“Is not…”

“Is too…”

“Is not!”

“Is too!”

Once again my husband and I are having a mature and healthy debate about something really important. Not the value of starting a kid’s college fund or where to go for summer vacation, but a dilemma polarizing every household in the civilized world… Who takes out the trash?

“Honest hunny,” I say with calculated coolness, “taking out the trash is a man’s job. Everyone knows it… really it is!”

“A man’s job, eh? Where would you get a crazy idea like that?” He sidesteps the leaning tower of garbage and makes a move for the door. I have to think fast. The garbage truck’s here in an hour, and there’s no way I’m lugging that trash.

“It’s not a crazy idea…”, I explain. “It’s more like an innate knowingness. Call it women’s intuition. I just know that women weren’t put on this planet to haul rubbish. It’s just too man-ish.”

“Man-ish?” Mark shakes his head. “If you can find me scientific evidence that proves taking out the trash is male specific, then I’ll personally amend my wedding vows to… I promise to love, honor, and take out the trash!”

“Fine!” I stomp back inside. “I’m taking it to the streets.”

“Good!” he calls back, “that’s where the garbage belongs.”

I turn and give him a lowered eyebrow. “I’m not talking about the garbage… I’m talking about the debate. We’ll see what the fine people of our city think about this.”

Needless to say, after the heat’s blown off, I feel a bit foolish bothering the neighbors. But I’ve never been known to back down from an argument—especially when I’m right.

“I’m trying to solve a domestic debate,” I explain to the woman at the door, “So I’m taking a poll…who takes out the trash in your home, male or female?”

“Well actually, it’s usually 50/50. Sometimes he does, sometimes I do. Depends on who sees it first.”

My heart sinks. “That’s awfully civil of you.” I give a weak smile. “You mean, you just do it, or he just does it, and you don’t even fight about it?”

“Nope.”

I slouch down the pathway and on to the next house where a young couple answers the door.

“I take the garbage out,” the man says.

“Really?” I ask excitedly. “Is that because it’s a man’s job?”

“Because I have to,” he says.

I look at his wife and nod. “So he doesn’t even put up a fight?”

“No, he’s usually really good. There’s the odd time when I have to make a comment like ‘It’s just out back, you know!’ But normally, he takes it out, no problem.”

“So you never take out the trash?” I ask.

“Well, maybe once a month.”

I give her a thumbs up. I’m willing to forgive her weakness. I move down the block.

“I don’t have a problem taking out the garbage,” says a man in his bathrobe. I wish I had a tape recorder. I go home and triumphantly display the scientific research to my husband.

“Look,” I say defiantly, “Seventy-seven percent of those surveyed say the man takes out the trash!” I do a little jiggly, jiggly dance and point a finger at the mountain of garbage.

“And the other twenty-three?”

I pout. Scientific research is never a perfect science. “Okay, there were two couples who said they take the garbage out equally. You know, a collaborative effort. But they were older couples than us, and who knows what their issues are?” I stop short at calling them dysfunctional. They seemed like very nice people.

“Older couples, eh?” Mark’s all over it like a soiled chemise. “So in older couples, there’s a 50/50 split in rubbish removal?” I give him a disheartened nod. If only I could lie.

“Well, it looks like with age comes wisdom!” he announces grabbing half the garbage. “I’d say that half’s for you, oh Wise One.”

I look at the garbage and sigh. It’s a fine line I know, but I guess it’s better to be wise than be right.