Luke Leiden, 24, and Jim Conlon, 33, are casing a bulky brick home shrouded in tall bushes on the 3300 block of Idaho Avenue NW. They take pictures with a small digital camera. Leiden puts down notes into clipboard filled with data, drawings, and measurements.

It's 10:03 a.m. There's not many residents around. They don't seem to care about being spotted. We pull over and jump out.

"We're energy auditors," explains Conlon.

Sure.

Conlon says he runs Elysian Energy, LLC, a company that will inspect your house for it's overall greenness. They work with the D.C. Department of Energy. He is wearing a T-shirt emblazoned with the name "Elysian Energy." They seem real.

Once they are finished, they say, the Idaho Ave. home owner will receive a 30-page PDF report telling them "what efficiency opportunities are available." They also mention that they will "model the house in software."

The two walk around to the back of the house.

"She has like 15 dogs," Leiden brags to Conlon. This counts for a war story. The number of dogs is actually closer to four–a yapper and "two big ones."

Conlon wants to check out the back patio door and walls leading to the basement.

"That might be single brick veneer," Conlon tells Leiden. "I bet that's what it is. Single brick plus R11."

"So I should measure that whole area?" Leiden asks.

He should.

They check windows, cracks, whatever. Leiden has been inspecting the Idaho Ave house for two hours, taking pictures and measuring windows and walls. Earlier, he brought out the big gun in their arsenal–the industrial-looking fan for what he calls the "blower test." The fan test is able detect draft sources. Leiden says he found that the house had the equivalent of a 520 square inch hole.

As the two walk back along the side of the house, Conlon points to the attic vent. A lot of the problems, they say, can be fixed $40 or $50 worth of foam and caulk. It can be empowering.

Conlon started Elysian two years ago. "That makes me a silverback," he explains. He says he's younger than most green-collar entrepeneurs but more experienced.

By 10:25 a.m., the two finish their assessment of the Idaho Avenue home. The owner will be getting a 30 page PDF asssessment.

"You want to meet the fan?" Conlon asks.

"She's a little shy but don't worry about it," Leiden jokes.

*Photos by Darrow Montgomery. Text by jason Cherkis.

"It's not a chore chart?"

"It's a task list."

"When did we decide to do that?"

"Like three weeks ago."

"Has it worked?"

"Sure."

Not exactly a ringing endorsement from the fiancee. And yet at 12:10 a.m., this counts for a victory inside our cramped apartment with the narrow living room, the cat w/ ADD, the bugs who sometimes decide to check shit out on our kitchen counter, the constant window rattling from the four bus stops that ring our space.

I check stuff off the list. All is right with the world.

Chore lists can be pious things. Some of us just don't see dirt. It's a handicap. Excuse us. But my fiancee has learned to tone down her disapproval. She uses crayon drawings to make her points. She then tapes the drawings on our front door. I then get to decipher her hieroglyphics.

I like to think Martha Stewart might attempt such drawings for whoever the hell lives with her (staff? brave intern? graying New York poo-bah?)

About once a week, my fiancee will draw a trashcan or a litter container or make a "task list" of things I need to do. The trashcan drawing means I need to take out the trash. The litter container means I need to go and buy kitty litter (the smelly kind because my lady insists on the smelly kind).

I asked for these task lists.

They work. I think.

I am too old for chore charts. But I have come to the realization that I'm not good enough to go through successful cohabitation without one.

Floors have it easy living with me. So do bath tubs. And sinks. And stoves. And the dark spaces under the bed. I leave them alone. They are free to collect dust bunnies, harvest paper scraps and paper clips, grow dirt in cracks, and keep grime. The only way I'd end up cleaning these floors and sinks is if I walked around in socks and let the socks sop the dirt and grime and dust bunnies the way I imagine one of those Swiffers do like magic.

My fiancee had had enough of my magic.

Now I follow her cute lists.

Sort of. Apparently.

It's 12:30 a.m. I go to her for more reassurance. She is in bed with her book.

"Is there a chore you'd like me to do?"

She shakes her head.

"Am I doing a good job?"

She shakes her head.

Huh?

"It's Wednesday and I've been asking you since Monday to take out the trash."

I'm going now to take out the trash.