Saturday Evening Post, May-June, 2008 by Peter Gerstenzang
Most men, I think it’s safe to say, want to grow up to be like their fathers. They want to learn how to build stuff. Or, at the very least, knock stuff down. For birthday presents, they want things like sanders, levels and stud-finders. However, if you ask them about a good furniture polish or dust buster, they will tell you such things don’t exist. And, even if they did, they have never heard of them.
My problem is, I like to clean. I straighten up after friends at my parties–sometimes, when they’re still there. I’m neat; I’m orderly. I even prefer a martini to a brewski. In other words, like the title of a bad 1950s’ science-fiction film, “Help, I Think I’m Turning Into My Mother!” No, I’m not copying her hairstyle, and I have no hankering to wear culottes in the summer. It’s just that I’m a cleaner, a cooker, a tidier. Want to know how it’s going? I’ll tell you.
Like a lot of genetic predispositions, say allergies or hair loss, this mother-morphosis didn’t kick in for a while. All through my teens, I had been a typically slobby guy
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