Men often argue they didn't clean a thing because it wasn't dirty, while their wives scrub the thing and glare at their husbands, wondering how they could lie so blatantly.

It's true, the thing was dirty. But it's also true the husband didn't believe it was dirty.

Men and women "see" dirty differently. I believe that, because I see dirt like men do.

Not just dirt. It's dust, clutter, disorder, whipped cream.

On a rare visit with a friend at my house, I set a course for disaster by serving a dump cake.

In case you don't know, a dump cake is very much like a cherry cobbler. I'm sure you do know a cherry cobbler is a tad better with a little vanilla ice cream on top. In lieu of ice cream, whipped cream -- or more accurately and generically, whipped dessert topping -- will work.

A friend came over for dinner. As we often do, we both cook. She brought a casserole to my house and I made dessert.

She wanted her dump cake with no embellishment but I wanted topping, so this whole thing is my fault in every way.

I spilled some topping on the floor and immediately wiped it up. In fact, there was a little topping every where, so it seemed. I cleaned it off the outside of the container, the countertop, my pant leg. I have no idea how I spread the topping so far and so wide, but I did.

The next day, when I entered the kitchen to make coffee, I fell. It was one of those falls that happens quickly, but seems to linger for several minutes as you feel your posture crumble.

I couldn't imagine what happened, until I realized my legs were nearly covered in dessert topping. I didn't see all that smooth -- and slick -- stuff on the floor when I was cleaning up the night before.

It reminds me of when I used to color my hair.

I quit because I didn't wish to continue to be a part of a societal construct that subjugates women based on superficiality. And also because it's a hassle.

The illuminating moment came after I'd applied the color and allowed it to sit on my head the appropriate amount of time. When I went back to rinse it, there were streaks of brown all over the bathroom that resembled blood splatter I've heard spoken of on the crime shows I watch. Of course, I tried to clean it up, but remember, it's dye, so it left marks. It still needs to be painted, but if I paint the bathroom, I'll have to paint the hall and if I paint the hall, I'll have to paint the dining room. The next thing I know, I'd have to get all new carpet, furniture and maybe an in-ground pool. I might as well get a new house.

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