Tag Archives: wife for a wife

I Need a Wife?

I like that she can make cocktails too

It would be a bonus if she came with a cocktail shaker.

A friend of mine recently asked me to write about the need of a wife for a wife.  I would love to sit here and say, “Lord, I need a wife.  BAD.  I’m tired of the cooking and the cleaning and the laundry and the…did I mention cleaning?”  DH reads my blog.  He would laugh his ass off to a heart attack if I lied.  So, let’s pretend.  A little.  Because I do lots of stuff.  I do.

Aaaah.  I am so tired.  Do you know what I need?  A damn wife.  Seriously.  If I could only at the very least clone myself, my life would be complete.  If I had a mini-me, here is what I would have her do:

  • She would do ALL the laundry in a timely manner.  Meaning, the laundry would be washed, dried, folded and put away.  She would even iron. My clone would save my house from burning down because she would have the memory of a freakin’ elephant and unplug the iron when she is finished.  REALITY:  I do a load when the clothes are spilling out onto the floor.  I leave the load in the washer for a day or two, then when it makes it into the dryer, they sit for another day or two.  I don’t iron anything unless absolutely necessary.  Sometimes even just wearing wrinkly clothes because I can’t be bothered.
  • Every Sunday, my clone would sit and write out an entire weekly menu.  Then write a grocery list, not forgetting a thing followed by going to the grocery store.  Again, not forgetting a thing.  My clone would cut coupons, therefore saving us money.  REALITY:  I write a half-ass list.  Then run out the door when I only have an hour to shop.  I forget half the crap on my list, therefore forcing me to visit my most favorite place on earth several times a week.  I haven’t cut a damn coupon in 18 years.  After all, the little plastic card on my key ring IS the coupon, isn’t it?
  • My clone would clean the house every single day.  I envision Alice from The Brady Bunch.  REALITY:  Hmmm.  Maybe I shouldn’t tell you the reality.  My mother-in-law is reading.  She thinks I’m a clean freak.  I seriously don’t want to blow my cover.  Let’s just say thank the Good Lord for Clorox Wipes and that if MIL calls and says she’s coming over, I have an hour to get my shit together.  It’s also good to have a teenager to make do stuff.  That’s partly why I had her.
  • My clone would make beautiful, extravagant dinners every single night while wearing an apron and then put all the dishes in the dishwasher, clean the pots and pans and wash the floor.      REALITY:  I make dinner about 4 nights a week.  Sometimes 5.  Ok, so the dinners may be the same week after week, but it’s dinner.  I have ruined every single shirt I own because I forget there is such a thing as an apron.  I try to clean the kitchen before I go to bed but sometimes I forget.  Or more accurately, I sit on the couch with a glass of wine and get into lazy mode.  I vacuum up the floor at least once a week.  At least.
  • She would write out the bills, balance the checkbook, put loads of money in the savings account and send us on an extravagant (there goes that word again) vacation every July.  REALITY:  DH does all but send us on an extravagant vacation.  Because The Kid is going to college in two and a half years.  I haven’t touched the checkbook since I accidentally put an extra zero on the end of our mortgage payment in 1999.
  • My clone would drive The Kid around to all her activities.  Even her friends.  REALITY:  I actually do this.  It’s out of control.  I need to start charging a fee.  Professional drivers charge.  So why not?  Too bad all of The Kid’s money comes from me (actually DH, but I’m not talking about him needing a wife, am I?  Ooh, maybe I shouldn’t say that out loud.).
  • My clone would have a cocktail ready for DH at the end of his busy day.  REALITY:  Bahahahaha!  Oops, I just peed a little.  And DH usually makes ME the cocktail at the end of a busy day.  True story.
  • My clone would work on my projects.  Including my office.  REALITY:  That shit is going to be there for life, I’m afraid.  I’ll just throw a sheet over it.  No one will ever notice.
This is my office.  I can't sit in my office.

This is my office. I can’t sit in my office.  Ooh, I think I see a coupon in there.  Think it has expired?

Damn.  That was exhausting.  I need to rest.  And to all you women out there who actually do all that stuff, I commend you.  Or I should say condemn you.  You really make me look bad.  Still.  I think I need a wife.  They clone sheep, don’t they?  So, it’s not completely out of the question, right?  RIGHT?