Y’all, I need a sister wife. My husband would like for her to be Cindy Crawford. I don’t care as long as I can get some help cleaning these damn floors.
ASIDE: Who puts white floors in kitchens and bathrooms? People who either don’t eat; don’t, um, bathroom; don’t have children; or do have an OCD sister wife.
Okay, I guess what I really want is a maid, not a sister wife. EXCEPT a sister wife would be nice when my honey wants to talk about hats. My husband likes a well-made hat. You’d probably have to pay a maid extra for that. Maybe what I need is a personal assistant. I know that’s what he needs. Someone paid to remember things for him and listen to him talk about hats. I say that as if I don’t ever talk about things he doesn’t want to talk about. My personal assistant would do nothing but reassure me I do not look like a sea creature in profile and that those jeans do, indeed, make my butt look
My personal assistant would also make sure we have an array of stamps in varying rates. Do you ever have a postcard stamp when you need one? No, no you do not. He or she would be responsible for me in the grocery store. I spend a ridiculous amount of time deciding what laundry detergent and body lotion to buy. And you know that section right there with all the sort of laundry implements, tool-type stuff, and tape? I am mesmerized by that section. You’d think I’d never seen electrical tape and clothespins before. He or she would also be responsible for reminding me whether I like butt or shank ham better. There’s a price difference, but Lord, it’s ham. Isn’t it all just smoked ass?
My personal assistant would also write a new bio for me anytime I have to do something that requires a bio. I know, you don’t need to tell me. I KNOW I write. I should be able to do it myself. I should have a standard one I pull out for emergency bio occasions. I don’t. Sometimes you want snappy, sometimes you want competent, sometimes you want one that makes you look 20 pounds lighter. I would rather pose for nekkid pictures than write a biography paragraph. When I go to write one, all of a sudden I lose my ability to form sentences like an adult:
My name is Susan Wilson. I am from Laurel, Mississippi. I live in Memphis, Tennessee. I like pie.
My assistant would also be responsible for assuring me that whatever sound I just heard was nothing. The roof is not caving in, there is no monster/rapist/clown/politician lurking in the shadows waiting to eat me/rape me/make me watch balloon animal creation/crawl up in my uterus.
ANOTHER ASIDE: You know how your sheets and blankets have magical powers? Monsters, it’s a well-known, proven scientific fact, cannot eat you as long as no part of your body slips beyond the borders of your bedclothes. The top of your head is an exception. It’s a well-known, proven scientific fact monsters DO NOT start eating at the top of your head. They start with feet. If no feet are to be found, they move on to your brother’s room.
My assistant would also be responsible for standing behind me and reminding me I was going to talk about something else today. And also what that something else was.
I would also like my assistant to be called Magda.