There's only one thing worse than a man who stacks dishes and piles potato chip bags in the bedroom as part of his an Early American Frat Boy decor, and that's a husband who rips through the house like the Tasmanian Devil on crack in a cleaning frenzy.

I know, I know. There are millions of wives out there who think I'm daft. Why on Earth would she complain about help with the housework?

You can say that only if you've never see the tornado-like intensity with which a nouveau-neat freak can rip through a house. The only hope you have of surviving is to either run as far and as fast as you can or strap in like a race-car driver.

I chose the second method this morning. I had no choice, really, because he chose to go Mr. Clean during my work time — the very thing that had kicked off the spat that spawned the tornado to begin with.

It was a silly argument about clutter that capped a tiring day and ended with Dad deploying the nuclear arsenal: "Well, you're home all day …"

Why, yes, I am. And I'm working from 6 a.m. to 2 p.m. while intermittently putting in loads of laundry and washing dishes as a break from the computer. Some break, eh? Oh, and I also fix three meals a day plus snacks and herd the guys through homework. "So don't give me 'well, you're home all day'!" I boomed.

He stomped off to the frat room. I went back to the dishes. The popcorn the guys had spilled all over the floor never got swept up.

When I got home from taking Boots to school this morning, though, it was gone. "Do we have any rags? I need to dust," he asked.

I managed not to ask, "Don't you live here?" and told him where they were.

Next came the tablecloth. Just shake it off and put it back on, I advised. "Nah, it looks bad. I'll change it." I dodged as he rounded the corner toward the linens.

Then came the guys' bathroom. "Where's the bathroom cleaner?" he shouted down the stairs. Note to self: Stop buying blue toothpaste. I ducked as he speed-cleaned their HAZMAT scene and then headed for the one downstairs.

Then came the vacuum. He zipped through at a rate that would have been illegal on the highways, and I tucked my feet under me at my desk chair lest I wind up with crushed toes.

And then, in about 45 minute, the house was spic and span. I'd managed to avoid injury.

Hmm … I hope we have that argument more often. Particularly now that I've figured out to just bunker in when the frenzy hits.

Debra Legg is a writer and mother of two boys, Big Guy and Little Guy. Read more of their adventures in chaos at debralegg.com.

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