Anne Palumbo: The 'cleavage-ing' of America, part II

Today I'll be concluding my two-part series on cleavage. A few weeks ago, I ended my column with a teaser about "male cleavage," a curious consequence of low-slung pants.

But as time wore on and my brain functions snapped, crackled and popped to attention, I suddenly remembered that I had already written about this 8th Wonder of the Natural World.

Furthermore, I recall that it did not go over so well with a certain segment of the male population that I will not disclose for fear of being publicly flogged with a pipe wrench. OK? My lips are sealed with galvanized plumber's tape. No leaks from this gal. I will not say which group under "P" in the Yellow Pages flooded my e-mail inbox with enough scalding hate mail to burst my hard drive.

So instead, I thought I would talk about cleavage of another sort: housework cleavage, the actual act of splitting chores fifty-fifty with your one-and-only.

Can this blissful state of nirvana ever exist in our lifetime?

That is a darn good question and one that I, a married woman with a PhD in Dustballology, feel qualified to address. First, though, we must look at some hard facts and go from there.

According to a recent George Mason University survey, women do twice as much housework as men. (I know. Hello! We need a bazillion-dollar survey for that?)

Nonetheless, research-ers said - with the female researchers pounding their fists against the podium as they shouted their data - that, on average, a man does about nine hours of housework a week to a woman's backbreaking 21.

In America, that is. In Scandinavian countries, housework is split more evenly, with Sweden taking top honors. Why is this? According to yet another study, Scandinavian countries have the highest cohabitation rates, and men in a state of cohabitation tend to pitch in more than those married.

Which leads me to the point of this column: Don't men feel Le Breeze when Le Cleavage is showing?

No, that's not the point! The point is: How can we better balance the workload?

If you are not yet married, well, you know what to do, don't you? Right, you either pack your bags and move to Sweden or, you never marry, opting for the carefree guy who does his share over the tethered guy who wields his mop with the oomph of old lettuce. Case closed: problem solved.

The thing is - and it's a Big Thing - many of us reading this column are married, a state that does not lend itself to running off with Sven the Swedish masseur or to returning to an unmarried state of scandalous cohabitation.

So what do we do? We nag and we nag and we nag…no, just kidding. We do not nag. Nagging is humiliating to the nagger and annoying to the naggee. What we do is - are you ready for costly research undertaking #3? - we communicate.

Yes! We make a short to-do list of the household stuff that bugs us the most and then we review the list with our husbands, slowly demonstrating how to accomplish each chore, using overheads and flow charts, if necessary. Upon completion of the task, we then effusively praise our mates (research #4), keeping our criticisms at bay (research #5).

So there you have it, Ladies - documented ways to even out the score. Good luck! If I weren't the mate logging less than nine hours a week, I'd give it a whirl myself.

Well, that wraps up my series on cleavage. Unfortunately, I have nothing more to reveal and sense it's time to split.

E-mail: avpalumbo@aol.com.