Cleaning the house once a week is part of my DNA from my mother's side. She cleaned once a week, her mother cleaned once a week, and I have always cleaned once a week.

We're talking thorough cleaning: toilets, tubs, showers, bathroom sinks, kitchen sink, countertops, appliance fronts, dusting, windexing (that's a verb for my people), vacuuming, sweeping, emptying trash cans, shaking throw rugs and wet mopping floors.

Clean on Saturday and collapse on Sunday.

My husband came from a more casual line of DNA. My mother-in-law, bless her sweet, sweet heart, was of the "pile it higher and deeper" method, along with the "don't throw that away, we might need it someday" line of genetics.

My better half's approach is: Wait.

Wait until the sink is full. Wait until the countertop is covered. Wait until the laundry basket overflows. Wait until you can see a thick covering of dust on a flat surface — then take your finger and write, "Send help!"

Our first argument as newlyweds was about cleaning the house. He said if we cleaned once a week, we would wear out the furniture.

To which I said, "I'll dust; you vacuum."

To which he said, "Right after the game."

Now I'm thinking of amending the thorough cleaning once a week. Who am I kidding? I've been on a slow slide for ages and have the dust bunnies to prove it.

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