As I was rearranging dishes on the drying rack, making room for plates emerging from rinse water, it occurred to me that toweling and putting glassware away might take less time than squeezing them together like mismatched puzzle pieces. Sort of like when I vacuum a thread persistently clinging to the carpet, running over it ten or twenty times before picking it up, confirming no gum or glue, then dropping it back onto the floor for a few more runs.

If there is a right and a wrong way to do something, I tend to pick the wrong way, if the wrong way is defined as the long way around. My inefficiency particularly dominates housekeeping, mathematics, and computers, where touch typing eighty words a minute doesn't prevent puzzling over what Shift-Control-J does and how to reverse it.

Curiously, my father was in the Standards and Methods Department during his career, emulating Frank Gilbreth in Cheaper by the Dozen (not the Steve Martin movie version) determining the best ways for operators to run machines, optimizing output. Unlike Mr. Gilbreth raising twelve children, he did not apply workplace standards to our home, unless you count speed-cranking the La-Z-Boy footrest. My mother, on the other hand, still tells me flat sheets should be laid upside down so that the finished edge folds over the blankets. I respond it will be covered in sleep drool soon anyway.

My parents exemplify the two arguments for right-way-versus-wrong-way living. My dad's professional interest in the right way was saving time and money. A few exceptional people make productive use of every spare moment. The rest of us find time to watch American Idol or read someone's blog, discussing them at the virtual water cooler. So what if it takes me two hours finishing the dishes?

My mother's side of the right way is producing a better result. I'm sure as a teenager I argued that long-way-around people have more time catching errors. I'm also pretty sure she answered I was just rationalizing and to go remake my bed. People who habitually do things inefficiently probably don't consider perfection a priority. After all, when we're done vacuuming the upstairs after numerous detours and distractions, the downstairs is messy again.

The other night my husband stood behind one son doing homework, correcting his method using Microsoft Word. I observed his slower means would still complete the project before bedtime. I didn't mention schoolwork kept him from tying up the television playing Xbox so I could watch Celebrity Rehab.