The other adult in my house, who happens to be a man - not that it matters - you won't catch me engaging in that sort of gender stereotyping anymore - anyway, this person, who lives with me, says I am sexist.
It caught me off guard, frankly, because I consider myself 1) relatively fair-minded, and 2) too clever to get caught up in what has to be the dumbest political/cultural debate since Dan Quayle took on Murphy Brown.
I fell into it unwittingly upon hearing the news that right-wing moose-slayer Sarah Palin had fallen victim to one of the 50,000 non-partisan ways in which teenagers can throw a family into instant chaos. Can we all just agree that boarding school is good public policy?
"She's got a lot on her plate," I observed, ignorantly juxtaposing the domestic imagery of a "plate" with the completely irrelevant family situation of a successful woman/person, who just happens to have a lot of offspring. I may as well have said she had a lot in her apron pockets. Or something about PMS.
I didn't think I was rendering judgement on her ability to juggle parenting and career, but it was clear that in my secret, sexist heart, I was holding her to a different standard. It was a standard that assumed she'd be compelled to play a leading role in her family's domestic dramas - sucked in to their endless stream of grievances, demands and unsigned permission slips requiring immediate attention even it means bringing a pen into the shower. Can somebody bring me a towel?
"You would not have said the same thing about a male politician with five kids," my obviously more-evolved partner said. "It would not have been an issue."
Really? I wondered. Was I a female chauvinist? I had to acknowledge the possibility.
But first I had to empty the dishwasher.
Photo: The Suburban Kamikaze: as evolved as the next girl.