What’s wrong with outsourcing a little “wife duty”?

In case you can’t live the life, you can always buy the book on Amazon.

For the month of July, I hired a “wife.”  And I love her.

No, not in that way.

For an hourly rate, “my wife” deals with the termite-invested sideboard, negotiates with the internet-provider company for a new router, picks up the prescriptions at the drugstore, swings by Whole Foods for the 1% milk, verifies the warranty (and arranges the return) on a busted Bose speaker, shops for a beautifully-themed birthday gift for my niece, measures (and compares prices) for new patio furniture covers and picks up the kids from camp.  And that was just yesterday.

I love my wife like my husband loved me when I wasn’t working on my start-up company:

She frees up my time so I can focus on my work.

She empties my personal inbox & deals with all those post-it notes on the refrigerator.

She keeps the house running in tip-top shape.

She reminds me to take the kids to their dental check-up at 4 pm.

She brings me a cafe latte in the afternoon because she “knows how much I need it.”

But my husband tells me I have to stop calling her “my wife.”  He says it’s derogatory to women.

I was raised by a 1950s-fashioned mother but I quickly picked the other side in the feminist revolution.  I wanted to make my own money.  I wanted my own apartment.  I wanted to wear men’s jeans.  I got married and left my career when we started a family but not because it was what my mother did.  I became a stay-at-home mother because child development experts told me, in their books, that it was the best way to kick-start a child’s life.  For eight years, I did the 1950s thing — total division of labor between home and office.  My husband went to the office and I stayed at the home.   I did all those “wifey” things because that was how we kept the whole thing afloat.  Shit had to get done and someone had to do it.  My husband ran his company – and I ran the house.

But I’m now trying to run my own company.  So who’s running the house?

My “wife” is!  And I don’t mean ANY disrespect by the term.  Or do I?  I am so confused.  What do I call her?!

I guess I could use the term “Assistant” but in my experience, an Assistant works out of an office and is “in training” for a bigger job.  And while a “Personal Assistant” does work out of someone’s personal home (or at least, their shiny SUV), I imagine their tasks are more “personalized” (“make my appointment with Fabio at 10!”) and their task-masters usually have some dramatic flare (tiaras and yachts do come to mind).

I could call “my wife” a “Secretary” but yes, much like the maligned “Stewardess”, that word is laden with cultural references that include knee-length skirts, Girl Fridays, and martinis at lunch.

So how about “Home Manager”?  When I mentioned to a close girlfriend that I was thinking about hiring a “manager to run the house,” she quickly replied, “Oh, you need a wife.”

Household Engineer?

Life Details Administrator?

Uber-Me?

I’m paying a generous hourly rate and I am in constant appreciation (and awe) that these tasks (which for the last four months have been neglected and/or forgotten) are now completed on-time, with efficiency and grace.  As a woman, I don’t find it embarrassing that a “wife” has traditionally done these tasks.  I did them myself.  And I used to do them well.

Until I can come up with another term, I’ll have to refer to my new woman as the “Industrious, Smart, Professional Woman Dealing With All the Loose-Ends of our Family Household” although you and I both know… it’s no different than calling her my wife.

Just another “Wish I was a Mermaid” Monday

Artist: Waterhouse John William

On Mondays like these, I think I’d do the trade.  I’d go Mermaid.  No wait, hear me out.  I’ve thought it through:

1.)  NO TALKING

Mer-people don’t talk.  Neither do fish.  That means no phones calls, no sales pitches, no DNC calling for donations, no apologies for forgetting friends’ birthdays, no “how many times have I told you” rhetorical questions to kids under 9, and no inane grocery-line small talk.  I’m a mermaid.  I just nod and smile.  I can’t hear you under water.

2.)  NO ELECTRONICS

Anything with a cord would be suicidal.  I live in water, for god’s sake.  That means no bedside light to wake me at 6 am.  No computer.  No cell-phone.  No printer that keeps on jamming.  No rice maker that overcooks the rice.  No Facebook photos.  No Linked In resume lies.  No tweats from Ashton Kutcher.  I’m a mermaid.  I use a hairdryer to bat off sharks.

3.)  NO COOKING 

Sushi every night, right?  No food shopping.  No recipe books.  No standing in front of the refrigerator.  No washing, chopping, sautéing, stir-frying or steaming.  No ham sandwiches to make.  No crock pots to figure out.   No loading dishwashers in a symmetrical pattern.  No coffee beans to grind.  I’m a mermaid.  I make coffee out of seaweed and sand.  I have a trained seal deliver it to me.

4.) NO DIETING

No beauty magazines.  No 24-hour gyms.  No feeling bad about that power-walk that I didn’t take.  The only liposuction happening is with that kinky octopus from the Gulf.  Have you ever seen a fat mermaid?  How ’bout one with loopy breasts?  No more sucking in my stomach because I did eat all the bread in the basket and now, my jeans don’t fit.   My scales are flexible.  I’m a mermaid.  I’m the most beautiful creature a drunk sailer has ever seen.

5.) NO HARD THINKING

You never see a mermaid with a book.  Or wearing glasses.  They swim.  They brush their hair.  They eat some fish.  They play with some porpoises. They occasionally help save a cute man from a sunken ship.  They probably sleep 12 – 14 hours a night.   No teaching myself new technologies.  No trying to figure out digital marketing.  No wondering how I could be a better parent.  No teaching my kid pre-algebra or helping map out Tanzania on her multi-cultural poster.   I’m a mermaid.  I just sit on a rock and try not to cringe when the surf sprays in my face.

6.)  NO HARD LIVING

If I’m a mermaid, I don’t own a vacuum, Windex, tweezers or band aids.  My house is a shell so I know nothing about dust mites, mold and allergies.  There’s no traffic (other than the occasional feeding frenzy) so I never have to check Mapquest or SIG alert or Mulholland Drive before I leave the house.  There are no watches so I’m never late.  No poorly situated keyboards so my right shoulder never hurts.  Schools of fish don’t require large donations or creative Auction baskets.  Mer-children never bicker with each other.  Mer-babies never cry.  Actually, mer-infants, mer-toddlers and mer-elementary school kids don’t require a responsible adult.  It’s parenting by osmosis and new crops of perfect, well-behaved, well-trained mer-people arrive generation-after-generation in full-form.  There are no mer-careers, mer-feminists, mer-Tea Partiers, mer-stay-at-home-Moms, mer-Celebrities (well, except for that red-headed one but she went Liz Taylor so no one sees her anymore).  There’s nothing to think about when everyone is the same (except for your choice in hair color).  I have no worries.  I’m a mermaid.  People like to paint pictures of me.  And I’m friends with Peter Pan.

See what I’m talking about?    It’s not a bad trade when you have one of those kind of Mondays.