It's Friday morning and I have just woken up. On the other side of the bed is a drowsy man, still not quite ready to accept the fact that the morning, has indeed, arrived.
He determinedly puts a pillow over his eyes in an attempt to cancel out the painfully cheery morning, with the affluent sun being the main reason behind his misery.
There is much joy in throwing an offensive alarm clock to the floor, but on the realisation that you can't do the same to a Friday morning, defeated, the man opens his eyes and peers at me in disgust from beneath the pillow, as if I was in fact responsible for ruining his happy visit to cloud number nine.
Disgusted, he may well be, for today is Friday, and the hired help will not turn up. There will be chores which will require doing and you possibly can't imagine I will do everything on my own, while he contentedly watches the "news" on the goggle-box with feigned interest, all the while munching on crackers and cheese.
Bah! Gone are the days of the chauvinistic caveman who considered housework much too mundane to be concerned with. I am no feminist, but there is something about a weekend which makes you feel incredibly lazy and you just want to - be, and well, lets face it, you can't let piles of dirty dishes, immersed in equally dirty dishwater, just - be.
So the only way to get the nasty chores out of the way on this day is by a combined effort, with the help of your dear - and unwilling, husband.
The Bureau of Labour Statistics (USA), after interviews of 21,000 people found that about 20 per cent of men reported doing some sort of housework, like cleaning or laundry, versus 55 per cent of women.
About 35 per cent of men cooked or washed dishes, versus 66 per cent of women. Surely these figures are commendable compared to what they might have been decades ago, but there is much room for improvement, specially since women have entered the workforce in large numbers.
Also, men like to operate noisy, power-packed electrical devices rather than, say, scouring the toilet. So, naturally, the man of the house decided to vacuum, while I would be left to tackle the stack of dirty dishes, et al.
However, this arrangement did not suit me at all and after a session of near hysterics from me, he grudgingly agreed to do the dishes.
I was happily vacuuming the lounge, when, a few minutes later, I heard a crash in the kitchen. Soapy dishwater covered every surface in the vicinity of the sink, while the man stared askance at the shattered plate that apparently "flew" out of his hands and landed dangerously next to his feet.
Mess
Naturally, I cleaned up the mess and offered him whole-hearted sympathy on the incredibly errant behaviour of the plate and to his utmost relief, took over the loathsome chore.
The "washed" dishes in the rack looked far from clean, and I actually spotted a glob of yesterday's oatmeal resiliently sticking to the saucepan. I wouldn't say I'm a neat freak, yet I had to re-do some of the dishes.
Since the lounge had already been vacuumed, he had no choice but to sit in his comfy chair, opposite the telly, and well, watch the news and rediscover the delights of cheddar cheese on paper-thin crackers.
Men are not slobs. They don't particularly like a room strewn with newspapers and children's toys but they can live with it, and they couldn't care less about what the neighbours will say, plus, they could always clean up later.
When they do help around the house, we women, we have high standards and we click our tongues in disapproval at their shoddy attempt to make the bed, and more often than not, we do it all over again, smugly informing them that they would make horrible housemaids.
Women have an innate capability of spotting exactly what's not in place while most men conveniently fail to notice that there is, in fact, any mess at all.
The weekend after that began the same way. However, when he graciously offered to vacuum the house this time round, I said good-humouredly, "but of course. That'd be a big help".
I noticed a strange, triumphant glint in his eyes and realised that I had been out-witted by the man, and last week's dish-washing fiasco had been anything but an accident.
Anyway, we did our chores, (mine were albeit more demanding and gross than his) but about an hour later, the house looked clean and tidy. Despite all odds, I had learnt a lesson.
Forcing the man wouldn't get me anywhere, except perhaps in an argument on a perfect Friday morning. God knows I could live without that! And I eased into the couch next to him, I noticed another look in his eyes, one of gratefulness.
Mehmudah Rehman is a Dubai-based writer.
