I've said it before and I'll say it again;
I need a wife.
This is not a solicitation but instead, a simple fact.
Though happily married to my husband of 20+ years, I recognize the advantage of such a partnership.
I recently compared the difference between being married to man or woman, to the differences between driving a vehicle with manual transmission or automatic.
Manual transmission (man) requires more effort, it requires constant communication between car and driver just to get from point A to point B. The ride is bumpy, and extended driving will likely ruin a good pair of shoes.
Automatic transmission (woman) is relatively effortless, provides a smooth ride, allows for multi-tasking (thanks to cup holders), and never requires you to manipulate a stick to reach your destination.
Essentially, the car (wife) does all the work, with nary a thank you on the horizon.
Despite your temptation, ignore what appear to be obvious metaphors.
I assure you I am only referring to those household chores that somehow arrange themselves in an unfair division of responsibilities. I offer that women are like automatic transmissions simply because they get the job done with little chaos or confusion.
Men, though capable, require a great deal more effort and encouragement (read: coaxing, badgering, threatening...)
to reach the same destination.
A new work schedule has me running helter skelter in an attempt to get it all done.
I've lost my mind and purchased two crock pots (if you've followed my food blog, you know how I feel about crock pot cooking).
I've resorted to doing laundry at midnight, and Febreze has become my new best friend.
Though I look forward to weekends, most are spent playing catch-up for the sake of chores left incomplete during the work week.
I am left with the daunting task of disrupting marital bliss in exchange for domestic partnership.
When I ask my significant other for help around the house,
a dark cloud descends upon our humble abode and strange things happen.
Whites turn to gray.
Hamper towels smell like ass.
We dress for floods.
We eat a lot of toast.
The dog loses weight and won't leave his bed.
Need I go on?
And so once again, I am left to ask that age old question:
How do working women get it all done?
I've been told it's an unfair/sexist question because working men share the same household responsibilities we do.
I believe that.
I believe that there are men who voluntarily turn on the vacuum, separate lights from darks, throw in a load of wash, prep a casserole, and walk the dog.
I'm inclined to believe however, that most of those men are married to women who, unlike me, never get tired of driving stick.
I need a wife.
This is my truth;