified in being a little bit annoyed with me, but I do my best not to let her know that.

When you're looking for someone who completes you on this often lonely planet, I'd definitely advise you to find somebody who can be tolerant of your faults, flaws and failures — and for whom you can exercise tolerance as well.

Nobody's perfect, after all.

Except, I think, for your mother.

Love,
dad