Whose job is it, anyway?

They say the #1 topic over which couples express a difference of opinion is money. I can't say that this is true in our case, although it is not because we have a great excess of it.

Fast approaching #1 in our household is the question of who is in charge of killing spiders and other unwanted residents. Those, we do have an excess of. Joe is dubious about this, but I clearly remember the minister including this duty in our marriage vows: "And do you, Joseph, promise to always protect Holly from insects, spiders, and basically anything that moves, including ugly, hairy creatures that are bigger than you?"

I'm sure that Joe looked lovingly into my eyes and answered that yes, he would do so even if a spider's bite doth us part.

But as I said, he does not remember this, and the issue remains unresolved.

"You kill things when I'm not here," he says.

"But you're the head of the household," I remind him. "I wouldn't dream of usurping your authority when you're here." Especially the authority to deal with spiders.

"I did it last time," he will often say, as if it is a household chore we have agreed to split.

But to me this is a clear case of gender distinction. I find the offending creature and scream, he kills it. I am sure this is in the Constitution somewhere. "We hold this truthe to be self-evident, that the husbande shall assume responsibility for the slaying of all dragons and otherwise dangerous creatures within his domaine. If he refuse to discharge his duty is this matter, his wyfe shall be given authority and impunity to use a fry pan upon his head."

"You should be able to take care of it by now" is another of Joe's responses when I find a spider, as if killing things is something one grows into.

But after much discussion of the matter -- only to find that whatever bug we were discussing the dispatching of has taken advantage of our inattention to wander away -- I have found a rather simple solution. I gaze trustingly into Joe's eyes, give him a tender touch, and say in a sweet, caressing voice, "Do you want this to become a blog?"

And generally this strategy works, but it is good for only one spider or bug per day. If I happen to find another one before we go to bed, all the blackmail and sweet talking and begging will not move him. He is the Implacable Non-Hero.

In the great tradition of wives everywhere, I want him to deal with these nasty invaders, but I also want to tell him how to do it.

If the bug is on a wall, I caution him to move everything sitting on the floor underneath the bug. Sometimes this necessitates the rearrangement of an entire room, a reasonable precaution to me. Joe does not view this as reasonable, and watches while I do it. Then I place a wastebasket in the expected projectory of the bug after it is hit, to minimize cleanup.

"Now don't lose it," I warn as he gets ready to deal the blow.

The frequency with which he does seem to lose them, even with a wastebasket the size of the bed of a Dodge Ram placed right underneath, makes me suspect he is doing this on purpose, out of spite. He is unperturbed and unrepentant when this happens. I consider a dead bug with whereabouts unknown almost as disturbing as a live one in plain sight.

"Okay, cleanup time!" he announces when he does locate it.

"I'll get you a Kleenex," I say, but by the time I return with it, he has retreated far from the scene.

"There's a dead arachnid on my rug!" I yell, thinking maybe he has forgotten and is already off to another adventure.

"So clean it up!" he yells back.

I go to find him. I bestow upon him a look of disdain and express, by means of stuffing the Kleenex in a strategic place on his face, just what I think of the idea that I clean up eight legs -- give or take a few, depending on how hard the blow was -- and a squashed torso.

And I tell him to consider himself lucky that I did not exercise my Constitutionally guaranteed rights by using a frying pan.